BEFORE THE STORM

“I’m dropping out after today.”

    The declaration was one part joke, two parts intent, and escaped daily into a warm, bluebird sky from behind a bottom lip bit in collegiate compliance.

    Once you’ve invested years of tireless angling and observation, and compiled and analyzed a few thousand fish’s worth of fishing logs, you come to recognize Go-Time for what it is.

    It was Day Four of what was to be a week-long warming trend, and March’s winds were moving in response. Friday afternoon would see 75 degrees, and Saturday would bring a sharp cold snap—30 degrees and the possibility of snow. Local stream flows were double average from spring rains, and dropping slowly. In other words, it was Go-Time, and I knew it.

    With the looming reward of escaping to the mountains in search of big wild trout, I crammed my schoolwork into the dark hours, and shaved all unnecessary habits from my routine.

    Thursday afternoon found me speeding towards a Virginia mountain valley, eyes glancing nervously from the road towards the snaking creekbottom below. An eagle soared overhead—casting a shadow over the river’s course and the farm fields surrounding it in its lower reaches—it too content in the spring sun’s gaze.

    I found the water and realized a dream. Rivers—in their ideal state in my mind’s eye—run full and deep. From snow runoff, their runs and holes are highlighted an icy blue. Wonder and possibility are retained when the gravel of the streambed is not too visible. And so this river ran.

High spring water. Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Within these holes and runs and un-seeable gravel lots lies the year’s most promising opportunity to tangle with a big fish, for they find confidence in the slight discoloration, and large prey is disoriented in the chaos.

    Likewise, I tied on a large crayfish fly and worked my way upstream, methodically, keeping contact with the gravel and opportunity.

    Opportunity took me by surprise a few casts into the afternoon, when a sizeable brown snapped at my fly and released it in the same breath. An hour and a half later, opportunity returned with conviction, and ripped my fly into the undercut of a rock ledge. My Tycoon Tackle Scion throbbed under the pressure of a large flash, and a thick 24-inch wild rainbow initiated an adrenaline-soaked game of net tag downstream.

24-inch wild rainbow trout taken on a streamer in the mountains. Photo by Matt Reilly.

    Friday was a continuation in the weather trend, and the joke in my daily threat to abandon academic employment was further diluted with intent. The wind was raging harder; the sun, shining brighter. A storm was coming, and the front was shaping up to be a dramatic one.

    This time, I found the water slightly lower. The currents were calmer and the water clearer, though still rich with opportunity.

    Brown trout are homebodies, particularly in small mountain streams, and so I started the day with a hit list. Patiently, I placed my fly along the current seam of the first run, working my way upstream. 

    Redemption struck where she should have—in a pillow behind a large chunk rock in the streambed where she showed her face the day before—but held on, and rewarded me with 21 inches of wild butter-belly and shimmering bulls’ eyes.

About 20 inches of brown trout taken on a streamer in the mountains. Photo by Matt Reilly.

    It’s funny that fishermen yearn for redemption so avidly, and yet release her graciously once achieved. I was pondering this thought as I examined my tippet and discovered nicks that could cause me to lose another big fish, should I be so lucky. I retied.

    In the act of retying my fly, my focus shifted from my knot to the water in the background, captured by unexplained movement. My heart ricocheted about my chest, more than it would for any fish, when I quickly recognized the brown figure lumbering over the limestone streambed towards my wading boot as a hellbender salamander—18 inches of giant, beautifully adapted, rare salamander.

A hellbender salamander cruises the limestone streambed inches from my wading boot. Photo by Matt Reilly.

    With shaking hands, I reached for my backpack’s side pocket and squeezed my eyes tight in thankfulness for having remembered my waterproof camera. A few moments interacting with, and studying the awesome intricacies of the animal left my spirit enriched.

    God must have been smiling on me and rewarded my responsible stewardship, when granted redemption in that large wild brown trout, with more blessings; for the afternoon ran on, and more wild trout came to hand—approximately 40, with most being larger than 12 inches. The term “golden light” comes to mind—that moment of perfect elemental combination that results in a truly magnificent circumstance, as recognized by photographers and outdoorsmen, alike.

Photos by Matt Reilly.

    As I write this, the weather has turned stable; the water, low. I’ve hardly threatened to abandon my studies for the river, and my nighttime motivation has shrunken. The conditions are not prime for my mind to wander, but they will be again.□

    

*Originally published in the Rural Virginian            

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

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.□