BIG FISH, SMALL WATERS--OUR TOP 10

    When the temperatures rise, the cold winds of March subside, and the warm April showers fill the air and waters with inklings of summer, the fishing in Virginia takes off.  The Old Dominion’s many small lakes and ponds can provide quality fishing in the spring months.  Here are just ten destinations that should be on every fisherman’s calendar this month.

Lake Robertson

    Contained by the Blue Ridge’s rocky skeleton, Rockbridge County’s 30-acre Lake Robertson is an overlooked place to catch big fish.

    Beaver huts, hinge-cut trees, and large emerging weed beds provide ample structure for spawning bass; and, coupled with the crystal clear water, suggest a great place to sight fish for one of the many 10-pounders.  Walleye also cruise Lake Robertson, and fish are caught up to seven pounds annually.

    Redear sunfish are particularly active on Lake Robertson later this month, and can provide exciting fishing on light tackle.  Leave a worm or nymph imitation motionless on the shallow bottom to produce strikes from the scrappy bottom feeders.

    The lake also sports good populations of bluegill and channel catfish.

    Gas motors are prohibited; but a concrete boat ramp and boat rentals make this gem an accommodating destination for anyone.

Lake Burke

    Located in Burke Lake Park in busy Fairfax County, 218-acre Lake Burke is one of the most fished lakes in the state.  This threat is met by a strict management practice to ensure the health of the fishery for years to come.

    Lake Burke is known for its largemouth bass fishing; but musky, walleye, bluegill, crappie, yellow and white perch, and blue and channel Catfish all fin the lake.

    No gasoline motors are allowed.

Lake Frederick

    With or without a boat, Lake Frederick of Frederick County can provide some great fishing.

    Its 117 acres are filled with standing timber, which hide a multitude of species.  Largemouth bass, bluegill, black crappie, channel catfish, walleye, and the occasional pike can all be caught from the bank of Lake Frederick.

    Gasoline motors are prohibited, but if you own a boat with an electric motor, cast to standing timber for one of the 10-pound largemouth that gave the lake its reputation as the best bass fishery in the Shenandoah Valley.

Harrison Lake

    If you’re looking for a peaceful place to fish or paddle, Harrison Lake in Charles City County might be your next trip.  At 82 acres, Harrison Lake is the epitome of larger tidewater fisheries like the Chickahominy River.

    The usual tidal customers occupy the lake, including chain pickerel, warmouth, bluegill and redear sunfish, flier, bullhead, bowfin, crappie, and largemouth bass.  While the lake is not known for trophy sized fish, its inhabitants are known for the sport which they are able to provide. 

    A boat ramp and piers for the handicap or bank fisherman provide access to the lake.

Germantown Lake

    100-acre Germantown Lake is located in Fauquier County’s Crockett Park.

The small lake is known for its thick population of trophy largemouth; and produces several fish a year approaching 10 pounds.

    Germantown also supports the traditional southern mixed-bag of bluegill, crappie, and channel catfish.

    Gas motors are prohibited; but the park provides boat and motor rentals; bait and food sales; and a fishing pier to the prospective angler.

Skidmore Reservoir

    A big part of spring in Virginia is trout fishing—and Skidmore Reservoir offers just that.  The 120-acre, Harrisonburg impoundment is a put-and grow fishery, and therefore offers opportunities for excellent brook trout fishing year round.  Brook trout reach three pounds in the reservoir as a result of good management.

    Fisheries biologists have recently noted an emerging pike fishery within the lake.  These toothy fish spawn in April, and can be caught in the shallows on spoons.

    Skidmore also boasts a host of warm water species such as largemouth and rock bass, crappie, bluegill, and bullhead.

    Gas motors are not permitted on the lake.

Lake Conner

    Located in beautiful Southside Virginia, Lake Conner has a reputation that far exceeds its size.  The small 100-acre lake is renowned for producing the Virginia state record largemouth bass; and its other qualities can be easily overlooked.

