BACKCOUNTRY HUNTERS AND ANGLERS MOBILIZING IN THE CAPITOL REGION

A group of passionate outdoorsmen and Backcountry Huntersand Anglers (BHA) members gathered at the Backroom Brewery in Middletown, Virginia on Saturday, August 6 to discuss important public lands issues in the East and the formation of a local chapter to include Maryland, D.C., and Virginia. The group, unofficially dubbed the “Capital Region Chapter” of BHA, once voted into existence by the organization’s national board, would become the first chapter in the American Southeast.

Backpacking in the Monongahela National Forest, almost one million acres of forested habitat in WV, within a few hours' drive of D.C. Photo by Matt Reilly

    Backcountry Hunters and Anglers is an organization of sportsmen devoted to the conservation of our public lands, and the subsequent continuation of our outdoor heritage. Founded upon an appreciation for wilderness, BHA speaks for those who benefit spiritually from the opportunity to hunt elk on foot or horseback in the Bob Marshall Wilderness, spend a week fishing for smallmouth bass in the Boundary Waters, and stare into a fire miles from the nearest road and feel what true wilderness really is.

    BHA is an organization brawny by individual passion and, likewise, is effective only because of the existence of local chapters. “BHA's success is built on our boots-on-the-ground volunteers and members,” said BHA President, Land Tawney. “Not only do they have deep passion to carry on our traditions, but they also have an intimate knowledge of their place and what needs to be done to protect it.” As such passionate people mobilize, influence increases dramatically at the state level through interactions with state wildlife agencies, federal agencies, and officials.

    

    Until rather recently, all of those state chapters have been solely in the West, owing mostly to the fact that public lands come in much greater volume West of the Mississippi. “While the majority of public lands are found in the west, public lands in the east are just as important,” said Tawney. “It is imperative that BHA expand its reach in the east to not only influence policy at a national level, but to also make an impact on the ground to make sure we have access to local public lands and the fish and wildlife habitat found within.”

    It’s celebrating public lands in the East and taking a stand on the issues that oppose them that has James Revercomb, member at large (there are not official titles within the group, yet) and owner of Roanoke MountainAdventures, excited about the burgeoning chapter’s future. “There are lots of people in this part of the country who don’t utilize the public lands we have,” he said. “So it’s exciting to see people getting behind this in the East. The more people—the more interest—the better”

    The group’s meeting in Middletown, which was open to BHA members and non-members both, went fairly informally. Attendants started off telling hunting and fishing stories, but quickly became enraptured in discussion issues such as habitat fragmentation, poaching in D.C., off road vehicle land abuse, and the Sunday hunting ban on public lands.

    “The energy was great,” said Tom Hartland, another member at large and meeting attendee. “When you meet other BHA members, you already know they share the same values, and you get along great.” That energy is contagious and likewise growing. “Some people even overheard us talking and expressed interest in what we are doing,” said Hartland.

    Another meeting is being planned for early in 2017, but for the time being, the Capital Region BHA group hopes to grow its numbers with flyers and word of mouth. Interested members and non-members should visit the “Capital Region Backcountry Hunters and Anglers Members” Facebook page, and check out the BHA national page, www.BackcountryHunters.org. The BHA national board will come to a vote on the proposed Capital Region chapter in the spring.

    Despite the vast majority of public land being in the West, as Tawney pointed out, the public lands we have here in the East are just as important, and need boots-on-the-ground volunteers to protect them. It is clear that there is a substantial number of passionate backcountry hunters and anglers within the capital region. However, there is currently no established BHA chapter to harness that passion and potential influence. The establishment of the Capital Region BHA chapter will be a contribution of existing resources to the national voice of sportsmen who care about the management of our public lands, which uphold and serve as an arena for the passing on of our classic traditions of hunting and fishing.□

*Originally published in the Rural Virginian

BACKCOUNTRY BLESSING

My eyes snapped open mid-morning.  The previous night found me restless—scouring charts, tables; interpreting the forecasts; weighing my options.  Tides were slight; and the weather, poor.  “Cold spell” complaints were being tossed about Southwest Florida tackle shops like lies since the day I arrived.  At 86 degrees and breezy, I found no quarrel with Florida’s sunny disposition.  Had I met the coast with an inkling of prior knowledge of fly fishing saltwater or the area, I might have.

