As I wound my way through Pennsylvania’s Grand Canyon,
traffic slowed to a stop.
 |
| Photo by Matt Reilly. |
The Northern Tier is a mostly rural landscape, similar to
that of the Shenandoah Valley--traffic is relatively non-existent. Corn fields and dairy cows cover the rolling
countryside in a studded patchwork falling off the slopes of the Appalachian
Mountains. At the center you’ll find the
Pine Creek Valley, the artery which carves the mountain gorge that earned the
area the Grand Canyon likeness. At the
heart of that valley you’ll find a beautiful freestone creek, finned by the speckled
forms of shouldered brown trout.
When I came to a halt in the line of cars strung along the
single road that follows the creek through the mountains, the obstacle became
apparent. Despite a bluebird sky and no
wind, a thick pine tree rooted a few feet from the roadside had met its end and
splintered, coming to rest across both lanes of the mountain highway. Travelers applied insufficient brawn to the
trunk, while resigned onlookers crowded the scene.
Luckily, an ax lay in its place in the back of my car. A few minutes of sweaty swinging split the
branches from the trunk and severed the crown.
The resigned onlookers helped clear the road.
Despite the delay, the fallen pine tree was not altogether
inconvenient. The mountain air was thin,
crisp, but warm and dry. No rain had
fallen in weeks, and the creek ran low.
Perhaps “ran” is an inappropriate verb.
Even the pools and riffles were at a relative standstill.
I fished the morning with no reward. Crystal clear water and a bright sky were my
foremost opponents.
And so in an effort to “switch things up,” I visited a
friend in the local fly shop for direction.
October caddis were on the water and thick in the air. So I left the shop with a few Elk Hair Caddis
in my pocket, aimed at a stretch of river rejuvenated by a few small
tributaries.
It was 4:00 in the afternoon by the time I reached the
parking area where I planned to enter the water, and the early fall sun was
oppressive as it hung just above the western wall of the canyon.
Wet-wading would suit, and the river water
refreshed me as I waded downstream in search of trout in a recommended
location, nicknamed “Monster Pool.”
A sharp bend in the creek channel and visible riffles just
downstream from a creek mouth signaled to me my arrival. A gravel bank was exposed by the low flow on
river left.
As a matter of stealth, I crossed the creek to prepare my
attack on the bank. I examined my
leader. 5X had proven itself ineffective
against finicky risers in the present water conditions. So I converted my tippet to a size finer, and
lengthened it by three feet. A caddis
found its way on the end.
As I edged into the water towards the rising forms of wild
brown and rainbow trout, a bald eagle erupted from the bank opposite me. Cast after delicate cast brought no interest
from the fish, despite the cloud of October caddis on the scene.
Eventually my fixation on fish lost hold. A red fox trotted over the ridgeline on the
opposite bank, scaring a rather hefty groundhog loafing about the rocky crags
half to death. The predator halted at the
commotion caused by the rodent, turned, and followed the creek out of sight.
Moments later, my backcast caught on grass peeking up
through the gravel to my rear. I turned
to see a black bear cub sniffing curiously about the ground, pausing only to
stare confusedly at the flailing angler in his watering hole. The light of day escaped with the beast as it
meandered its way out of sight.
Suddenly, barely visible in the fading light, rises became
audial, no longer delicate. To a pod of
several fish, I fired a short cast dropping my caddis in their feeding
zone. Immediately, it was slurped up and
I was fast to a 14-inch rainbow trout.
I continued picking off fish, and the action grew faster,
more aggressive and indiscriminating, as night settled in.
My fifth fish was a solid brown, caught in the head of the
riffle on a blind cast to noise. I
chased it down to land it in the riffle it inhabited.
As I handled the fish, plucking the fly from its mouth and
admiring its strong form in the dark, the discarded fly drifted with the
current between my legs. A familiar
sound caused me to find the fly line tangled in my hand and pull. And just like that, I released the fish in my
left hand, grabbed my rod and turned, tight to another trout in the dead of
night.
*Originally published in the Rural Virginian
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