    Lake Conner does feature a thick trophy bass fishery; but also yields citation-sized redear sunfish regularly.

    Gas motors are prohibited, but an electric motor can be used to chase crappie, bluegill, yellow perch, chain pickerel, or bullhead.

Hungry Mother Lake

    Hungry Mother Lake is a very diverse and unique lake.

    The walleye fishing here takes off this month, with night fishing yielding the best results.

    Trophy musky are taken from the lake annually as well—some reaching sizes of 48 inches and beyond. 

    Largemouth, smallmouth, spotted, and rock bass all inhabit the lake, as well as crappie, channel catfish, and sunfish.

    Gas motors are prohibited.

    Located in Hungry Mother State Park, camping is permitted and boat rentals are available.  A minimal fee is required to gain access to the lake; but the promise of great fishing is well worth the charge.

Lake Orange

    Spring wouldn’t be spring without crappie fishing.  Papermouths are in very good condition in Lake Orange, and offer good sport on light tackle.

    The largemouth bass population is just as successful, and the lake has produced 11-12-pound fish.

Lake Orange’s walleye fishery also deserves attention.  Walleye are stocked yearly, and anglers have a fair chance to catch 4-5-pound fish.

    Sunfish, channel catfish, northern pike, chain pickerel, yellow and white perch, and warmouth provide a further mix of species to the lake.

    Gas motors are prohibited; but boats can be rented, concessions are available, and a pier and a boat ramp provide access to some outstanding fishing.

Little Creek Reservoir

    A small lake in Southeastern Virginia, Little Creek Reservoir offers quality fishing for the tidal species:  largemouth and striped bass, crappie, chain pickerel, yellow perch, sunfish, blue catfish, and even walleye.

    Little Creek is a relatively deep lake containing little structure.  Most fishing is done along points and drop-offs, but in the spring, surprising crappie and perch fishing can be found in the shallows.

    It is worth noting that gas motors and bank fishing are prohibited.

Lake Shenandoah

    At 36 acres, Rockingham’s Lake Shenandoah is the second smallest on our list; and with an average depth of three feet, certainly ranks first in volume.

    What makes this lake special is its musky fishing.  Most other species in the lake are of small size; but the musky thrive in the small impoundment on stunted bluegill.  The toothy critters spawn in April, so catch them on spoons and big spinners near the grass.

    Gas motors are prohibited because of the lake’s size.

    Biologists are currently pondering a renovation of the lake, so have your chance at a trophy musky before it’s gone! 

    While Virginia boasts many large fish-producing impoundments, the smaller waters often get overlooked, and can provide the angler with an equal chance of landing their trophy.  This list is only a small selection of such waters.  So do some research, and enjoy the spring season!

VIRGINIA'S SMALL WATER GEMS

Photo by Matt Reilly

    When the temperatures rise, the cold winds of March subside, and the warm April showers fill the air and waters with inklings of summer, the fishing in Virginia takes off.  

The Old Dominion’s many small lakes and ponds can provide quality fishing in the spring months.  Here are just 10 destinations that should be on every fisherman’s calendar this month.

Lake Robertson

   

    Contained by the Blue Ridge’s rocky skeleton, Rockbridge County’s 30-acre Lake Robertson is an overlooked place to catch big fish.

    Beaver huts, hinge-cut trees, and large emerging weed beds provide ample structure for spawning bass; and, coupled with the crystal clear water, suggest a great place to sight fish for one of the many 10-pounders. 

Photo by Matt Reilly

    Walleye also cruise Lake Robertson, and fish are caught up to seven pounds annually.

    Redear Sunfish are particularly active on Lake Robertson later this month.  Leave an insect imitation

motionless on the lake bottom for a scrappy fight from one of these bottom feeding customers.

    The lake also sports good populations of Bluegill and Channel Catfish.

    Gas motors are prohibited; but a concrete boat ramp and boat rentals make this gem an accommodating destination for anyone.

