Among most self-respecting fly fishermen, the practice of catch and release has become the trout man’s gospel, the Holy Grail of trout angling.

In Maine, the careful releasing of trout by conscientious anglers has become so fashionably commonplace that, in some instances, fisheries biologists have been forced to revise their trout pond management strategies. A pond can have too many trout. That’s right, a pond with a limited amount of feed can only support so many trout. To grow bigger trout, you sometimes have to cull some of the smaller trout.

Proponents of the catch-and-release ethic, especially the most pious, argue that Maine could have gold medal trout waters, just like the famed Western rivers, if only we Maine anglers would all pledge never to kill a trout. There is probably something to this, but having recently returned from my fifth Western fishing experience, there are some things – some unheralded irregularities – about fishing those fabled catch-and-release waters of the West that don’t get mentioned much in national angling magazines or on the Outdoor Channel.

Don’t get me wrong. The West is a special place. Fly fishing for cutthroat trout on a Montana creek in the shadow of the Bear Tooth Mountains is about as good as it gets. That’s why I keep going back, and if you are a fly fisherman, you should find a way to get out there and soak it all up while you still can. Take out a second mortgage if you must; it’ll all be worth it.

I’m here to tell you, though, that there is a downside to catch and release. To be more precise, there is a side effect to what I call institutionalized catch and release. We’re talking heavily fished trout waters that have been designated catch and release for many years. Places like the Madison, Yellowstone River, and Henrys Fork.

Catch and catch again

On the popular Montana catch and release river where Diane and I fish – lets call it Cold Creek – the cutthroat trout are caught seven to eight times in their lifetime, according to the fisheries biologists.

So the bigger and older they get, the smarter they get. They become tippet shy, and many have a doctoral degree in drag-free drift detection. My Montana-born friend Bruce Jensen, who lives to fish, claims that the biggest cutthroats that hang out in the big “sippy holes” are a little like animals in a petting zoo. And when you are lucky enough to get a hook up on one of these vermiculated footballs, it knows from experience what the drill is. Rather than fight for its life, Bruce contends, the fish plays it cool. He will shake his head a couple of times as a way of saving face with his fellow “cuts,” and then simply lay back and await the obligatory photo op near the creek bank followed by the ethical release.

In his new book, “Fly-Fishin’ Fool,” angling humorist James Babb writes about his humiliation in trying to seduce these “snotty” Western trout on “invisible flies.”

And snotty they are.

It takes Jobian patience to work these sophisticated lunkers. On one section of Cold Creek, below the campground, there is a big “sippy hole” where three-pound cutthroats fan lazily in the back eddy awaiting an easy meal. You can see them!

But seeing them, and seducing them with an artificial offering are two different things. I rarely fish there. I head down river, where the water moves faster in ripples and seams. The fish are smaller, but in the faster water they will hit flies that you can see with the naked, middle-aged eye.

Diane, on the other hand, spends her entire fishing day at the “sippy hole.” In a morning, she will get the best of six or seven big “cuts.” She does it with perseverance, patience and delicate presentations of light tippets and clipped down, barely visible dry flies. I have seen her outfish veteran trout men, who finally abandon the “sippy hole” in utter exasperation.

Snagging a bunch of big, beefy Montana cutthroats on small dry flies is pure angling joy, but I’d sooner catch a feisty Eastern brookie if given a choice. Compared with cutthroats, they possess a fighting will that is uniquely theirs. Babb calls it “bulldogging pugnacity.” Out West you do have a choice, too. There are many ponds and creeks with holdover Eastern brookies from earlier stocking programs that pre-date the current Western fisheries doctrine, which is to one day have only native cutthroats in most Rocky Mountain waters!

In fact, my most memorable day this year out West was spent hiking and fishing – not for fat cutthroats – but for Eastern brookies at Grizzly Lake, which is not catch and release. When the wind drove us off the lake around mid morning, we fished our way down the lake’s outlet. From the relatively small brook, we caught, on a small Elk Hair Caddis, some of the fattest and strikingly beautiful 12-inch Eastern brookies I have ever seen. My fishing companions, Gifford Stevens, Frank Benn and Danny LaBree, and I fired up the backcountry stove and pan fried a trout apiece.

What I have learned is that, like so many serious avocations, the fly fishing community has its denominational ranges: there are those who would rather take 20 lashes from Captain Bligh than deliberately kill a trout; conversely, there are others who always take home their limit. Catch and release is a landmark conservation movement, which ensures that others after us will enjoy the same experiences in hot pursuit of trout.

But, for me, an occasional wild trout cooked in a frying pan along a remote mountain stream is also an unforgettable outdoor experience.

V. Paul Reynolds author is editor of the Northwoods Sporting Journal. He is also a Maine Guide, co-host of a weekly radio program “Maine Outdoors” heard Sundays at 7 p.m. on The Voice of Maine News-Talk Network (WVOM-FM 103.9, WCME-FM 96.7) and former information officer for the Maine Dept. of Fish and Wildlife. His e-mail address is [email protected].