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

MOTHER NATURE STRIKES AGAIN...

    After a long week at work/school, there's only one thing on your mind.  

An early retirement on Friday night is the perfect setup for an early morning the next day.  The weekend is forecasted to resemble Spring Break in Eden--70 degrees, sunny, a slight breeze to rustle the leaves.

    But it's summer.  It rained all day Friday, all over the state, and all the rivers resemble the "Chocolate Mudslide" at your local creamery.  Typical.

    I guess it's time to hit the stillwaters!

TYING THE GRANDE RETRIEVER

The Grande Retriever and  smallie.
Photo by Matthew Reilly

    Two to three months following the bass spawn, fry in lakes and rivers are growing past the one-inch mark, towards maturity.  This means that baitfish-imitating streamers are good starting points for fishermen looking to “match the hatch.”

    Unfortunately, Mother Nature has left area rivers high and muddy, with little respite, since mid-June, making smallmouth fishing like salmon fishing in Yemen. 

    In periods of dirty water, so concludes a Michigan study, smallmouth feed more often on crayfish, as opposed to baitfish, primarily because when visibility is limited, they can relate to the riverbed that crayfish rest on.

    However, as waters begin to run clearer, as they are now, but still retain some suspended silt, baitfish patterns again become effective.  Increasing a fly’s visibility in this situation can be done with a large profile and some flash.  This gave me a great opportunity to field test a pattern I’ve been working with.

    Inspired by Jim Finn’s Golden Retriever, this fly utilizes flash and a colored underbody for added allure.  Jim Finn’s fly is a local favorite for trout, bass, and panfish, but I found myself looking for a larger profile that wouldn’t get lost in stained water, and that would be more appealing to calorie-burning summer-time lunkers.  Ultra chenille and “grande,” as opposed to medium, estaz enables this.  Here’s how to tie it as I do.

Materials.  Photo by Matthew
Reilly

Materials:            Mustad C52S BLN, Size 2 stinger hook

                           .025 lead wire

                           White flat waxed nylon thread

                           White marabou

                           Wine ultra chenille

                           white grande opalescent estaz

                           ¼” hologram Mirage Eyes

                           Super glue or head cement

1.       Secure the hook in the vise and make 20-25 turns of wire between the hook point and the eye, leaving enough space for a head and tail.

2.       Start the thread behind the wire.  Wrap sparsely over wire turns to lock in place, and return to the bend of the hook.

3.       Create a thread dam just behind the wire, tapering towards the bend of the hook.

4.       Tie in 1 or 2 marabou feathers for the tail  on the bend, and clip the tag so that the securing thread wraps create a body uniform in thickness.  Trim the tail so that the fibers are a constant length, which I feel creates a more lifelike tail and makes the fly track better.

5.       Secure a length of estaz at the back of the hook, making sure the natural slant of the fibers point backwards.  Then tie on a length of ultra chenille.  Run the thread to the eye of the hook.

6.       Wrap the ultra chenille forward in touching wraps, stopping with space for a head.  Secure the end, and trim the tag.

7.       Place a wrap of estaz behind the butt of the chenille body.  Going forward, place several more even wraps in between wraps of the ultra chenille, stroking the material backwards to minimize trapped fibers.  Finish off with multiple wraps at the head.  Tie off, and trim the tag.

8.       Fashion a tight head, whip finish, clip the thread, and add a drop of head cement.

9.       To finish the fly, select a pair of Mirage Eyes, place a drop of super glue on the back and on the body of the fly, and glue to the appropriate location on the estaz body.

The Finished Product.  Photo by Matthew
Reilly.

    This fly is still being proven, but has caught a few smallmouth I would consider to be trophies of 12 inches or bigger.

    I use wine as the color for the underbody because it accompanies the greens, blues, and whites of the pearl-colored estaz well, and is suggestive of the herring fry that inhabit our state’s rivers.

    When super-gluing the eyes on, I make backward strokes with superglue on the body to strengthen and flatten it, reinforcing the baitfish profile.  This also makes gluing the eyes easier, and makes for a fly with a surprising amount of buoyancy for its weight.

    Variations can be made with different colored chenilles, estazes, and marabous; trading stick-on eyes for a bead head; and excluding the wire wraps for a weightless fly.

    As Dave Hughes says, fly tying is the other half of fly fishing.  This definition encourages improvisation and variation.  So this summer, in between trips or when Mother Nature rains down on your favorite fishing spot, spend some creative time at the bench working on a fly to produce on your home water.

