SNOWED IN

The weather is highly variable in southwestern Virginia, but a few things are for certain. If it’s gonna’ get cold and spit, pour, or dump snow it’s gonna’ be in February, and I’ll be holed up, sleeping late in my on-campus apartment with no school or possibility of fishing to busy me. And even after the weather has departed for the end of the month, or some surprise visit in March, and left a legacy of ice, my two-wheel-drive won’t be making it to the river, and the brown trout will be having a jolly old time in the runoff in the mountains without me. It’s a peculiar and uniquely frustrating situation to live through—like a bad trip, if you’ve got the right fascination.

Photo by Matt Reilly

    Annually, upon this occasion, I find myself waking in a gray morning without intention. A sense of urgency reaches me through the gloomy face of winter. Water levels are up, dirty, and like the dingy chaos of a river coursing with runoff, there is a haze in the air that obscures reality, clouds the known. Finned legends emerge from enigma.

    There is a spring creek that rises just off the college’s property that is of little consequence and hop-across proportions until it feeds the pond in front of the cafeteria. I walk past it several times per day, and rarely notice the water in it. But when snow or rain hit hard, the water comes up, brown and frothy, and it catches my unyielding fancy. Only in the direst of circumstances does it become a destination.

    I abandon my living quarters without breakfast or any gear, but for a fly rod and a streamer of black and purple—something that can be seen in brown water—and head for the creek.

    The raging current has worn away the banks a few feet, greatly increasing its size and creating an almost unending succession of undercut banks, accentuated by the roots of trees on the lawn, now exposed. I’ve forgotten how rocky the bed is, but the roiling current, full of soft, almost still, pockets of water, reminds me.

    There is no one in sight, but why would there be? It’s early morning and there are no classes, no cafeteria hours, no reason to leave bed. No reason but a spring creek and a burning, bordering on desperate, need to tangle with the unknown.

    My first cast is directly upstream, to the near bank. The fluorescent fly lands in a slow pillow of water, inches from the dirt. A hard jerk-strip, and the fly jack-knives headfirst under the bank, below a tangle of roots. A second brings the fly back into view, and I watch it suspend there among the turmoil.

    Excited by the performance of my fly in the water and the ease with which it’s imparted action, I send a similar second cast to the opposite bank, upstream. For a second, it sits motionless in a micro-eddy, shielded from the ripping current, but a subtle twitch brings it closer to being swept away.

    Just as the current begins to grab the fly, a wake and surge of energy grabs the fly and straightens my fly line. A paddle tail erupts recklessly from the rolling current, as the fish points its nose down into the creekbed and struggles for leverage to get upstream.

    When it achieves the perfect balance and finds water to surround its tail, the fish blazes a trail upstream, slicing through the flooded river like a bird through air, taking to the air several times, and coming down into the narrow channel perfectly every time.

    As I chase the fish upstream, my line goes limp. Like it changed its mind, the fish reverses course and begins charging downstream. This time with twice the speed. I reel like mad to maintain tension on the fish, but as it approaches my position on the bank, I can sense the leader heading for the surface.

    In a moment of supernatural confusion and instinct, I pull my net from its holster fastened to my back. The fish takes off mere feet from me, and comes crashing down into the rubber basket of my net. I drop to my knees to submerge the fish in the net, and behold its majestic novelty—a brown trout of 22 inches, or 24, or 26.

    Pleased but still frustrated, I push away covers and lumber into the kitchen. Snowed in. A late breakfast is a good breakfast, I figure, and crack some eggs in a frying pan—the kitchen a refuge from the frozen windows and tile floor. I’ll spend the day tying streamers to target browns when I can finally get on the water. Something black, with some purple for contrast, maybe. Or perhaps something bright, to catch their interest.□

*Originally published in The Rural Virginian

A CHILDHOOD STORY: LATE WINTER BASS WINDOW

Every year, as winter fights a losing battle with the advances of spring and natural rejuvenation, Mother Nature’s actors stage for the opening act. Upon spring’s minor victories, the mercury ascends—into the 50s, 60s—and some of my favorite actors, in an aqueous, farm field gem, begin their own ascent.

    These charismatic, southern sporting phenotypes begin undergoing changes as water temperatures approaches 50 degrees. Their metabolisms ramp up. They’re inspired to move, to chase, and to earn energy in ambush games with larger and larger prey. More importantly, they experience a change in attitude—from the idle survivalism of the winter doldrums, to the procedural excitement of reproduction.

    The males move first, from the thermal refuges of deep water, finning the ridges of points, towards warming shallow-water spawning sites.

    As the sun beats down on the sparkling water, these shallow spawning flats become the most attractive habitat to awakening bass—but only by temperature. The rest of the set is a skeleton of its unhampered essence. Lily pads, bullfrogs, tall grass, dobsonflies—all are holding off for the security of the warmer months.

