A MONDAY CAST N' BLAST

There's something magical about rising before the sun, making preparations to leave, and heading for the woods or the water.  Maybe it's knowing that the scene that unfolds before dawn is the prologue to great outdoor experiences everywhere, that it's a tradition as old as the sport.  Whatever the reason, I was starting the week off right.

    I made the hour and a half drive south to a delayed harvest creek I just discovered a few days ago and wanted to explore.  The land surrounding the fishery is said to be rolling hardwood forest.  So without the slightest bit of hesitation in thought, I aimed to include a squirrel hunt to my trip.  My Tycoon Tackle Scion fly rod and Marlin .22 rode in the back.

    There was still a heavy frost on the ground when I parked the Versa on the grassy shoulder just up the hill from the bridge spanning the creek I was to fish.  The sun was barely breaking the crowns of the bare poplar trees in the creekbottom, and I watched my breath float away into the autumn woods as I got into waders and rigged up my rod.

Photo by Matt Reilly

Photo by Matt Reilly 

Photo by Matt Reilly

    I try to keep fishing for stocked rainbow trout simple.  Woolley Buggers and Golden Retrievers will do damage just about anywhere; and these fish aren't picky.  So with a golden tied to the end of my tippet, I slipped into the woods, crunching on sycamore leaves all the while.

    The large bridge pool was dark and deep.  The occasional rise broke the glass-like surface and sent a delicate air bubble into the atmosphere.  Not wishing to spook any fish, I cautiously edged down the bank into the tail of the pool, check my backcast, and laid out a long cast down the pool's center.

Photo by Matt Reilly

    I let the fly settle, then began a strip retrieve.  Bam!  The line hesitated in the film on the water's surface, and I swept the long rod to the side as it bent under the weight of a fiesty trout.

Photo by Matt Reilly

    The sequence of events repeated itself twice thereafter before I decided to venture further downstream.  If there were fish here, surely some would have ventured downstream.  So I jumped on the trail and took a hike--an hour-long hike--downstream, with the intent of fishing my way back up to the bridge.

    I came to another bridge over the creek some two miles downstream; and by then it was 10:00 AM, and the sun was warming the woods.  The squirrels were awakening.

    Turning, I began fishing upstream, but to no avail.  Even the likely-looking holding spots, when dissected by 15 or 20 casts yielded no results.  A fine bushytail observed my dedicated casting shortly after it begun, and I later wondered why I had postponed my hunt until the afternoon, when none of the downstream water held fish.

Photo by Matt Reilly

    In truth, I should have hunted the morning hours before the sun hit its peak in the sky, then fished through midday, and resumed hunting in the evening; for it is my belief that stocked rainbows don't go on the feed at first light anyway, but squirrels are active in the morning, and lay up to sun themselves come noon.  Oh well, that's what exploring is about, I suppose.

    When I finally made it back to the bridge pool, I had no more than the three trout caught there at the morning's beginning to my name, so I was excited to give it a go once more.

    With the combined effort of my Golden Retriever and a purple, red, and black Woolley Bugger, I landed 42 fish between 8 and 16 inches in an hour in the shadow of the bridge.  It seemed that the fish had taken up residence in the pool and could not find a reason to venture downstream even to the next pool.  I will keep this in mind when fishing delayed harvest streams in the future.

Photo by Matt Reilly

Photo by Matt Reilly

Photo by Matt Reilly

Photo by Matt Reilly

Photo by Matt Reilly

    Fish #42 was a chunky fish of 16 inches, and rather than continue, I opted to end my bullying at seven times the legal limit of trout caught, for I was bored with the ease and repetitiveness of the fishing.

    Lunch was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich enjoyed in the hatchback of the Versa; and I sipped on a water bottle as I drove down the dirt road in search of a promising stand of mature hardwoods--the venue for my evening's squirrel hunt.

    The afternoon brought with it a steady breeze, which I knew would make squirrel sighting difficult.  The first grove I chose offered no squirrel sightings, though there were plenty of large oaks, hickories, and poplars present.  For just an hour and a half south of  my Fluvanna County home, I noticed, the woods were noticeably greener and fuller than those at home, adding to the challenge.

    With two hours of light left I opted to get back in the car and head back to the bottom of the second bridge over the creek, where I had seen a substantial amount of mast crop, and the single squirrel that found my fly casting so intriguing.  But after surmounting hardwood ridges bordering both sides of a mile-long stretch of creek, I had yet to see a squirrel.

    On such a long day, if dusk threatens and I haven't yet dropped a squirrel, I often don't aim to.  Taking the time to clean one animal so late in the hunt is exhausting and unnecessary for me to feel accomplished.  So, as is my practice, I located a beech tree, picked a small white spot on its bark, and unloaded my .22 in its center.  At least I know I could've hit a squirrel given the chance!

     I had hoped to mirror my successful morning with the trout with a limit of squirrels in the afternoon, but maybe that's just selfish.  Pleased with the day, I shed my field vest and rifle into the back of the Versa, and rode home through the chilling night with the windows down.□