Lake Burke

    Located in Burke Lake Park in busy Fairfax County, 218-acre Lake Burke is one of the most fished lakes in the state.  This threat is met by a strict management practice to ensure the health of the fishery for years to come.

    Lake Burke is known for its Largemouth Bass fishing; but Musky, Walleye, Bluegill, Crappie, Yellow and White Perch, and Blue and Channel Catfish all fin the lake.

    No gasoline motors are allowed.

Lake Frederick

    With or without a boat, Lake Frederick of Frederick County can provide some great fishing.

    Its 117 acres are filled with standing timber, which hides a multitude of species.  Largemouth Bass, Bluegill, Black Crappie, Channel Catfish, Walleye, and the occasional Pike can all be caught from the bank of Lake Frederick.

    Gasoline motors are prohibited, but if you own a boat with an electric motor, cast to standing timber for one of the 10-pound Largemouth that gave the lake its reputation as the best bass fishery in the Shenandoah Valley.

Harrison Lake

    If you’re looking for a peaceful place to fish or paddle, Harrison Lake in Charles City County might be your next trip.  At 82 acres, Harrison Lake is the epitome of larger tidewater fisheries like Chickahominy Lake.

Photo by Matt Reilly

    The usual tidal customers occupy the lake, including Chain Pickerel, Warmouth, Bluegill and Redear Sunfish, Flier, Bullhead, Bowfin, Crappie, and Largemouth Bass.  While the lake is not known for trophy sized fish, its inhabitants are known for the sport they provide. 

    A boat ramp and piers for the handicap or bank fishermen provide access to the lake.

Germantown Lake

    100-acre Germantown Lake is located in Fauquier County’s Crockett Park.

    The small lake is known for its thick population of trophy Largemouth; and produces several fish a year approaching 10 pounds.

    Germantown also supports the traditional southern mixed bag of Bluegill, Crappie, and Channel Catfish.

    Gas motors are prohibited; but the park provides boat rentals and a fishing pier.

Skidmore Reservoir

    A big part of spring in Virginia is trout fishing—Skidmore Reservoir offers just that.  The 120-acre, Harrisonburg impoundment is a put-and-grow fishery, and therefore, offers opportunities for excellent Brook Trout fishing year round.  Brook Trout reach three pounds in the reservoir as a result of good management.

    Fisheries biologists have recently noted an emerging pike fishery within the lake.  These toothy fish spawn in April, and can be caught shallow on spoons.

    Skidmore also boasts a host of warm water species such as Largemouth and Rock Bass, Crappie, Bluegill, and Bullhead.

    Gas motors are not permitted on the lake.

Hungry Mother Lake

    Hungry Mother Lake is a very diverse and unique lake.

    The Walleye fishing here takes off this month, with night fishing yielding the best results.

    Trophy Musky are taken from the lake annually as well—some reaching 48 inches and beyond. 

    Largemouth, Smallmouth, Spotted, and Rock bass all inhabit the lake, as well as Crappie, Channel Catfish, and Sunfish.

    Gas motors are prohibited.

    Located in Hungry Mother State Park, camping is permitted and boat rentals are available.  A minimal fee is required to gain access to the lake; but the promise of great fishing is well worth the charge.

Lake Orange

    Spring wouldn’t be spring without Crappie fishing.  Papermouths are in very good condition in Lake Orange, and offer good sport on light tackle.

    The Largemouth Bass population is just as successful, and the lake has produced 11-12 pound fish.

Lake Orange’s Walleye fishery also deserves attention.  Walleye are stocked yearly, and anglers have a fair chance to catch 4-5 pound fish.

    Sunfish, Channel Catfish, Northern Pike, Chain Pickerel, Yellow and White Perch, and Warmouth provide a further mix of species to the lake.

    Gas motors are prohibited; but boat rentals are available, and a pier provides access to some outstanding fishing.