    Grasses, though, are on the way. When the right water temperature is achieved, they begin to sprout from the pond floor, and play an important part in the story that I have come to know.

    The ambient air temperature continues to fluctuate—from the high 30s to the low 70s—throughout the end of February and beginning of March. Likewise, competing warm and cold air masses created by the periodical warming of the Earth, and the subsequent radiation into the air, bring the lion out in March. She rages on almost every day, particularly the warm ones, representing the final variable in the annual production I’ve acquainted myself with.

    Humans are creatures of habit too. Outdoorsmen, I like to think of as seasonal junkies. Every week of the year can be designated a particular pursuit (or faction of a pursuit) that is ripe for the time. The late winter window, in which all of the aforementioned variables coexist, is one of my personal favorites, which has come to be acknowledged as “The Weekend”—for big, early season bass—by some of the more fervent of my fishing companions.

    It was my father who first introduced me to this happening, on a warm, windy day in March on the farm pond I return to every year, before I had become a full-fledged teenager.

    A bottleneck is formed by two facing points, which mark the transition between the main-pond and the shallow coves on the insides of the points. The area between the points is a kind of flat—shallow, littered with a few well-known stumps, and, in the late winter, tufted by the beginning efforts of lake weed. Moving deeper into the coves, the water becomes shallower, creating a gradient of heated water and, in following, grasses.

    On that inaugural March afternoon of my childhood, the wind was roaring parallel to the points—from the west, right into the face of the dominant point.

The author's father with a healthy late-winter bass. Photo by Matt Reilly.

    “Wind from the west, fishing is best,” they say, but this is sounder science. By the will of the wind, the food chain was moved into the grassy flat between the points. First, phytoplankton. Then, baitfish. Then, predators. It was all explained to me before the first cast, and I believe it was on the first that my father stuck a respectable largemouth of about five pounds.

    Looking back, I am excessively proud, and thankful, of my father for that moment of genius.

Since, I have taken many a fish, always returning to the same setting, chasing the same memory, with the ambition of having a brush with an early-season trophy.

    Indeed, the pattern has produced well, over the years, resulting in several fish over five pounds and up to 10, by student-friends, myself, and others. This story is a testament to the dimension of fishing that is all too often dismissed, and that is hardly quantifiable by one who does not practice it and know its benefits—that is, observation and critical thinking.

    These days, I don’t get to watch that childhood story play out in front of me, often. The farm ponds of those years I left behind in search of an education. Still, change is in the air, and it brings memories to mind, which might compare for enjoyment. Then again, perhaps it’s merely the continuation of that story I’m after every year, on the bank of that farm pond, chasing fish I caught long ago. Perhaps nothing is lost.□

*Originally published in the Rural Virginian

FEBRUARY IS A HARD MONTH TO LOVE

February is a hard month to love. The most ardent endure her harsh temperament--her changing moods--with some success, rarely without sacrificing self, in the form of numb fingers or wind-chapped cheeks.

Photo by Matt Reilly

    February is a time of change, one without which the climactic arrival of spring would be of muted contrast. Snowmelt, under the typically warmer-than-winter closing days of the month, floods rivers and streams with cold, dirty water, while small game seasons peter out. But if February offers any consolation, it’s that taking it by the horns and experiencing the true end of the outdoor year makes spring all the more grandiose.

High, Cold, and Dirty

    Six inches of snow fell over the weekend, and promptly melted, unleashing inches of 36-degree, muddy water on the landscape. If there’s a type of water that warrants hanging your hat up for, it’s this—but when the going gets tough, I find it unacceptable to accept defeat.

    When I arrived at the roadside pull-off, I could hardly recognize the creek that brushes the road. Under normal circumstances, a well-defined run-pool complex passes tranquilly under the shadow of a hemlock-lined bank. With the right angle of sunlight to facilitate, a half dozen or so dark, elongated forms can be seen waving in place like submerged grass in the lucid blue belly of water, fins grazing cobble below.

    This time, however, the scene looked and sounded of chaos. Green-brown water capped with foam rolled and chopped like ocean waves, ignoring the serpentine borders of the creek, and challenging the quiet forest highway adjacent to a contest in violent white noise it was sure to win.

    I learned a lesson in high-water trout fishing in western Maryland three years prior. That river was running roughly four times its typical flow. Wild brown trout filled the river, and I had considerable success fishing soft water behind big boulders along the flooded bank with a large, dark fly. That was mid-June.

    A third odd was stacked against me on that February day—cold water. I knew I’d have to fish slowly, and very thoroughly.

    When a creek jumps its banks, holding and feeding lies are tossed in the air. The food chain scrambles to reestablish footing in the changing system. Small fish are tossed around, and large, predatory fish cruise harsh current breaks, looking for a feeding opportunity.

    A few hundred yards upstream, I found the setting for the scene I prophesized in my mind. A long, hard run ran over chunk rock, tossing water in crests and pits. An abutting slab of bedrock calmed the churning, and pooled a few feet of calm water.