Matlacha backcountry on a sunny fall day.  Photo by Matt Reilly.

    As I rolled from my sleeping bag on the concluding day of my sojourn, the mercury was reduced to 40.  The sky was dismal.  The air carried a briskness that rendered my featherweight Florida fishing garb useless.  The snook that finned my dreams would be stressed.

    Doubt flickered as I shouldered my kayak, and chilled water from a nocturnal storm met exhaustion.  Its weight depressed me.  I pushed on, slinging it atop the car. 

    I met slack tide at D-&-D marina in Matlacha.  A doorbell chime welcomed me to pay my launch fee to a gruff gentleman in a stained gray t-shirt. 

    “You might try it.  Tough day.

    Unstrapping my craft, I toted it to the water’s edge.  An anchor and PFD smacked the gravel with a ceremonial thud.  A milk crate took on fly boxes, Boca grip, leaders, and a dry bag.  A paddle was assembled.  I was a week-old tourist, but my routine was seasoned.

    Every moment of flux is opportunity.  The tide was rising, submerging the shoots of the tangled labyrinth of mangroves where predatory snook would take up vigil over unsuspecting prey.  My plot relied upon a northwest-oriented course winding through the backcountry.  Fighting for every inch of my kayak’s advancement north along the Gulf edge, I was reassured that the gusts would assist me, moving my craft south as I fished.  I needed only to reach the north end of the cut.

    In the tight, winding water trail, the wind was shielded.  I reached my destination inside a half hour.  Rod rigged, anchor secured to the trolley, I slid into a standing position--rod at my feet, anchor boated, paddle in-hand.

    The gloom afforded no chance of sight-casting.  Blind-casting would rule the day.  I poled to a position fifty feet from the mangroves and dropped anchor.

    Drizzle spawned rain and wind slanted it harshly.  Many fruitless casts turned me to gliding upright through an open lake at the confluence of two creek channels. 

    I heard the fish first.  Amid the timid roar of gray static stippling the tannic water of the backcountry, a beast woke and fed.  Billows of an angry sea breeze shrouded the hint and challenged my balance atop my kayak.  The brisk frontal haze thinned temporarily, permitting my strained eyes a quick study of the mangrove edge.  Dark water swirled again beneath arms of green.  My eyes brightened.

    Sixty feet separated me from the fish, and I feared clamoring to adjust my position would spook it.  I stripped line from reel and awaited my moment.

    At once, the wind reduced.  Raindrops thinned.  Losing no time, I flexed my 8-weight.  One, two, three false-casts and I punched my thumb through the cork.  A CK Baitfish uncurled, miraculously, between leafy limbs, tight to the shoots.

    The fly sank for two seconds.  Twitch.  The line went tight before my strip was through.  A surge of whitewater and unseen energy engulfed my fly.  I swept the rod outward, flexing the butt, stripping, driving the hook.  Tug-of-war ensued.  Then, the fish tore parallel to the edge, wrapped the leader, and severed the leader with a flare of her razor-sharp gill plate.

    My legs and arms shook.  Minutes passed before I could sit without tipping.  Ecstatic for fooling a snook into eating, I reconstructed my shock leader, retied my fly.

    My hopes were escaping with the tide.  The perfect ending to my story flashed before my eyes, fleeting.

    But it would be out of character to admit defeat.  The outgoing tide would pull the fish from their hideouts into the troughs adjacent.  I abandoned the lake, and poled on to another location. 

    Around the next bend, a deep drop-off grazed the mangrove shoots.  Ambitiously, I pushed a long cast out parallel to it and let the fly sink.  A few strips turned the water behind the white fly black.  

  

    My rod hand began to sweat.  The hallmark gill flare sucked in my offering.  My arm reached skyward, coming tight to a fish in the open, with nowhere to go.

A small backcountry snook taken just in the nick of time.  Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Somehow, I found the grace to kneel.  Raising the rod tip, I reached out and seized the Line-sider by the jaw. 

    On my knees, I gazed into a bronze eye as a warm emotion swallowed me—a summary of my experiences thus far.  I laughed, shakily, and shouted, triumphant.□

*Originally published in the Rural Virginian