Sutton Creek.

Some places you just can't let people know about. Any angler knows that.

That's exactly how my friends and I think of Sutton Creek. We grew up fishing the holes tucked away behind old Doc Bishop's Christmas tree farm. We spent entire summers chasing small natives down the waterfalls across the street from our elementary school. And even now, almost graduated from college, almost too big to sneak down through the thickets and pine patches that are the only entrances to Sutton Creek, we still return to fish the stream that molded us into trout fishermen.

Sutton Creek is a small northeast Pennsylvania stream (that flows through mostly private land) and in many places is well covered by a thick forest canopy. Thus, the creek stays cool long into late spring and early summer, making it an awesome fishery for fiesty natives. Although the creek passes through posted property, there are several bridges with roadside parking that offer access to the creek--but not necessarily our secret spots.

My most memorable experience on Sutton Creek actually occurred not in trout season, but on a rainy January morning two years ago. My friend Mike Hronich and I decided to rough the weather and fish a hole that always holds a trout or two whenever we decide to visit it. Being the spincaster that he is, Hronich tied on none other than a trusty golden Mepps spinner to the end of two pound test. Me, being the flyfisherman that I think I am, tied on a small nymph to the end of a 5X leader and we headed down to the stream in the later half of the morning.

After about an hour of drifting my nymph though several different shoots and untangling my fly from the branches behind me, I was beginning to lose hope as well as focus. So I did what any responsible fisherman would do, I reeled in and began hiking upstream to see how Hronich was making out. After about 60 yards of walking along the dense bank of the creek, I heard the call on the other side of the thick pine stand in front of me: "fish on!"

The rain fell steady and hadn't slowed the entire time. Which made the 11-inch brookie Mike held when I finally arrived at the hole he haulded it out of even more rewarding. It was the first time we pulled a trout out of Sutton Creek during the winter months.

Even though Hronich had probably caught that fish a hundred times before, somehow a small golden Mepps always seems to fool him. Or maybe that brookie simply knew us so well by then that he finally understood we really depended on catching him 'just one more time.' Maybe that's what they mean by a fish's 'six sense.' Afterall, a good friend once told me that's what fishing is, "two lives connected by a line." Hronich released that old brookie back into the high waters of Sutton, assuring the old trout that he's not going anywhere anytime soon. Not as long as that hole still holds water. It's his creek and his undercut bank, and we are merely visitors.

And like any fisherman will tell you, some places are just too good to resist telling people about. They're what great stories are made of.