Photo by Matt Reilly

    Several casts with a heavy crayfish-imitating fly into the seam ended with a hard stop and the turn of a massive female brown trout that ran downstream, broke me off, and became my latest heartbreak.

Two Triples

    A crisp, sunny afternoon in February beckoned me to the squirrel woods, amped with adrenaline, 20-guage pump shotgun in tote.

    Late season bushytail hunting, in my mind, speaks of delicate walking, skittish squirrels, and quick shots—a game tailored to the indiscriminate, somewhat forgiving reach of a boom-stick.

    Just barely inside the treeline, as I stood mid-way up a hardwood ridge, sun to my back, three squirrels busted from cover, nervous from my prolonged pause, and darted for independent cover. Swinging, and operating the pump-loading mechanism instinctively, I dropped all three on consecutive shots—a triple, for half a limit.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Another 45 minutes of still hunting landed me in position to take another bushytail. From a creekbottom, I closed the distance between me and the rustling I could hear near the top of the ridge, hopping and skipping in bursts, imitating the sound of a pouncing gray squirrel.

    The first shot was presented when an alarmed gray pounced from the trunk of an oak tree into the branches of another. As it was scrambling to establish footing, I dropped it with a swinging report from the 20-guage.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    A second bushytail peeked out from behind the trunk of a neighboring oak, curious, presenting a headshot that didn’t go unclaimed. Down went another batch of meat for the pot.

    A third held tight to the forest floor for 30 seconds before making a mad dash for a nearby hickory tree. I ran forward ten feet as the squirrel began its ascent of the trunk, and interrupted it, taking a quick knee, and firing a rising snap-shot—a second double, for a limit of late season bushytails.□

 *Originally published in the Rural Virginian

BROWN TOWN

Under normal circumstances, creeks, rivers—bodies of water—usually give sufficient warning before they reveal themselves to a wandering angler. An analytical eye on the terrain while driving slowly towards a perceived destination, chest leaning slightly up on the steering wheel, is all it takes—unless you’re in the downtown district of a major city.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Looking down at the water from the overgrown and crumbling parking lot of an abandoned building, I wasn’t surprised I had almost missed it. A small freestone creek, no wider than 10 feet across, gushed over river rock 10 feet down in a gully that navigates a hodgepodge of residential lots, industrial facilities, and businesses. Even the short bridge that I drove over failed to harness enough of my attention to signal the proximity of the stream.

    My mind questioned by what device there could be a viable population of wild trout occupying the water below. Machine shops, abandoned car washes, and other impenetrable surfaces bordered the stream’s course for miles, surely keeping it stocked with a hefty supply of automotive chemicals and other pollutants. Lawns and roads took up the remainder of the immediate bank, contributing still more chemical pollutants, as well as novel trash items like pizza boxes, onion sacks, and wire fencing.

    “There’s no way,” I thought.

    Still, the creek had a reputation for fish, and so I returned to my car, and suited up.

    Fishing a favorite double nymph rig, my first cast landed in the head of a small run that spanned the width of the creek. Within a few seconds of hitting the water, the fly line stopped suddenly, and a quick hook set pulled a bottle rocket from the white water and sent it careening downstream. I let slack line slide from my line hand, and started my downstream chase.

    My opponent’s energy was running out, and I had him folding under the influence of my long rod in the tail of a long run. Guiding his head towards me on a short line, I plunged my net underneath its form and scooped.

    What superficially appeared to be a roadside ditch creek, accented by the occasional oxygenating riffle, had rewarded my preliminary effort with a sizeable wild rainbow, taping at about 15 inches—one I’d be proud to have pulled from even some of the larger streams and creeks in the vicinity.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” passed through my mind, prompting me to take a more critical look at the water. Small patches of water cress colored the bank in a few spots. Tree cover was marginal at best. If the cress did indeed indicate the presence of springs throughout the creek’s course, they play an important role in keeping the stream cool year-round. Still, though, I couldn’t rationalize the success of the wild trout population in front of me when considering the chemical and domestic pollution I can all but guarantee plague the water quality.

    “Maybe it’s a fluke,” I thought.

    An hour and a half later, after catching 12 small to average wild rainbows in a single run under the confused gaze of two brothers playing catch with a football in their backyard, the thought that my first fish was a “fluke” had fled my mind and dissipated into the background traffic noise.

    The brothers’ own house caught my eye as I glanced upstream, planning my next attack. From the back door of the house, concrete steps descended to ground level where they met a large concrete slab, presumably the foundation of the house itself. The tip of the structure extended into the water along the bank, catching a short pocket of water in its tail and creating a dynamic eddy.

    My formal training on the Shenandoah Mountains’ brook trout streams has made it near impossible for me to pass up such a lie, even for its small size. From head to tail, the pocket was no more than two feet long.