Little Creek Reservoir

    A small lake in Southeastern Virginia, Little Creek Reservoir offers quality fishing for the tidal species:  Largemouth and Striped Bass, Crappie, Chain Pickerel, Yellow Perch, Sunfish, Blue Catfish, and even Walleye.

Photo by Matt Reilly

    Little Creek is a relatively deep lake containing little structure.  Most fishing is done along points and drop-offs, but in the spring, surprising Crappie and perch fishing can be found in the shallows.

    It is worth noting that gas motors and bank fishing are prohibited.

Lake Shenandoah

    At 36 acres, Rockingham’s Lake Shenandoah is the second smallest on our list.

    What makes this lake special is its Musky fishing.  Most other species in the lake are of small size; but the Musky thrive in the small impoundment on small Bluegill.  The toothy critters spawn in April, so catch them on spoons and big spinners near the grass.

    Gas motors are prohibited because of the lake’s size.

    Biologists are currently pondering a renovation of the lake, so have your chance at a trophy Musky before it’s gone!

Get it Before It’s Gone

    April can be a dynamite season for bass anglers.  With the first wave of spawners moving up onto beds and the water, subsequently, reaching prime temperatures, largemouth bass and our state’s other favorite fish species are reaching the apex of activity—and small bodies of water concentrate this action splendidly.  Get out before the summer heat sets in and land both size and numbers of fish.  And always, always, take pictures—and send them in!

First published in Woods & Waters Magazine

Born Too Late

                A few times in an angler’s life, one stumbles upon a gem—seemingly unspoiled and genuine—and when an unforgettable day’s fishing is coupled with this discovery, a deeper, personal relationship is formed with the water.  Its mystical qualities enable one to deflect life’s bullets instead of dodging them, ready to turn to the earth for sustenance, and leave behind what is unnecessary, in order to do what you feel you were born to do.  You’re left feeling empowered, peaceful and humbled.  This is who you are—you are a different person standing within Creation.  This rush soon runs out, when the river carries you back through the portal to your modern life full of violence and political correctness, and can be easily written off as adrenaline.  The feeling that ensues is one of longing and remorse; longing for a simpler time that wasn't complicated by modern culture, when the people made their living from the earth and went back to it when they were done.

                One such setting that holds this meaning to me is a dynamic river in Vermont’s north country.  This historic river called “The Clyde,” flows out of a pond in the northeast corner of the state, and flows lazily, meandering through the forests and ponds of the Northeast Kingdom, exploring the land in the broad river valley as if it likes what it sees and wants to stay.  After running through five ponds, and over two dams, the water finally makes its way to a vast lake with a name meaning “big water.”

                It is from this large, glacial lake that the largest salmon run on the east coast once began.  In the early nineteenth century, three times a year, Landlocked Salmon reaching twenty pounds or more would make runs upstream to feed on the eggs of suckers, who also ran the river, and to begin a new life cycle.  Walleye would also accompany the salmon on their runs in equal or greater numbers.  Dams constructed later, throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, soon blocked the annual movement of spawning fish.  Before long, sport fishing and salmon tournaments stripped the river of its greatest quality.

                In the days when the salmon still ran, after traveling fifteen miles against the mild current of their home river, the river’s resistance would ease; finding depth in a broad valley, and the scenery would change from that of a north woods salmon river, to that of a riverine bog.  It is this stretch that I too have a personal connection to.

Today, it is on this stretch that the passerby loses sight of roads, houses, plowed fields, and all other hints of human existence except for the ancient riverside cabins that can be found in the shadows of the birch trees on the banks of the river.  Completely in place, they are part of the river, one with the river as part of the long-standing equation that was the salmon run; but without the salmon they are vacant, only because of the very humans that once occupied them.  That passerby is me.

