“I’m dropping out after
today.”
The declaration was one
part joke, two parts intent, and escaped daily into a warm, bluebird sky from
behind a bottom lip bit in collegiate compliance.
Once you’ve invested years
of tireless angling and observation, and compiled and analyzed a few thousand
fish’s worth of fishing logs, you come to recognize Go-Time for what it is.
It was Day Four of what
was to be a week-long warming trend, and March’s winds were moving in response.
Friday afternoon would see 75 degrees, and Saturday would bring a sharp cold
snap—30 degrees and the possibility of snow. Local stream flows were double
average from spring rains, and dropping slowly. In other words, it was Go-Time,
and I knew it.
With the looming reward
of escaping to the mountains in search of big wild trout, I crammed my
schoolwork into the dark hours, and shaved all unnecessary habits from my
routine.
Thursday afternoon
found me speeding towards a Virginia mountain valley, eyes glancing nervously
from the road towards the snaking creekbottom below. An eagle soared
overhead—casting a shadow over the river’s course and the farm fields
surrounding it in its lower reaches—it too content in the spring sun’s gaze.
I found the water and
realized a dream. Rivers—in their ideal state in my mind’s eye—run full and
deep. From snow runoff, their runs and holes are highlighted an icy blue.
Wonder and possibility are retained when the gravel of the streambed is not too
visible. And so this river ran.
 |
| High spring water. Photo by Matt Reilly. |
Within these holes and
runs and un-seeable gravel lots lies the year’s most promising opportunity to
tangle with a big fish, for they find confidence in the slight discoloration, and
large prey is disoriented in the chaos.
Likewise, I tied on a
large crayfish fly and worked my way upstream, methodically, keeping contact
with the gravel and opportunity.
Opportunity took me by
surprise a few casts into the afternoon, when a sizeable brown snapped at my
fly and released it in the same breath. An hour and a half later, opportunity
returned with conviction, and ripped my fly into the undercut of a rock ledge.
My Tycoon Tackle Scion throbbed under the pressure of a large flash, and a
thick 24-inch wild rainbow initiated an adrenaline-soaked game of net tag
downstream.
 |
| 24-inch wild rainbow trout taken on a streamer in the mountains. Photo by Matt Reilly. |
Friday was a
continuation in the weather trend, and the joke in my daily threat to abandon
academic employment was further diluted with intent. The wind was raging
harder; the sun, shining brighter. A storm was coming, and the front was
shaping up to be a dramatic one.
This time, I found the
water slightly lower. The currents were calmer and the water clearer, though
still rich with opportunity.
Brown trout are
homebodies, particularly in small mountain streams, and so I started the day
with a hit list. Patiently, I placed my fly along the current seam of the first
run, working my way upstream.
Redemption struck where she should have—in a
pillow behind a large chunk rock in the streambed where she showed her face the
day before—but held on, and rewarded me with 21 inches of wild butter-belly and
shimmering bulls’ eyes.
 |
| About 20 inches of brown trout taken on a streamer in the mountains. Photo by Matt Reilly. |
It’s funny that
fishermen yearn for redemption so avidly, and yet release her graciously once
achieved. I was pondering this thought as I examined my tippet and discovered
nicks that could cause me to lose another big fish, should I be so lucky. I
retied.
In the act of retying
my fly, my focus shifted from my knot to the water in the background, captured
by unexplained movement. My heart ricocheted about my chest, more than it would
for any fish, when I quickly recognized the brown figure lumbering over the
limestone streambed towards my wading boot as a hellbender salamander—18 inches
of giant, beautifully adapted, rare salamander.
 |
| A hellbender salamander cruises the limestone streambed inches from my wading boot. Photo by Matt Reilly. |
With shaking hands, I
reached for my backpack’s side pocket and squeezed my eyes tight in
thankfulness for having remembered my waterproof camera. A few moments
interacting with, and studying the awesome intricacies of the animal left my
spirit enriched.
God must have been
smiling on me and rewarded my responsible stewardship, when granted redemption
in that large wild brown trout, with more blessings; for the afternoon ran on,
and more wild trout came to hand—approximately 40, with most being larger than
12 inches. The term “golden light” comes to mind—that moment of perfect
elemental combination that results in a truly magnificent circumstance, as
recognized by photographers and outdoorsmen, alike.
 |
| Photos by Matt Reilly. |
As I write this, the
weather has turned stable; the water, low. I’ve hardly threatened to abandon my
studies for the river, and my nighttime motivation has shrunken. The conditions
are not prime for my mind to wander, but they will be again.
*Originally published in the Rural Virginian
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