    My nymph found its head and stopped abruptly. My rod doubled on the hookset, the captured yielding no ground. A long, brown back breached, facing upstream, and kicked itself out of the pocket to roll downstream with two labored fans of its tail.

    Positioned for the cast sharply downstream, I kept my rod tip high, handled my net, and waded to midstream to collect the trout on its run downstream. The battle expired shortly, as I had current and tool working for me, and the weight of a brown trout of about 18 inches sagged in the silicone basket of my landing net.

    As I ungloved my hands to handle the fish, I glanced nervously upward at the house towering over me. I can be a nervous guy in the city, but for fish, I can make an exception.□

*Originally published in the Rural Virginia

SNOWFLAKES IN SHENANDOAH

Snowflakes stippled the barren-gray scene, tossed by a corkscrewing breeze tumbling down the gauntlet of a mountain hollow, following the track of a frigid mountain stream. I opposed its course, head into the wind, eyes watering, mind set on a deep pool upstream.

The author with a large Shenandoah brook trout taken in the snow. Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Clouds set the tone for the landscape, casting a cold, flat light on rock and trunk, granting a frozen appearance to even what was not. Brown leaves, long since fallen and captured by a stiff layer of frost, were static features, even in the wind, and finalized the atmosphere of harsh rigidity about the place. The bone-chilling threat of nearly-frozen mountain water resounded.

    The natural world stays inside on days like these, or so it seems. Gray squirrels may not show themselves in the absence of a mid-morning sun to loosen their limbs. Save for perhaps a solemn march for carbs, the majority of their day is spent dreaming of sunlit explorations of the treetops, curled up, veiled by a thick, bushy tail.

    Deer find thermal refuge in thick lowland pine groves, legs curled under their tawny brown coats, metabolism slowed, fighting tooth and nail for spring. Hunting pressure from the expired season has trained them to sit tight in daylight, and venture forth at the moon’s height (if there is a big moon) or in the respite of dusk for safety.

    Even the parking lot on the fringe of the Shenandoah backcountry, typically jammed with automobiles for its proximity to Charlottesville, is devoid of all but three vehicles, owned, of course, by humans who have engineered their own nutritions outside of the seasons’ environmental demand, and think nothing dangerous or wasteful of a two-mile hike in sub-freezing weather.

    One of those cars is my own, and I passed the owners of the other two on my way up the mountain trail, stride rustling in a pair of weathered waders, my fly rod gripped through a thin glove on my right hand.

    The first was a college-aged girl, presumably from UVA, or otherwise on Christmas break, like myself. As she approached, her covered head bobbed up to see me, as it was previously fixed on the ground, keeping pace with her swift stride. She drew attention to the cold--the weather, as is a cliche among brief trail encounters--and then passed, returning her gaze to the path, hands jammed into her pockets, without breaking stride.

    Surely her business in the mountains was of fitness, as her visit was quick (I saw her depart from the parking lot as I geared up), and seemingly devoid of observation or enjoyment, which might have been hinted at through a slower stride and exploring gaze.

    The second driver followed shortly behind, accompanied by his female of unknown relation, and canine, who, more than any of the humans I had yet encountered, seemed to be enjoying himself. The owners, both clad (as was I) in winter coats, hats, gloves, and sunglasses, whisked by at a hurried pace, hardly breaking their gaze from the course ahead to acknowledge my passing.

    It occurred to me that their being there must have been tied to the needs and desires of their furry companion, though I should think it not entirely fair to consider their motives totally polarized from a respect for nature. Why else, then, would they choose to walk their dog in the mountains and not down their own street?

    That is not to say that there is a right or wrong reason to be in the mountains on an exceptionally cold, and snowy and windy, afternoon. Just that I seldom encounter an angler so taken by the spirituality of the chase as to cross paths with one in the dead of winter, and that I naturally find my mind coming to rest on the question of why that is, and how that makes me different when the creeks turn cold. Am I crazy? Perhaps.

     My own motive comes clear when I reach the trail’s third ford in the creek and moves on, up the mountain, affording a view of the water tumbling through the woods. I leave the trail and make a short trek to the creek to find a large hole with current bordered by a large volume of slack water.

    I ply the water with a large fly, and entice a handful of lethargic, delicate brook trout, and hoist them only momentarily from the icy water, conscious of the air temperature and its effect on them.

    It’s in that cold mountain scene, harsh and rugged in winter, that I feel content, classically pleased. To me, the action is as important and as relaxing as reading a book by the fire or tying flies to music and hot chocolate.

    But everyone lives for different things. I just happen to live for this.□

*Originally published in The Rural Virginian

WINTER ROSE

A new chapter of my life’s story began on the year’s second weekend as I rolled south down I-81, towards Emory, Virginia—my new hometown for the four years to come.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    “Town” is a generous classification of Emory.  Emory & Henry College, a few quiet residential streets, and a post office comprise its bulk, a fact that consistently elicits a grumble from a proportion of students—“There is nothing to do here.”

