Wood River

Up at the Wickaboxet Farms

There stands the Wickaboxet Lodge

And ‘cross the road from this old inn

Lies lily padded Hazard Pond

And from this pond a stream does flow

Known as Falls River on our maps.

It crosses Liberty Hill Road

And flows just right, not fast, not slow.

But when it reaches Step Stone Falls

It there becomes a noisy stream

It roars and tears along, then makes

A frenzied, frothy downhill plunge

Thru rocks and logs, then starts to slow

With darkened eddies here and there

That hide in back of rocks or logs

And make great hideaways for trout.

But soon it meets with Breakheart Brook

And these two waters do combine

To form a larger, slower stream

We call Wood River, and it flows

From Exeter, where it begins

Thru miles of wooded land it runs

Twisting, turning as rivers will

Until it meets the Pawcatuck.

            -2-

Now there’s another pond I know

Off to the east of Falls River

This pond is known as Breakheart Pond

And from it flows the Breakheart Brook.

‘Twas here I learned to fish for trout

Taught to me by an older friend

Who often fished the stream alone

But wanted company that day.

I must have been about fifteen

When first I saw this wondrous stream

And learned my casting rod was not

The best for catching wary trout.

Get a fly rod, he said to me

And then you can stand out of sight.

It lets you float your bait downstream

To catch those trout behind the rocks.

And so I took him at his word,

I bought a fly rod as he said

Then got a fly reel with fly line

Along with net and wooden creel.

And then I learned the way to fish

And ever since that time of old

I’ve fished the Breakheart all the way

Until it met that other stream

And as Wood River now is known.

            -3-

These are the trout streams that I loved

All in the town of Exeter

And these, Beach Pond and Escoheag,

Are where my summer days were spent

And later on as I grew up

I’d be found on Breakheart Brook

Fishing, often by myself,

For fishing is a way of peace.

Or maybe on Falls River where

I’d find a quiet place to fish

Then let a fly with current drift

A silver doctor or a black gnat

Until I saw the swirling rise

That bigger trout would often make

When taking flies they thought were real

They mostly ended in my net.

But then some days I’d move around

And try Wood River for a change

For here there was a tangle thick

Of trees blown down in thirty-eight

A hurricane that left a mess

But to the trout was heaven sent

For now they’d hide most anywhere

And let the fisherman beware.

            -4-

For often in late afternoon

And when the sun was getting low

I’d go across the Ten Rod Road

And slip into Wood River, where

The tangle left by hurricane

Had then become a paradise

For trout that hid beneath the logs

Of trees blown over in the past.

It’s not the fishing that I liked

For logs and brush so tangled up

Leave little room to drop a fly

And then it must be done with care

So trout won’t see from whence it came

And fish thus hooked will always try

To tangle line around a log

Before the net has brought them in.

This type of fishing’s difficult

And climbing over logs a chore

For though the trout are always there

The logs and brush are oft’ too much

And only those who love to fish

Will take the time and effort make

To reach infrequent open spots

Where it’s a joy just to be there.

            -5-

So time did pass, I took a wife

And though I did not fish as much

I usually did make the first day

But that was just a hassle too

For good fishing would never start

Until Mayflies began their hatch

But then ‘twas difficult for me

To fish, for I had growing kids.

I stayed at home until the kids

Were grown enough so we could take

Them out to picnic at a spot

On Falls River where they could watch

As dad once more tried fly casting

So in I went, then waded down

And while they watched, I’d take a trout

Much to their joy and my delight.

And when my boys were old enough

I’d take them out to camp with me

We’d eat a meal near Step Stone Falls

Then drift down to the stream to see

If anyone was fishing there

Then back again to spend the night

In Beach Pond Park, where whip-poor-wills

And crickets put us all to sleep.

            -6-

I love the memories of these streams

Of fishing them in spring and fall

Of using worms when just a boy

But when I grew to manhood then

I’d try the many flies I had

Until I found the one trout liked

Then I’d fish ‘til the sun went down

And then just watched as darkness neared.

Now in my elder years I wish

My boys had found that same desire

To take up fishing as a way

To find that inner peace we seek

By watching sunsets in the west

And listening to the evening birds

And all the sounds of coming night

Thus coming closer to their god.

Pool at Wood River