As the rising sun burned the morning fog from the waters, my reel began to screech. It was a familiar sound that summoned up memories from the not-so distant past.

The day before, we had fished the same pond, stalking big brook trout that roved the waters in pods that numbered in the double digits. In the clear, quiet waters, the brightly colored brookies were plainly visible in the shallow bays.

We watched as big males, the old bucks, continued to seek receptive “hen fish” that had carved their nests in the gravel bottom of the pond. The roving schools continued to circle the bays, waiting to fertilize the eggs as soon as the hen fish deposited them. The males were exceedingly territorial and aggressive. It was obvious in their strikes, which were vicious.

While watching the watery mating dance play out in the windless bays, I was transported back in time. The old familiar scene revealed the raw fury of brook trout on the prowl. Repeatedly, they would burst from the waters in a tail-walking dance across the glassy, still waters.

We cast flies along the shoreline and into the downed trees, where they hit our offerings with vengeance. The resulting pandemonium continued for nearly 15 minutes, with fish breaking the surface in all directions.

We continued to cast dry flies on the surface and tossed fur leeches in to the depths. They hit our offerings with reckless abandon.

In short order, we caught and released more than a dozen brook trout, weighing from two to four pounds. The action was fast and furious, but it shut down as quickly as it had begun, and the surface grew flat.

We skated dry flies and stripped streamers down in the depths, but it was obvious the havoc was over and so was the fishing.

“Tomorrow,” announced my angling partner as we paddled away. “Tomorrow, we’ll be back for you.”

We kept two fish, which provided a very filling dinner, and sleep came easy with a flickering campfire at our feet.

The following morning we were up before the dawn, eager to return to the scene of our most recent piscatorial assault. Conditions were ideal, with shafts of sunlight filtering through the brilliant fall foliage. The waters were flat, and the air still as we prepared to unleash a variety of flies, lies and lures.

We cast in all directions, jigged deep and trolled the shallows. We skated dry flies and skittered water striders across the surface waters. Our efforts were amplified by a steady stream of obscenities aimed at the reluctant trout. Unfortunately, the urge to breed was only one thing on their mind.

Although they were readily visible in the clear waters of the shallow bay, they simply had no interest in our offerings. It was captivating and frustrating at the same time. I felt like a kid stuck in a candy store, where all the goodies were safely locked away in a watery cabinet.