    On the contrary, I’d be lying if I claimed that E&H’s location carried no weight in my college choice.  Southwest Virginia’s “Mountain Empire” is a mecca for outdoor recreation.  The school’s stellar reputation only justified my decision, assuring me of the wonderful experience it would offer. 

    I spent my previous semester acquainting myself with the East Coast, not in the common sense detailed in rest stop brochures, but by experiencing natural communities and interpreting them with pen, camera, tent, and rod.  The move to Emory was an extension of that pursuit, with added promise of formal education.

    It was a challenging transition—pivoting from a lifestyle that allowed me to be outdoors all day and every day to one that required schoolwork.

    However I realized shortly when my free time would be and where I would use it.  A tip from Bruce Wankel, owner of the Virginia Creeper Fly Shop, sent me into the mountains with confidence.  The concept of starting anew accumulating knowledge of local waters excited me, and I steadily began picking apart a small, special-regulations, spring-fed headwater stream.

    My first trip began at mid-morning on a cold January weekday.  The sun beamed through the trees and onto the water coursing through the hollow, inspiring marginal insect activity.  My first fish came on a weighted nymph—a red-banded, rosy-cheeked, leopard-spotted wild rainbow trout of about 9 inches.

    I began subsequent trips above the pool that concluded my last; keeping my eyes open; noticing the presence of insects; adjusting weight, tippet, and flies as needed--all to solve the puzzle. 

    The first three trips saw increasing numbers of fish—15 to 25 to 35.  Local intel informed me that a 14-inch rainbow was a trophy specimen.  This was encouraging, having netted several such fish on my outings. 

    My fourth trip began early on a weekday in early February.  The temperature dipped into the teens overnight and remained there, the sun shielded by clouds.  15 MPH wind gusts drove the chill deeper.

Under Armour, wool socks, flannel, outer layer, gloves, beanie—with each layer I pushed temptation to stay home back, and the icy river regained its allure.

    The river snaked through thick bottomland as I followed it from the road, my mind’s eye recalling the last pool from the week before.  A sharp bend caught my eye.  I pulled over.

    As my boots crunched over frozen leaves, I estimated the amount of river left to fish.  Fishing all day would land me at the uppermost boundary of the special regulation water, and I would have completed my exploration of the upper river.

    The day began slow, maybe a function of the overnight temperatures.  I summoned all of my patience and diligence, ensuring with painstaking adjustment that my offering retained contact with the riverbottom at all times.  At last, the first fish of the day flashed at the end of my leader.

    The day offered many small fish.  All but one out of 35 taped under 12-inches upon the hour that declining temperatures and loss of light hinted that my time was short.

    Around the next bend, a metal sign hung from rusted cable spanning the river—the end of public water—my destination.

    The sign commanded a bend in the river—a narrow, deep channel sweeping over large chunks of rock.  I took my time in plying the bottom, adding split shot and achieving effective drifts.  A last pool deserves such treatment; and this one, a particularly elevated reverence, as the last run of my month-long exploit.

    The soft glow of the sun behind winter’s gray mask was sliding behind the hills.  Frost chewed at my fingertips and nose, tempting me to secure my fly and begin the hike back.

    One more drift.

    An overhand lob of an awkward double-nymph rig weighted with several split shot landed high in the shallow head of the run and tumbled slowly along the bottom to the depth of the bend.  Rod horizontal, line tight, I bounced the flies past a submerged rock.  The line hesitated.  I swung for the sky.

    Warmth reclaimed my extremities.  Sweat sprouted from my forehead.  A rolling silver flash threatened to tear the long rod from my hands.  Moments later, an arm-length fish painted as a rose bush took to the dim sky, turning the page on the first chapter in the frozen mountains of southwest Virginia.□

*Originally published in the Rural Virginia

TRACKING: HUNTING AFTER THE SEASON IS OUT

Throughout my youth I regularly divulged in enrapturing trips, daydreams colored by the nostalgia- and adventure-soaked glossy pages of the classic Sports Afield and Field & Stream that appeared in my mailbox monthly.  Many of the faraway adventures highlighted in such publications outran the growing range of my mountain bike in my pre-driving years, namely the annually-published how-to’s and accounts of “big woods” whitetail tracking.  Benoit, the fabled, north-country whitetail tracker and writer routinely caught my jealousy, and inspired in me an appreciation for the industrious and fine art of tracking deer in the snow.

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    But I had little opportunity to hop aboard a plane and head for the “north country” wildernesses of the Adirondacks or Green Mountains at 10 years old, as neither my budget nor my attendance record at school would allow it.  Moreover, dependable winter blanketings are not typical of the general firearms season—they come later, in the height of the winter.  Still, as I have found time and time again, increased sporting opportunities present themselves when one is willing to trade in their gun for a camera and chase game after the season closes.

    My chance came some six or seven years ago in the event of a first heavy snow, arriving sometime around mid-January.  Throughout the deer season, for fun, I had been maintaining a trail camera on a vacant woodlot adjacent to our subdivision home and capturing images of some resident whitetails.

