MONSTER POOL

As I wound my way through Pennsylvania’s Grand Canyon, traffic slowed to a stop. 

Photo by Matt Reilly.

    The Northern Tier is a mostly rural landscape, similar to that of the Shenandoah Valley--traffic is relatively non-existent.  Corn fields and dairy cows cover the rolling countryside in a studded patchwork falling off the slopes of the Appalachian Mountains.  At the center you’ll find the Pine Creek Valley, the artery which carves the mountain gorge that earned the area the Grand Canyon likeness.  At the heart of that valley you’ll find a beautiful freestone creek, finned by the speckled forms of shouldered brown trout.

    When I came to a halt in the line of cars strung along the single road that follows the creek through the mountains, the obstacle became apparent.  Despite a bluebird sky and no wind, a thick pine tree rooted a few feet from the roadside had met its end and splintered, coming to rest across both lanes of the mountain highway.  Travelers applied insufficient brawn to the trunk, while resigned onlookers crowded the scene.

    Luckily, an ax lay in its place in the back of my car.  A few minutes of sweaty swinging split the branches from the trunk and severed the crown.  The resigned onlookers helped clear the road.

    Despite the delay, the fallen pine tree was not altogether inconvenient.  The mountain air was thin, crisp, but warm and dry.  No rain had fallen in weeks, and the creek ran low.  Perhaps “ran” is an inappropriate verb.  Even the pools and riffles were at a relative standstill.

    I fished the morning with no reward.  Crystal clear water and a bright sky were my foremost opponents. 

    And so in an effort to “switch things up,” I visited a friend in the local fly shop for direction.

October caddis were on the water and thick in the air.  So I left the shop with a few Elk Hair Caddis in my pocket, aimed at a stretch of river rejuvenated by a few small tributaries.

    It was 4:00 in the afternoon by the time I reached the parking area where I planned to enter the water, and the early fall sun was oppressive as it hung just above the western wall of the canyon.  

    Wet-wading would suit, and the river water refreshed me as I waded downstream in search of trout in a recommended location, nicknamed “Monster Pool.”

    A sharp bend in the creek channel and visible riffles just downstream from a creek mouth signaled to me my arrival.  A gravel bank was exposed by the low flow on river left.

    As a matter of stealth, I crossed the creek to prepare my attack on the bank.  I examined my leader.  5X had proven itself ineffective against finicky risers in the present water conditions.  So I converted my tippet to a size finer, and lengthened it by three feet.  A caddis found its way on the end.

    As I edged into the water towards the rising forms of wild brown and rainbow trout, a bald eagle erupted from the bank opposite me.  Cast after delicate cast brought no interest from the fish, despite the cloud of October caddis on the scene. 

    Eventually my fixation on fish lost hold.  A red fox trotted over the ridgeline on the opposite bank, scaring a rather hefty groundhog loafing about the rocky crags half to death.  The predator halted at the commotion caused by the rodent, turned, and followed the creek out of sight. 

    Moments later, my backcast caught on grass peeking up through the gravel to my rear.  I turned to see a black bear cub sniffing curiously about the ground, pausing only to stare confusedly at the flailing angler in his watering hole.  The light of day escaped with the beast as it meandered its way out of sight.

    Suddenly, barely visible in the fading light, rises became audial, no longer delicate.  To a pod of several fish, I fired a short cast dropping my caddis in their feeding zone.  Immediately, it was slurped up and I was fast to a 14-inch rainbow trout. 

    I continued picking off fish, and the action grew faster, more aggressive and indiscriminating, as night settled in.

    My fifth fish was a solid brown, caught in the head of the riffle on a blind cast to noise.  I chased it down to land it in the riffle it inhabited.

    As I handled the fish, plucking the fly from its mouth and admiring its strong form in the dark, the discarded fly drifted with the current between my legs.  A familiar sound caused me to find the fly line tangled in my hand and pull.  And just like that, I released the fish in my left hand, grabbed my rod and turned, tight to another trout in the dead of night.□

*Originally published in the Rural Virginian

PHOTO UPDATE: EAST COAST ADVENTURE--TULPEHOCKEN CREEK TO ROSCOE, NEW YORK

Roscoe, New York, the self-proclaimed "Trout Town USA," greeted me on a crisp early fall evening, after a solid five hours of driving.  I could hardly contain my excitement as my veins flooded with adrenaline and the thought that I had finally made the pilgrimage of angling tradition.

Created with flickr slideshow.

    
    Bridge after bridge, and famed river after river tore at my mind as I ran down Highway 17.  The Beaverkill, the West Branch of the Delaware, the Neversink, Willowemoc Creek--to the newcomer, the feeling is something comparable to being starstruck.