It was our last day in the place I call my home, and the last day for my father, my brother, and I to fish together.  We had several options, but after weighing them, we finally discounted a few local ponds and made the safe decision to paddle the beautiful Clyde—where we knew we could catch fish.  Full of energy and excitement, we poured out the front door on a mission.  After loading the aluminum canoe full of paddles, fishing rods and gear, and food, I assisted my father in sliding it into the covered bed of my grandfather’s Dodge pickup.  My father and brother would occupy the canoe.  So as they piled into the front seats of the truck, I stuffed my yellow kayak and paddle into the bed, and slid into the front seat as the ignition started and the green truck carried the three of us down the driveway.

Rolling down the mountain, I began thinking of my own personal quest and the challenges that awaited me on the river.  Naturally, I’d utilize this outing for both fishing and photography, and being alone in a kayak on a flowing river presents some issues.  These issues will need to be resolved if I want to protect my fish-catching reputation and keep up with my father and brother in the canoe—but I digress.

The red-orange fields backed by dark conifers and bold mountains reaching through the low-laying clouds remind me that my real objective for the afternoon is to have fun and enjoy my surroundings before setting off for home in the morning.  My first glimpse of flowing water reminds me of the sizable Brookie I landed on my last trip to the Clyde.

Something about the three of us being in the car together tosses weighty topics out the open window.  My father either begins singing, “making Neil Young look good,” or cracking cheesy jokes to entertain himself and I, like he’s been doing since he started taking me along squirrel hunting or trout fishing in the mountains of western Virginia when I was just old enough to walk.  My brother, relatively new to the events that take place in the truck, tries to make sense of it all, and tries to introduce more “sophisticated” topics.  One of these days, he will learn.

After arriving at our put-in the boats were launched with no hesitation.  The sky was cloudy, and the midday sun’s intensity was beginning to ease with the slightest breeze.  I was now on my own, and the fish would surely be feeding.

When the river finds width, I beach the stern of my craft on the pickerel weed covered, southern bank.  Sitting, straddling the kayak in shallow water, with no sign of human life in sight, ankle deep in water, and boating fish after strong fish, it’s hard to envision a time when this bounty of Yellow Perch would have meant so little.  Visions instilled in me by sporting stories written a hundred years back and further come to mind.  Rivers thick with fish; birds so plentiful, with their songs so diverse as to give you a headache; but no humans—these visions taunt me from the safety of my imagination.

I realize that settings such as these now offer a simulation of the world that exists in my imagination.  When light is shone on modern culture, the shallow shadow falls on the natural world, veiled and cheated by society.

With river water cooling my ankles, I myself feel cheated.  Staring out across the water and marsh grass, to the foot of the river’s mountain, I can’t help thinking about our precarious position.  The term “untouched wilderness” now comes with a side of disappointment, with the knowledge that these words are indeed just an empty promise.  Perhaps a more accurate term is “less touched wilderness.”

Off again, exploring the rich river.  As predicted I’m feeling empowered, yet humble.  The sun is setting, and I’m a mile from my put-in, but my mind is at ease.  The water of the Clyde River, now swirling below me, makes clear to me my mission.  The need to keep what is, to bring the world back where it came from, now fills me like the river water that saturates my pores.  

A North Woods Haunting

            As a fisherman, all my life I have been intrigued and haunted by waters.  And as far as my angling career has taken me, I have been haunted by fish lost.  A summer trip to Northern Vermont brought me home and my hopes up.  My yearning for trout in a mystic place made my most recent loss much more important.

My twelve-year- old brother and I were staying with our grandparents in their bed and breakfast cabin in Vermont’s Northeast Kingdom.  We had the whole month of July to adventure and fish at our own dispense—a dream of mine a long time coming.  While most of my days were occupied filling the seemingly endless woodshed, I was still left several hours each day to spend on the water.

            It is this time of year that the warm, summer air in Vermont brings about the swelling of blueberries, and it was to these tasty berries that the grandparents were devoting the latter half of their day to.  As for my brother and I, we grabbed our fishing gear and peddled our bikes down the road to the nearest glacial pond.  The sky was clear, and the temperature was in the seventies, and even though the trout probably wouldn’t be very active, the canoe seemed to be begging for use.