    The light in my head clicked as I checked the images on the camera the morning after a snowfall of almost 12 inches.  The same bucks were moving, frantically, early in the night, before the snow, and continued to trigger the camera as inches accumulated.

    The next morning, determined to find tracks from the bucks, I ventured out into the cold, high-stepping, with my Nikon in hand.

    The site of the camera showed sign of tracks, though merely a string of indentations filled in by the fresh powder.  Following them, as they weaved in and out of successional pines and shrubs, I quickly came upon what looked to be a fresh bed—an ovular patch of wet leaves and melted snow beneath a small leaning pine.  The tracks redirected at the bed and continued on—this time more defined in shape and devoid of fresh powder. 

    Mental images taken from the pages of my magazines and books, allusions to the “north country” fantasy I had by then begun to entertain, filled my mind and excited my pulse.

    Now as I approached the bed and the exiting track, I could see the trail shoot off into the more open grove of the vacant woodlot deliberately, rarely straying from a straight course.  As I followed it, I could tell by the cleanness of the tracks and the depth of the snow (and the difficulty I was having walking in it) that the animal could not be too far ahead, but scanning the scene one, two, and three times presented no glimpses of my unknown quarry.

    Taking care not to step on the tracks should I have to retrace my steps, I continued on to the edge of the open woodlands, where thicker brush met the hardwoods in a creekbottom.  Immediately inside the thicker cover, the track began to meander around logjams, under deadfalls, through thickets.  

    Luckily, I had the presence of mind to recognize what had occurred in the snow mere moments before.

    Aware of the storm rolling in through the night, the deer took cover in the pines behind the house.  The frantic escape from its bed was likely the result of the presence of danger, which inspired the animal to flee the thicket, dash through the open cover, and look for cover in the creekbottom.

    As I comprised this replay in my mind, I stood still, staring off into landscape, oblivious.  Totally unbeknownst to me, my target sat in hiding mere feet away from my position and, sensing my hesitation and believing her cover compromised, dashed from cover and trotted into an open field adjacent to the creekbottom. 

    My reflexes flinched and my camera was raised and the shutter pressed.  The shot I captured was less than perfect, though I was ecstatic to realize that had I been probing the wilderness of northern Vermont in the height of deer season, my actions may very well have earned me a deer and the accomplishment of downing my first snow-tracked whitetail.  Ever since, when the air turns cold and the landscape white, and deer season in long gone, I push myself through the doldrums of winter replaying that north-country fantasy.□

A WINTER MORNING ON A BLUE LINE

When it comes to winter freestone trout fishing, I typically grant myself the extra few hours to sleep in and hit the water sometime around noon to fish the part of the day when the sun is highest in the sky.  Specifically during a particularly cold period, this takes advantage of maximum water temperatures which, in theory, provides more active fish.

An average brook trout from a Blue Ridge Mountain stream.
Photo by Matt Reilly.

    However, my general attitude towards fishing is to do it as often as possible, whenever possible, and with a lunch appointment set for 12:30, I didn't even have to think about what I was going to do with my morning.  I was on the road pointed towards the Blue Ridge before sunrise.

    Sunrise was more of a number on the solunar table than a solar event.  Heavy cloud cover held the world in visible gray well into the morning hours.

    I parked the car shortly after 8:00 AM, rigged up my 7'6" 3-wt., and hit the trail.

    I began fishing after a two-mile hike into the Shenandoah National Park.  Heavy flows and cold winter water temperatures in the Park stream called for a heavy fly--something that wouldn't be swept by the current too quickly for the lethargic brookies, and that would reach the desired depth in some of the deeper holes.  A black CK Nymph, a creation of Cville local, Chuck Kraft, self-tied to have a larger profile and heavier weight fit the bill.

    Over the course of the next two hours, about 25 averagely-sized brook trout fell victim to the black "death ray," adjusted with split shot when needed.

    A quick glance at my watch initiated the longest cross-country wader-dash I have endured to this day, but I made it back to the car with almost enough time to make it to lunch on time!

    Reflecting, there is never a wrong or bad time to go fishing--you may be surprised by your experiences!□

LATE WINTER BRINGS GREAT BASS FISHING

        Cabin fever sets up its final blow.  It’s been cold, snowy, dreary, for two months.  The fisherman that holds the reins in my brain is facing impending implosion, when, for a brief spell, the clouds lift.  30s turn into 60s, and the resulting breeze turns the air crisp and comfortable.  It seems as if spring is right around the corner, and, to those residents of the underwater world, that means calorie-packing for the approaching spawn.  This spells good fortune for my fish-craving psyche.

        Every year the same pattern is repeated.  A warm snap in the third or fourth week in February signals a seasonal change for bass and other spring-spawning fish as the water temperature begins climbing towards 60 degrees.  With every day of warm weather, they are reassured that the spawn is indeed approaching; and they take their staging positions on ledges with access to deeper water adjacent to flats and shallow coves.