Originally published in the Rural Virginian

HEAVEN AND HIGH WATER

    It was quite an experience sitting on Florida’s Gulf coast as a tropical storm delivered inch after inch of inundating rain.  When I returned home, the effects of the same system were tailing out, but the rain continued.

    Thus, when making fishing plans for the weekend, options were limited.  As I motored over the Rivanna River, its chocolaty-orange lifeblood running several feet high ruled the smallmouth haunts out.  My mind wandered to trout.

    One of the beautiful characteristics of freestone mountain streams is their ability to filter water, offering fishability even after heavy rains.

    Noted especially for its angling quality following torrential weather is the St. Mary’s River.  And so preparations began.

    I made the return trip from a family function early Saturday morning, with the windows down, enjoying the cool, cloudless weather.  Even the truck’s dash thermometer read 78 degrees—a cool spell by Virginia’s trending temperatures.

    My brother was waiting for me at home; and I unpacked and repacked as quickly as possible.

Having no idea what to expect, we left the house with packs complete with medical supplies; food, water, and bug dope; camera; GPS; and, of course, fishing gear.

    An hour on the highway dropped us into the small town of Greenville.

    The St. Mary’s River traverses a wilderness area by the same name.  At 10,090 acres, surrounded by the George Washington National Forest, it would seem that those undertaking the challenges offered by the Saint Mary’s Wilderness would be few.  Contrarily, the wilderness attracts many hikers and swimmers, many claim, because of pristine waters and waterfalls, and the delicacy hinted at through its name.

    But these wilderness-goers often remain within a short distance of their vehicles, and a little sweat and a few brier cuts will separate the adventurous from the cliff-dwelling canonballers.

Photo by Phillip Morone

    The St. Mary’s Falls trail is fairly well maintained, but meanders across the river occasionally.  If begin wondering whether you’re actually on the trail, retrace your steps and look for more obvious routes.  

    Because of the heavy traffic below the falls, there are several worn-down “shortcuts,” which may become seriously dangerous in an instant.

    Upon surpassing the mass, we rigged our rods— my brother with a beetle, and I with a cricket pattern.

With packs shouldered and rods rigged, we were faced with a gorgeous stream—pristine and pure as its name.  White frothing torrents poured unrestrained from the head into the heart of each pocket, carving a deep bowl and scattering oxygen bubbles like tiny shards of broken glass down into the turquoise depths.

   

Photo By Phillip Morone

Such waters, when stumbled upon, make the heart flutter; and the first contact with the dazzling fish of green and orange and white that is the native brook trout is a humbling experience each and every time.

The both of us experienced that excitement within the first pool.  For my brother, Phillip, it was his first—the first of many.

    Leapfrogging each other in the normal fashion, we continued catching brookies in almost every run, riffle, and pool.

    For sport, I swapped my terrestrial for a dry fly.

    The largest fish were always five to six inches, until I got a wave from Phillip upstream, who had just plucked a “three-incher” from a run, spooking a larger specimen downstream.

    With a searching drift, my fly rose the fish from a shallow riffle, and I brought the “9” (inches) to hand.

After taking that fish and several others of slightly smaller size from similar water, my attention turned to smaller pockets. 

    The next bend in the river revealed a chain of riffles, and after studying them for a few minutes my eyes landed on a bobbing, dun-colored nose.  After sipping at the surface, the flaming, white-tipped fins returned to the pebbly bottom, only to bounce and carry the nose skyward for a meal.

A beautiful mountain brookie from a beautiful mountain
brook.  Photo by Phillip Morone.

    Guiding my fly carefully on course, I solicited another rise, only to strike too early, and spook the trout for good.  Such is the nature of trout fishing.

    Soon the pocket water tapered out and gave way to shallow riffles.  The canopy receded and gave way to lowland flora.  Friendly waxwings flitted playfully about.

    More fish were caught, and we had many chances ahead, further up the mountain.  But the sun was beginning to sink past the canyon’s surrounding peaks, and, as we were unfamiliar with the hike, we turned back in the interest of safety.

    After reveling in its bounty only once, the St. Mary’s Wilderness revealed itself to me as a place worthy of protection.  I would urge all who fish its waters to return anything caught, and to leave no trace.  What enjoyment, and creatures, we reap from the environment is a renewable resource as long as we remain responsible stewards of the wilderness.

Originally Published in the Rural Virginian