A DAY OF EXPLORING THE BROOK TROUT STREAMS

I motivated myself yesterday with the promise of a full day of fishing today to celebrate the weight lifted from my shoulders with the submission of a large assignment.  When my alarm went off (or rather, didn't), it was already apparent that the day would not go as planned.

    My alarm failed to ring at its preset time of 6:00 AM, and I awoke on my own at almost 7:00.  I promised my parents I would pick up a deck board from Better Living, and had hoped to be there when they opened at 7:00.  Rather, I arrived close to 8:00, and returned home at 8:30.  

    With the car packed and warmed up, I shut the hatchback of my Nissan Versa on the metal aglet of my wading boot lace, jamming the lock, and setting me back another hour.

    The destination I had planned to explore with my full day is a two hour drive from my Fluvanna County home, and so I racked my brain for alternative locations with a shorter driving time.  I settled my mind on a handful of brook trout streams I had not yet visited in northwestern Virginia, and oriented the Versa likewise.

    I arrived at the first stream around noon.  Large for a brook trout stream, and rather flat in most stretches, the water was notably frigid.  However, many of the larger pools featured long, flat tailouts, which will undoubtedly host a glorious scene of hatching insects and rising trout come spring.

Photo by Matt Reilly

    After striking out in several shallow but promising-looking riffles, I adjusted to fishing just larger pools, and took four decently-sized brook trout with that method.  A heavy #10 black stonefly nymph got the job done, though most of the trout were hooked very lightly--a reflection, probably, of the colder-than-desired water temperatures.

    I next took to the road, heading north, to scout one of the stream's larger tributaries.  A developing problem since trading in my F-150 for the economic Versa has been ground clearance, but I have been dealing well, partially due to the car's narrower frame.  An 11-minute zig-zagged drive along a curvy mountain road landed me on the bank of the mountain fork I was after.

Photo by Matt Reilly

Photo by Matt Reilly

    Again, occasional surprisingly-large pools spotted the stream's course through pine bottomland; but I didn't see enough slower, deeper holding water to convince me to string up my rod and angle for the winterized brookies.  I continued on.

    The last spot surprised me.  Often called a "small native trout stream," it held some unexpectedly-large pools, however infrequent.  The water in between was nothing more than a series of shallow stair-casing ledges, with the occasional deeper plunge pools.  I fished a few of the larger pools before striking off along a trail upstream, in search of better looking water.  I didn't find it, and I later found in a fishing report of the same stream that it commonly dries up completely in the summertime.  Perhaps this drought event has limited the number of fish in this otherwise-productive looking flowage.

Photo by Matt Reilly

    Though the day didn't go as planned, I had a liberating day checking off a few more of the Blue Ridge's brook trout streams from my bucket list.  On the route home, I payed a visit to Tommy and Kevin, co-owners of South River Fly Shop, for some fly tying materials, and good-old-fashioned fly shop talk.□

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.□

WHERE WERE WE ADVENTURING?

    Bluebird skies, awesome temperatures, and normal water levels weren't getting away without a few fish being caught this weekend!

Any idea where we were?  The hint is in the background.

A NEW STRETCH

These stretches of river I often find the most rewarding. 

The ones that traverse miles of private land and filter out the day trippers. From the look of this sandbar, this is one, and it looks like I need to do a bit more research here!

ESCAPING THE DERECHO

    Summer, more than any other season, showcases a remarkable ability to contrast black and white, clear bluebird skies and dark impending doom.  

When the skies turn dark, those in the comfort of their homes find the movie channel and take a nap; but the angler caught on the water has a decision of importance to make:  “pack it in, or stick it out?”

    Many anglers I’ve met may be too stubborn for their own good.  The answer to that question is almost always to stick it out—“…See what happens”—knowing full well the weather may change in an instant—or not.

    I’ve never been particularly swift at recognizing oncoming storms, hurricanes, etc. while on the water.  Polarized sunglasses, the time-freezing cadence of tumbling water, and a supreme focus on the end of my fly line almost always take precedence over and distract me from thunderheads and lightning.  Only when a falling notification from above slaps me on the head do I get around to thinking about things like personal safety and the two mile walk home.

    And it’s this circumstance that, I think, makes anglers so fond of braving wild storms—a case of selective sight.

    Check the forecast for the possibility of weather before leaving the house.  If the probability is high, keep a watchful eye on the sky.

    Even if weather is recognized prior to hopping in the water, I’ve always been a little unrealistically hopeful.  The thought that precedes an outing is enough to get a person excited, and that anticipation is motive to take chances with nature.  This means either being drenched for several long “ten more minutes” intervals before being carried back to the truck by apocalyptic winds, or enduring a short shower and fishing out the afternoon.  I’ve waited under rock ledges and stream banks enough to realize that Mother Nature is a merciless prankster and a habitual gambler, making us outdoorsmen prime playtoys.

               

    One particular summer I found myself totally immersed in Mother’s dry sense of humor (and by that I mean utterly wet sense of humor). 

    After work one day (a sunny, cloudless day) my brother and I decided to explore with our kayaks the upper reaches of a riverine reservoir.

    Paddling upstream and planning to float-fish back to take-out, we passed up the fishy holes, making mental note of them for the return trip.

    When we reached the point where it was evident no better fishing water lay ahead, we beached, stretched the legs, and fished a rather unpromising riffle.

Photo by Matt Reilly

    With enough light left to thoroughly fish the stretch of river between us and the truck, we shoved off downstream and proceeded to the first hole—a promising elbow, deep, with rocky shelves.

    Now, I’ve described what happened next consistently every time I’ve recounted it, by sound, because a slight bend in the river’s path blocked the view of the sky.

    After several minutes of quiet, I began to notice a growing white noise in what I thought was my subconscious.  Then, maybe an airplane, flying low and quickly getting closer?  But as I expected to see a jet barge into view from behind standing hardwoods, nothing came.

    I positioned my kayak to see past the trees and into the break allowed by the riverbed.  In the sky, a solid sheet of black clouds abutted what could have easily been Bimini’s lucid inshore waters, and was visibly moving in our direction.  Exponential winds and a gushing that resembled a breaching in the Hoover Dam quickly became obvious.  I had a decision to make:  “Stick it out, or paddle?”

    I had apparently already answered the question by the time it flashed through my mind, because I paddled past my brother, still oblivious to the clouds out of sight and asking what was happening.

    “Paddle!”

    Though there was no official timekeeper present, in the half hour that followed I may have qualified for the men’s national canoe slalom team, dodging falling trees and fighting the wind around obstacles.  All the while, an iron curtain of rain engulfed the sky above us.

    By the time we had pulled our wet, debris-littered crafts up on shore, the rain had all but stopped.  The wind was no more, and Mother Nature dangled a rainbow in our faces mockingly after robbing us of an afternoon’s fishing.  If she is indeed a jokester, she had gone too far.

               

    Though I am normally a proponent of sticking it out, I’ve come to learn that “no matter what” doesn’t fly around Ms. Nature, especially during the summer.  Weather can change in the blink of an eye, and the water is no place to be when it changes for the worse.  So keep an eye on the sky, and have a safe and adventurous summer.