    
    I found my way through town, almost to Livingston Manor, the small but dense post-office town that lies just east of Roscoe, and set my boots on the plywood floor of a bunkhouse in the wooded lot on the peripheral property of the Catskills Fly Fishing Center.  Resting on the bottom bunk for a moment, clad in jeans and heavy flannel for the reduction in temperature since 10:00 AM on Tulpehocken Creek in central Pennsylvania, I had made it.

    Now the three days that followed were plagued by hot weather and low water, not without the added surprise of the 20th annual Catskills Bamboo Rodmaker's Gathering.  I did manage to snap a few photos, though I rarely took out my Nikon--the majority of these are Iphone and point-and-shoot photos.  I apologize (kinda) for the less-than quality, though to me these images recount an experience that well makes up for it.

    Enjoy!□

FALL GOBBLERS IN THE PINE CREEK VALLEY

Dawn greeted us with gloom, wind, and drizzle—the traditional late fall bad-weather mix.

    Only a month prior, my college deferral fish-bumming road trip had lead me to Pennsylvania’s Pine Creek Valley, ablaze with October foliage, though the river suffered severely from record-low water.  As luck would have it, I was given the opportunity to return as part of a media group from TroutUnlimited, but the Valley, one of my new favorite locations, had fallen victim to the changing seasons in my absence.  The abrupt surrounding mountains were transparent—skeletal and hardened by the onset of cold—and the river ran high and dark with the cold rains of late fall in the Northern Tier. 

    In three cars—two pickups and a rented SUV—we caravanned to a trailhead on State Forest property, shotguns, blaze orange, and seat cushions in tote.  Four well-trained turkey dogs rode patiently in the bed, knowing all too well what was coming.

Photo by Mark Taylor, TU Eastern Communications Director

    The air was translucent with fog and the smell of the wet fall woods.  Deliberately, our party trudged up the trail, up the mountain, past rose bushes and hemlocks, watching friends and stand-in turkey guides Rob Mucinski and Ron Magnano send their wiry-haired turkey seekers on the chase with directional gestures.  Somewhere within earshot, a gobbler boomed.

    The grade continued, with no switchback or relief, until the trail flattened out on a bench quickly dubbed “the orchard” for the thick population of apple trees growing in an understory clearing.  Paula Piatt, a representative from Trout Unlimited, had done the scouting the week before, and informed Ron and Rob that the birds had been spotted near the orchard on several occasions. 

Photo by Mark Taylor, TU Eastern Communications Director

    “The dogs will find them soon enough,” Ron reassured the group, confident in the ability of the four-legged hunters.

    As we crossed the bench lengthwise and approached a switchback leading further up the mountain, the dots on the guides’ GPS clumped, and baying ensued.  Standing frozen, we watched as a handful of turkey fled the scene in flight and listened as the rest of the flock beat air on the opposite side of the ridge.

    “It’s a clean break,” Ron and Rob agreed.

    A clean break is essential in fall turkey hunting.  The trained dogs are taught to ambush a flock with the hopes of pushing them into immediate flight and dispersing them radially.  Only then can a caller reliably reassemble the frazzled flock with gentle kee kees and clucks.

Photo by Mark Taylor, TU Eastern Communications Director

    Wasting no time, everyone in the group stashed their blaze orange and traded it for camouflage.  Chairs were unfolded, layers adjusted, and bathroom breaks taken.  It takes a certain level of preparation to sit motionless on the forest floor for an hour or more.

    The party split to take up stand locations on each side of the ridge, while the guides took stands behind the shooters, covering the praised dogs in camouflage burlap to quiet them.  In moments, the woods were once again silent, and the calling began.

    Ron and Rob seemed to be talking to one another as they took turns kee keeing from across the ridgeline.

    Rain picked up and the wind swirled and subsided.

    Just a bit more than an hour had passed when the tone of Ron’s calling changed tone.  A shotgun blast followed, as I squinted in curiosity in his direction.

    A bird was down!

    We continued to sit and call for another half hour with no luck; and so we made the decision to break cover and check on the rest of the party. 

Photo by Mark Taylor, TU Eastern Communications Director

    Don Knaus, a local Pennsylvanian outdoor writer, emerged from the woods with a fine bird clutched and displayed by the legs.  Excitedly, Don recounted his encounter with his first fall turkey shot with the aid of trained turkey dogs.

    Don’s bird was the first and only harvest of the day and the trip; and despite the humble apologies of Ron and Rob who had wished for more shots, each and every one in attendance was pleased and excited to share the experience.

Originally published in The Rural Virginian