Falling Down

Getting skunked is a humbling experience, and so is falling into the water. If I had to choose, I would take the plunge if it meant catching fish. Of course no one has the privilege to choose when the fish will bite or when the foot will stumble or to experience neither or both. 

On this trip I caught fish. I also fell into the water. If it was only a brief dunk and bruised ego, it really wouldn't be worth mentioning; I fall a lot. But this fall reminded me of the real threat, ever present, whenever alone in the wilderness. 

This particular stream is remarkable for its sheer grade. It drops down the side of a mountain like a gigantic set of stairs, water pouring down as if there is a busted pipe in an upper story bathroom. Except the rise between each step is 10-20ft of granite and above each waterfall there is a pool teeming with brook trout. 

Among such rugged beauty one can be forgiven for getting distracted by the splendor. Unfortunately the river does not share such sentiment. One misstep on a steep rock can be your last and this is where I made my mistake. I was reaching for a branch that had unfortunately  fastened itself to my fly and put all my weight on a rock that caught just enough spray from the descending water. It was like stepping on a maxed out treadmill. Immediately my feet were no longer under me, but level with my waist, my body rotated 45 degrees momentarily floating above the rock ledge. This is where I credit a childhood spent skateboarding… I know how to fall and what to protect. In that aerial moment, I sent my rod flying vertical and gripped my head with both hands preparing for the backwards assault. My back and shoulders made first contact with the rock before momentum took over. I bounced down the rocks end over end like a breadstick. I stuck the landing in the way a bag of flour sticks the landing off the counter with a thud and guttural exhale, there may have even been a cloud of dust. They say water can act as hard as concrete when struck from a certain height… I don't know what they say about hitting six inches of water over a bed of gravel from about seven feet, but it felt like concrete. 

Laying in the water blankly looking up at where I was seconds ago, Royal Wulff still thoroughly attached to the tree, it took some convincing that I did not in fact hit my head and that pain in my extremities was in fact a good sign. My fly rod, in some form of solidarity, followed me down the falls. The four piece rod lived up to its name, each section separating and hidden below white water. I would have never found all the pieces but for that #16 Wulff, vibrating away in the tree as water crashed against the fly line. The very source of my descent yet also my redeemer. I reeled the spooled out line until I could follow the tension to the next rod section, working my way back up the rocks...slowly. Once more I found myself in the same situation, rod back together, fly stuck in tree. After such a debacle I was not going to lose this fly. It seemed symbolic or at least consolatory. This time, with utmost prejudice I chose a dry rock in which to put my trust and body weight. As if to say, “we are not all treacherous,” it lifted me to recover the fly. 

The next cast, a brook trout violently swiped my fly off the surface seemingly unaware or uncaring of the story below. To some extent so was I, because moments after grappling with my mortality, I found myself right back to grappling with those voracious little trout.

Shenandoah Backcountry

I always feel sneaky when requesting a backcountry permit in Shenandoah National Park. Maybe it is because it feels like such a valuable thing given away freely, a free pass into a backcountry wonderland full of waterfalls and wild trout. Invaluable experiences awaiting.  

As I often do, I picked a location with no set plan other than exploring the water and spending the night. On this trip, I chose a stream I knew nothing about other than the fact that it had at least one waterfall, which seams to be a prerequisite for most streams in the park. Waterfalls mean steep terrain and steep terrain means pools in between waterfalls. Brook trout are known to frequent these pools.

The plan was to approach the trail from the top, where it intersects Skyline Drive and fish my way down with all my gear, set up a hammock to sleep, and then hike and fish my way out the same route in the morning. It happened to be ‘free entry’ day into the park and the trail head swarmed with people in almost intimidating numbers. From experience I guessed that most these people were not fishermen and would likely not make it much more than a mile down the trail. This assumption proved correct and most folks stopped hiking at the first flagship waterfall. I plucked a few trout from pools along the first mile of trail before hurrying further downstream away from the crowds.

Minimal gear and high calorie to weight foods made for a light pack that was surprisingly comfortable to hike and fish with, remaining nimble enough to rock hop along boulders and scramble under fallen logs. The camping gear I carried on my back. I had loaded a handful of dry flies, nymphs, and streamers in a beautiful leather and sheep wool fly wallet handmade by my cousin that I wore in a fanny pack around my waist along with my camera and other miscellaneous fly gear. This allowed quick access to switch out flies and re-apply floatant with minimal adjustment.

In the first pool I came to, I picked up three nice trout before switching out my ant fly to a more visible yellow sally. From then on, every pool I cast to yielded at least one strike. The sheer density of trout in the smallest of pools is astonishing, every fish immaculately colored and healthy.

