It was quite an experience
sitting on Florida’s Gulf coast as a tropical storm delivered inch after inch
of inundating rain. When I returned
home, the effects of the same system were tailing out, but the rain continued.
Thus, when making fishing plans
for the weekend, options were limited.
As I motored over the Rivanna River, its chocolaty-orange lifeblood
running several feet high ruled the smallmouth haunts out. My mind wandered to trout.
One of the beautiful characteristics
of freestone mountain streams is their ability to filter water, offering
fishability even after heavy rains.
Noted especially for its angling
quality following torrential weather is the St. Mary’s River. And so preparations began.
I made the return trip from a
family function early Saturday morning, with the windows down, enjoying the
cool, cloudless weather. Even the
truck’s dash thermometer read 78 degrees—a cool spell by Virginia’s trending
temperatures.
My brother was waiting for me at
home; and I unpacked and repacked as quickly as possible.
Having no idea what to expect, we
left the house with packs complete with medical supplies; food, water, and bug dope;
camera; GPS; and, of course, fishing gear.
An hour on the highway dropped us
into the small town of Greenville.
The St. Mary’s River traverses a
wilderness area by the same name. At
10,090 acres, surrounded by the George Washington National Forest, it would
seem that those undertaking the challenges offered by the Saint Mary’s
Wilderness would be few. Contrarily, the
wilderness attracts many hikers and swimmers, many claim, because of pristine
waters and waterfalls, and the delicacy hinted at through its name.
But these wilderness-goers often
remain within a short distance of their vehicles, and a little sweat and a few
brier cuts will separate the adventurous from the cliff-dwelling canonballers.
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| Photo by Phillip Morone |
The St. Mary’s Falls trail is
fairly well maintained, but meanders across the river occasionally. If begin wondering whether you’re actually on
the trail, retrace your steps and look for more obvious routes.
Because of the heavy traffic below the falls,
there are several worn-down “shortcuts,” which may become seriously dangerous
in an instant.
Upon surpassing the mass, we
rigged our rods— my brother with a beetle, and I with a cricket pattern.
With packs shouldered and rods
rigged, we were faced with a gorgeous stream—pristine and pure as its
name. White frothing torrents poured
unrestrained from the head into the heart of each pocket, carving a deep bowl
and scattering oxygen bubbles like tiny shards of broken glass down into the
turquoise depths.
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| Photo By Phillip Morone |
The both of us experienced that
excitement within the first pool. For my
brother, Phillip, it was his first—the first of many.
Leapfrogging each other in the
normal fashion, we continued catching brookies in almost every run, riffle, and
pool.
For sport, I swapped my
terrestrial for a dry fly.
The largest fish were always five
to six inches, until I got a wave from Phillip upstream, who had just plucked a
“three-incher” from a run, spooking a larger specimen downstream.
With a searching drift, my fly
rose the fish from a shallow riffle, and I brought the “9” (inches) to hand.
After taking that fish and several
others of slightly smaller size from similar water, my attention turned to
smaller pockets.
The next bend in the river revealed
a chain of riffles, and after studying them for a few minutes my eyes landed on
a bobbing, dun-colored nose. After sipping
at the surface, the flaming, white-tipped fins returned to the pebbly bottom,
only to bounce and carry the nose skyward for a meal.
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| A beautiful mountain brookie from a beautiful mountain brook. Photo by Phillip Morone. |
Guiding my fly carefully on
course, I solicited another rise, only to strike too early, and spook the trout
for good. Such is the nature of trout
fishing.
Soon the pocket water tapered out
and gave way to shallow riffles. The
canopy receded and gave way to lowland flora. Friendly waxwings flitted playfully about.
More fish were caught, and we had
many chances ahead, further up the mountain.
But the sun was beginning to sink past the canyon’s surrounding peaks,
and, as we were unfamiliar with the hike, we turned back in the interest of
safety.
After reveling in its bounty only
once, the St. Mary’s Wilderness revealed itself to me as a place worthy of
protection. I would urge all who fish
its waters to return anything caught, and to leave no trace. What enjoyment, and creatures, we reap from
the environment is a renewable resource as long as we remain responsible
stewards of the wilderness.
Originally Published in the Rural Virginian
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