        The fish know they must eat.  Spawning rites expend valuable energy—energy fish don’t have after three months of winter lethargy.  Their posterity depends on a ravenous diet.  This makes late winter one of the best times to catch a big largemouth.

        At first, I found taking advantage of this pattern easy—accidental.  When the air turns warm in February, I know I have to fish.  After a winter of tough, intermittent fishing opportunities, my sanity depends on it.

        This seasonal event is the beginning of the bass fishing season, and, likewise, spring, on my calendar.  Every year that date finds me on the banks of my favorite farm pond.

        Cumulous clouds billow in an evening sky that keeps me cool as it flows through the open windows of the truck, bumping over a long dirt road in rural Fluvanna County.  The pond shimmers when it comes into view, as a slight breeze blows from the west, against a shallow point where grass mats in the summer.  Wind traps small aquatic shrimp and plankton in the emerging grass, which attracts baitfish and, in turn, predator fish.  An abundance of food makes this staging ground perfect for the fish and a hot spot for my fishing efforts.

        I make a point of bringing someone along on such occasions, to prove to them that the largemouth’s year begins in late February, soon after “ice out.”  My brother, Phillip, was my subject this year.

        In less than 20 minutes of fishing, the first fish had revealed itself.  Phillip tossed a small swimbait to a submerged log.  In short order, the water erupted with the mouth of an oversized bass.  With a violent headshake, the fish freed himself of the hook and left my brother expressionless and convinced on the grassy bank—the bite was on.

        Without hesitation, I pitched a soft plastic finesse worm tight to the log, in settling ripples.  Tick, tick.  A sweep of my spinning rod brought the lakebottom to life.  After a short, lively fight, I lipped a feisty largemouth and lifted him from the water.  Spring had sprung.

        We continued fishing the banks of coves three to six feet deep, each of us landing several fish.

        The breeze ceased as we approached the shallow point that’s choked with grass in warmer months.  From past experience, I knew where several submerged stumps speckle the periphery of the grassbed.  I placed a cast far out along the edge and began a slow retrieve.

        I crawled my lure over a stump and let it flutter down to the lakebottom, but it was intercepted on its descent.  As my line trailed out into the water, I set the hook with a sweep and grunted at the power returned from the end of the line.  A hefty fish boiled in the shallow water, surged for deeper water, then headed for the surface.  I kneeled and exerted downward pressure on the fish.  His head wouldn’t break the surface if I could help it.  He surged right.  I steered his head left.  Throwing the fish off balance, I gained line to the reel, and Phillip landed a thumb in his mouth.

        We traded.  I got the fish, Phillip got the rod.  A camera caught my “grip and grin;” and I lowered the first big fish of the year to the water.

        Many will leave their hats hung and their rods unstrung, claiming that bass fishing is a sport for warm spring days and summer evenings.  Late winter can be one of the most productive times of the year to target big bass.  But this time of year, timing is everything.

Originally published in The Rural Virginian

NEVER TOO COLD TO FISH

        I’m cold, wet, and tired; and I’m staring at the younger end of a day’s fishing trip.

 

        In a stumble at the truck, while fitting my wading boots to my feet layered double with wool socks, I planted my bare hands firmly on the icy ground, priming them early for the cruel wind flowing through the trees in the hollow.  Most would say it’s too cold to fish.

        Wading through a slow stretch of river to reach the trailhead is more than most would even consider on a day forecast to remain in a frozen dormancy.  Waders, two layers of Under Armour, gloves, a wool buff, and a waterproof shell grant me courage, and my body begins to regain warmth.  I knock the last trace of chill from my blood with hands tightly clasped around a coffee-filled thermos, with life-saving, heat-retaining qualities.  I drink slowly, and return it tenderly to my pack.

        The cold discovers another way to cling to my body and make its presence known.  The absorbent soles of my felt-soled wading boots collect water and cohere and freeze to the snow beneath my feet.  40 yards into the trek up the mountain, I’m trudging with 4-inch platforms, and the amount of fresh snow is increasing with elevation.

        Now, I’m not naïve.  I’ve fished long enough to judge by weather patterns and forecasts when fishing is less than ideal.  Though I have enjoyed bitterly-cold winter days when catch numbers came in double digits, that is not the norm, nor is it an easy accomplishment.  I am, however, human—one with needs.  And although my sanity is often questioned by concerned friends and family, sometimes I just need to go fishing.  My goal is typically to catch a single fish, to prove it’s possible, if only because the same people who question my desire to subject myself to wind, ice, snow, and cold meet me at the door on my return.   “Did you catch anything,” they ask, with a slim grin.  It’s a cruel game—one I do not like to lose.