I quickly lost count of trout landed and as the sun dipped behind the ridge, I began looking for a place to sleep. The terrain was steep, rocky, and heavily wooded; a nightmare for finding a spot to pitch a tent. Fortunately, I brought a hammock. I found a pair of trees far enough from the stream to honor the backcountry camping 100ft distance requirements, but still near enough to hear the endless churn of falling water. The sounds of the water were soothing, but more importantly they block out the sound of crackling twigs and rustling leaves in the night, enabling me to blissfully ignore the wild creatures sharing the forest. Just before dark, I finished my salami and cheese with crackers, filtered some water, and hung my food in a tree a good distance away. I had spotted a bear while driving to the trail head and the memory was stubbornly fresh in my mind. Even with the food hanged and the stream blaring and the hammock nestled around me, my nerves still kept me from peacefully drifting off to sleep. I foresaw this problem, for which I brought whiskey.

I am not a morning person, but when the sun pokes through the trees at 6am, there is little to do but roll out of bed. Down at the water, a few insects lazily rose from the stream slipping in an out of the morning beams broken by trees. I packed up camp and began rock hopping my way back upstream. Although insects were in the air, the trout hadn’t yet keyed in on the overhead feast. Even with no fish rising on their own accord, they kindly made an exception for my yellow sally. Just as the previous day, every pool of a relatively fishy look offered at least one rising trout. The highlight of the morning came back at the main waterfall attraction, fortunately before the days masses descended. As I hiked up the steep trail beside the falls, I noticed the distinctive outline of a seven inch trout in a small pool in the midst of the falls. The pool was no larger than a placemat and completely inaccessible from above or below. How the trout came to be in that pool is a mystery. Did it get swept over the falls or could it have grown from a fry in that tiny pool? Shenandoah National Park has a way of putting trout in the most stunning and unusual places and I hope to explore them all.

Pocosin Hollow

Spring rains have continued into June. It was hard to get out of bed on Sunday and overcast skies and a continual drumming of moderate to heavy rain slowed the whole process. I didn’t leave the house until 11:30am. I arrived at the Conway River expecting high flows, but I got flood conditions. The Conway was in no way fishable so I set my sights on one of its small feeder streams, Pocosin Hollow. I drove past a local clearing debris off the road with his tractor, parked my car on the empty dirt pull off, and began my hike. Pocosin, usually no more than a trickle, was raging. I hoped that I could hike up the ridge far enough to find fishable water. No Trespassing signs tried to discourage me from finding trailhead and if it weren’t for the Potomac Appalachian Trail Club app on my phone, they might have succeeded. A half mile on private roads (only open to public foot traffic) and I eventually found the trail. The stream flowed fast and clear and with enough force to make all crossings at least slightly hazardous. I rigged up my rod and nymphed one deep slow run. It seemed that any fish would have been too deep and spread out in the high flows, so I broke down my rod and shifted my mentality from fishing to hiking. With the goal of trout no longer hanging on my mind, I was fully able to appreciate the wild rainforest like setting. A heavy mist hung in the air suspended in the green branches overhead. The drumming static of the water lulled the mind like a white noise machine and I knew I was alone. I hiked up the three or so miles to the Pocosin fire road before turning around to begin back down.

Blue Ridge Blue Lines

Thunder echoes in the distance like some great invisible engine while the rain comes down thick and steady overhead. The dense tree canopy intercepts the drops, combining them before sending them on to the forest floor to continue the journey towards the river. For weeks, the storms have moved through the mountain. Loose dirt and debris has been washed away and now the river flows full and fast, but the water is clear. In the deep pools and slow back eddies, wild brook trout keep free from the aggressive current. But above the surface, there is much activity, a flurry of new life, a hatch. The trout cannot resist the action for long.

The rain is my cover. Heavy drops silence my steps and disrupt the water surface, obscuring the trouts wary vision. The environment is working in my favor, but my own excitement betrays me. There is so much water to cover, new water that I have never seen before. Fly fishing rewards patient and thoughtful movement, but punishes quick careless motion. My mind is occupied with the mystery of what lies beyond the bend and it is reflected in my movements. Bumbled casts and slippery feet, I am fishing too fast, and it is painfully confirmed with single a missed step. Eyes locked on a seam, I shuffle my feet forward while adding line to my false cast when the left side of my body collapses into the water. It is as if someone pulled the riverbed from under my feet. In a split second moment, I know that I’m going into the knee deep water, I accept it, but I refuse to let my Winston rod suffer from my mistake. My right arm shoots towards the sky as far from the impact zone as my reach allows. My body can handle cuts and bruises, but the thought of crunching the emerald green rod, turning my four piece into a five piece, makes me sick to my stomach. The rod survives without a scratch and I with only a few bruises. My clothes are completely soaked but the river only finishes what the rain had started. I am fishing too fast, so I stop.

