Many big rivers in the west have trout with names apparently, names like “Countyline” and “Fred.” Let me introduce you to “Brewster” from the very small East Branch of the Croton in the town of said name. Brewster was the result of carefully knocking on every door under every glide pool, plunge pool, and fallen log along a series of steep falls for the better part of two hours. I felt like a Jehovah’s witness. In the end, I finally made his acquaintance with a beadhead pheasant tail nymphed under a log at the beginning of a nice bridge pool. Because of the fast current and his steadfast resistance to shaking my hand, it took a while for us to get to know one another. I’ve never experienced a fella take me upstream and right up a 2′ foot fall before. That was something and forged an instantaneous respect for each other when I climbed up over the fall after him. I bet he thought the city-slicker wouldn’t come after him. Despite the mutual admiration, when I departed, and asked if I could visit with him again soon, Brewster kindly asked me not to return until the Autumn.