        I laugh when the trail grants me the first observation of the water I’m after.  My brother lumbers up beside me, smashing the ice from his soles on a rock.  The tails of the slow, deep holes where I would expect to find feeding fish are all frozen, generously—almost a foot of ice covers some pools, enough to walk on and fish the main runs, at least.

        Winter fishing in small mountain streams is a game of pick-and-choose; and with clear water being the norm, careful casting is a must.  Deep pools are often times supplemented with direct spring water, keeping water temperatures at a stable 40-45 degrees along the river bottom, which is more favorable than the freezing water in skinny riffles influence by air temperatures. 

        We walk the trail, studying pools with a watchful eye and descending into the riverbed when an opportunity arises.  My brother sees a fish; I lose one.  We move on.

        Late in the afternoon, as the air temperature begins to drop noticeably, the trail leads us to a large, deep plunge pool cutting through the mountain’s bedrock.  I estimate it to reach around 16 feet, and its diameter exceeds that of a moderate-sized above ground swimming pool.

        Running a weighted fly deep along the bottom, under floating ice pods, I quickly tie into a first fish—an average-sized rainbow trout.  Several more similar presentations dredge up three more of equal size.

        The sun finally won the battle with the clouds just an hour before it was scheduled to set, bringing with it warmth.  After the last fish, we turned back down the mountain, knocking snow from our boots and drinking hot coffee from our cups, cheerfully.  For a day to begin wind-swept and bitter, I am content to make the return hike in 35 degrees, knowing the cold could not stand in the way of a few fish and a good time.□

Originally published in the Rural Virginian

DRESSING FOR A WINTER WADE

      Before this year, I had never owned a pair of waders.

It’s not that I didn’t want a pair, but that I was warned that the money I would spend would quickly be rendered worthless by my growing feet.  This Christmas though, my parents found it in their hearts to help extend my fishing season by granting me a pair of chest waders and boots.  Naturally, the first thing I wanted to do was field test them.  So come New Year’s Day, braving 40-degree water temperatures and forecasts of rain and sleet, my brother and I packed up the fishing gear and headed for the river; but what was I to wear under them?  After some quick research, here’s what I found.

Feet

      Cold feet are not fun, period.  As a general rule, don’t wear cotton anything.  Under a pair of heavy wool socks and the neoprene booties attached to your waders, feet tend to sweat; and the natural, water-logging quality of fibrous cotton will do its best to make your feet feel damp and uncomfortable in such a situation, cutting your cold-weather outing surprisingly short.  To combat this, invest in a pair of synthetic, wicking socks to use as a liner.  Your heavy wool socks should cover these as insulation.

      Making sure your feet are well taken care of is essential, but over-dressing them can present certain hazards.  If several layers of socks prevent your wading boots from fitting, if they’re too snug or tight, you risk losing circulation in your feet, in which case they will get cold and possibly injured regardless.  If your boots are too tight with the aforementioned layers of socks, they are too small.

Legs

      Waders offer your legs less protection than they do to your feet.  Again, a moisture-wicking base layer is a key detail.  On top of this should go a mid-weight layer for insulation.  Consider sweatpants, fleece, or jeans depending on the temperature.

Body

      The same rules should be followed when dressing your upper body as with dressing your feet and legs—moisture-removing base and multiple insulating layers depending on temperature.

I do recommend wearing a jacket—a wading jacket, rain coat, or anything with a water-resistant outer shell—to prevent your arms from getting wet.  The first time I fished in waders in cold water, I wore a fleece jacket as my outer layer.  As I ventured into deeper water, my elbows occasionally got wet when reaching for my fly line and net, quickly chilling them. 

      As an aside, provided your waders have a waist belt, tightening it and wearing a water-resistant shell will partially spare your feet, lower body, and upper body in the event of an icy dunk.

Hands

      My hands got wet too.  I brought gloves, but left them in the car—a bad mistake.  Cold hands, bare hands, can make a person miserable if it’s cold enough, and should be avoided.  Even if you don’t plan on getting your hands wet, cover them with a pair of gloves that don’t restrict your fishing capabilities.  Mine are a pair of fingerless fleece gloves from White River Fly Shop, and, in very cold weather, I wear a thinner pair from Under Armour under them.

Head

      Your head is outlet of much of your body’s heat, and should be given special consideration when dressing.  In situations when the air and water both read in the mid-40s or higher, this may simply mean wearing your everyday felt or cotton hat.  Other days, when the air is colder and dry, a stocking hat will serve you well.  However, when the sky is, or may, spit precipitation, a hat with an outer layer of nylon, canvas, polyester, or a waxed or oiled material that will not become waterlogged is essential.  Take these things into consideration when choosing headwear.

      In the end, be prepared.  The Boy Scout motto says it well.  Never rule out the possibility of a wintry dunk—always pack extra clothes.  Apply common knowledge and sense while dressing for a winter wading trip, and you should be plenty warm enough to be comfortable, warm, and thoroughly enjoy your adventure afield.□

*Originally published in The Rural Virginian