For a long time I stand still, letting the river flow through my legs. The rain continues to fall, adding weight to my body and saturating what is left of my dry clothes until the water drips back into the river. I become a silent feature of the landscape, a passive piece in an existing system. Around me things begin to move, no longer hesitant of the clumsy presence trudging upstream. A mayfly lands on my arm and a trout rises. I make a cast. The fly twirls between the raindrops, bobbing and spinning like a drunken dancer for only a moment before it plunges beneath the water fastened to the mouth of a wild trout. I set the hook and the trout clears half the pool in one terrific leap, landing in the swift current. For a moment the trout works the current pulling line, threatening to drop down a small waterfall into another pool, but gentle pressure from the tip of the rod guides the fish back to hand.

The rain breaks in the afternoon. The clouds part and timid beams of light stretch down to the river where steam rises from the wet stones. The rain has stopped but there is a steady drip off the wet leaves, a soft rhythmic sound. Now the real hatch begins. It is not overwhelmingly dense or even consistent, but utterly diverse. From the shallow river rises mayflies, caddis, midges, stones in all sizes and colors. Bright yellow mayflies lazily glide through the air and jet black caddis zig and zag above the water, golden stoneflies and gray stoneflies crawl on the rocks, ants and beetles adorn the banks. The menu has been set and it is a balanced meal. The trout gorge themselves. They launch attack after attack on my beetle pattern until the fly is shredded and soaked and no longer floats. To my left, a beam of sunlight illuminates a flat moss covered boulder like a spotlight does a stage. I sit down to replace my fly with another pattern that is durable and will float high and well, a Royal Trude. Before I return to my feet, I breathe in the setting and watch the rising fish at the head of the pool. I wonder what lies beyond the next bend. Maybe I will find out today and maybe not. There is no hurry and I won’t rush.

Backpacking the Blue Ridge Mountains

The air is warm and inviting and a pleasant stillness hangs over Washington, DC. It is a nice Saturday in the city, but it is always nicer in the mountains. A casual 3pm departure from the nation’s capitol and I head west. The sun, still high in the sky, begins to lose intensity when I arrive at the Dickie Ridge Visitor Center along the famed Skyline Drive. The ranger and I speak briefly.  He asks me about my proposed route, number of nights, and bear preparations before giving me a backcountry permit to attach to my pack. The sun is waning when I finally reach the trailhead. I adjust the straps of my pack and sling it onto my shoulders to begin my descent into the valley wilderness. The first step on to the dirt sends an intense freedom coursing through my body. It is a bizarre mix of adrenaline and peace, leaving man’s world behind to be left alone in the care of nature.

I have seen over a dozen bears in these Blue Ridge Mountains, but the bears have seen many people and pay little attention to our presence. I once turned a corner to find a bear 30 feet away. It looked lazily at me for half a second and went back to grubbing. Still, it is safer to avoid spooking the wildlife so now I make up songs, singing them aloud to nature and to anything that I don’t want to sneak up on. The songs are mostly observational nonsense fixating on tree bark, unravelling ferns, or whatever passes my vision. It is a liberating form of self expression. By most standards I am a terrible singer, but nature doesn’t seem to mind my off key half rhyming gibberish, or at least it can’t vocalize its disapproval. Carefree and singing, I cheerily bounce along the trail doing my best Tom Bombadil. It is just me and the trees and trickling water flowing towards a central point on the valley floor. Time is measured by nothing more than light and shadow.

When the sun finally dips behind the ridge the temperature also drops and the blue evening glow deepens. I hastily set up camp hoping to find hatching insects dancing in pools in the mountain creek before darkness takes away my vision. Camp is nothing more than a sack of food strung high up in a tree and a hammock a safe distance away. The few preparations are made and my focus shifts to the water. It is the native brook trout that lead me to this spot and I am anxious to meet my hosts.

The insects are active but no specific hatch dominates. Large black stoneflies mingle with creme colored mayflies and near transparent midges. A stealthy approach with a #16 Royal Wulff and the welcoming party greets me in the most spectacular way. Wild 4-8” trout launch out of the dark water one after the other. Pools the size of coffee tables yield a dozen strikes. Most of these little trout miss the fly completely and only few stay on the hook long enough to come to hand but it matters not at all. I am completely in the moment, focused on my surroundings, on the fly rod, on the fish. The light is gone so I cast with familiar motion into pools unable to see my fly, listening for the unsubtle rise to set the hook. The evening is black and quiet and it feels like it could be the middle night, but it is only 8pm. I turn in early, drifting off to sleep with the comforting knowledge that the trout will be hungry again tomorrow.