            My brother in the bow shoved the craft from the rocks on shore and I pointed us in the direction of the piece of shore near a small island we usually fished for Smallmouth and Yellow Perch.  Over the course of an hour, many scrappy smallmouth bent our rods.  We were hunting for table fare though, and were only keeping the tasty Yellow Perch.

We fished South, down the rocky bank, until we reached the shallow, rocky southern end of the pond, where we slid a few perch onto the stringer.  We hung around there for a while, fishing the flat thoroughly, adding still more smallmouth to the ranks of fish caught.

            It must have been past noon by this point, because the two of us were getting hungry.  So I pushed us off from the sandy shore the light, north breeze had pushed us onto, and pointed the bow of the canoe down the shoreline towards the camp where we tie up.

            As we emerged from the shallow south bay, and the rocky lake bottom slipped out of view, I wedged my medium weight rod in the canoe and opened the bail to try some trolling.  Finding the speed of the canoe too fast, I relieved my younger brother of his paddling duty, and towed the lure myself.  I had never caught a trout out of the pond, but I hoped to on my white Roadrunner on the way back to the camp.

            A few minutes passed—uneventful.  My brother broke the silence with a criticizing query.

“Do fish really swim out in the middle of the pond?”

As I attempted to answer his question, my lure lodged in something solid and the rod steadily started to bend.  I threw the canoe in reverse to retrieve my lure from the snag when the rod tip throbbed.  The events that followed were surreal.

            The initial throb of the rod tip wasn’t enough to convince me that anything in the pond was large enough to bend the medium rod double.  The first powerful surge brought me to my senses, and as I tried to guess what kind of fish I was tied into, ruled out every fish I knew to inhabit the pond.

In what seemed like hours, I got no view of the hefty fish.  The line headed for the surface, but I prevented the jump, intending to keep the hook in its mouth.  In another fit of rage, the fish bored down on the lake bottom, turned, and started to rise just as fast.  I thought to myself, “Here she comes.”

A half second later, a gray-green missile cleared the water by feet, showing just a narrow view of its flank and its snow white belly.  Adrenaline shot through my body as the long fish sliced back into the dark, clear water like a loon after a fish.

I put more pressure on the fish as he entered the water, pointing his head towards our craft, spinning helplessly at the mercy of the fish.  It was almost under the canoe now, and I realized that the size of the hook and the fact that I didn’t get a true hook-set put me in a position to land this fish as fast as possible.

With the fish just feet below me in the stern, tension was easing up on the rod, and I prepared myself, clearing space at my feet, to boat the magnificent creature.

My eyes probed the clear water beside me, hopeful and expecting as ever.  Just as I was making out a different texture in the water, my query turned and dug his nose down into the rocky bottom.

At this moment, the rod straightened abruptly, my spirit flattened, and the fish wiggled back into the unknown.  Just as the fight seemed to be a dream, the twirling Roadrunner returning to the surface from the unknown depths seemed to be a harsh reality.  A familiar feeling began to set in.

My mood soon rebounded, as my knees and hands began to tremble, and a smile replaced my gaping mouth.  I called to my brother in the bow, asking him to indicate on his paddle how long he took the fish to be.  Without hesitation, he lifted his paddle, with his hands glued in the paddling position, indicating the neck of the paddle.

“That’s what I thought,” I said, admiring my paddle.

I began to study my lure and line for signs of teeth, but none existed—not even chipped paint, or tearing on the plastic grub.  A soft-mouthed fish had engulfed the lure, and it was at this moment that I realized I had just lost the biggest trout of my life—a good thirty inches, maybe eight pounds.

We paddled back to camp in excited conversation.  The water that swirled around my paddle now carried an utterly different meaning.  Once again, my head swam with thoughts of my experience, and the dreams and attempts to reproduce the fish in the weeks that followed all seemed to push me towards the harsh realization that I may not get another chance at the fish I now wanted so badly.

“This is why.” I thought to myself, “This is why I’m here.”