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.

Brothers, Fly fishing, and the Potomac River

Blood on the River is the title that I might lead with if I intended for a heart felt dialogue about the familial bond between brothers and the commonality among fly fishermen. The truth is, A River Runs Through It covered that topic pretty well, and besides, my brother doesn’t really fly fish.

My brother and I are similar in many ways, but we have our differences. We have different priorities and different hobbies. But something we do share is an appreciation for quality time with each other and quality time in the outdoors. We are intentional about spending time together. Sometimes these fraternal hangs meet on neutral ground, but most recently, we met in my arena.

After departing early from work on Thursday, I picked up my brother in Georgetown and we headed up river. Two miles later, the noises of the city gave way to the soothing chatter of birds and the soft rhythmic thumping of rain hitting damp leaves. The air was thick and wet, a steady back and forth between heavy mist and light drizzle. To many folks in D.C., it was a dreary day, but to those fortunate enough to be fishing on the Potomac, it was perfect conditions. As might be expected on a rainy Thursday afternoon, the usually bustling Fletcher's Cove was empty save for a few other fishermen silently combing the water. We arrived at slack tide and watched as the current shifted, pulling towards the Chesapeake Bay. The return of movement to the water prompted a flurry of activity on the surface. It looked as if some unseen persons were lobbing handfuls of gravel across the entire river. The splashes most likely belonged to gizzard shad swiping the surface. Every few minutes, a big kerplunk turned our heads just in time to see bubbles and rings sent out from some mystery fish. I have heard that the larger splashes are from catfish jumping, but I know that carp also join in the acrobatics. Fish of many sizes jumped all around us.

I rowed our small wooden boat into a seam and dropped anchor. I quickly hooked several fish. The hickory shad dominated the catch, but a few herring also made it to the boat. Once I selfishly confirmed that the fish were biting, I shifted from angler to instructor. I handed my brother the 8wt rod and gave him a few casting tips, 10 and 2...allow the line time to unfold...let the rod do the work. I wanted to believe that my brother heard to my instruction only to be betrayed by his stubborn arm movements. He tried and often failed to maximize casting distance, repeatedly swinging the rod past the two o’clock position resulting in a finely coiled fly line plopping down on the water. But we pressed on and there were moments of brilliance exemplified by outstretched line and leader. My brother progressed, and more importantly, my brother caught fish entirely on his own: cast, retrieve, hookset, fight, land, unhook, release, high five.

A friend, Charlie Church, hooks into a shad upstream of my brother and me. 

Family and fly fishing are two beautiful things and I am hopeful that they will continue to overlap more in my life. 

Cold Days and Smallmouth Bass

A parade moves through the small town that sits on a hill overlooking the Potomac River. It is Veterans Day and the celebration rouses the sleepy streets. American flags adorn shop windows and families gather to watch the procession. I wait in my car watching the parade until a police officer motions that it is my turn to cross the intersection.

Just below the town is the boat launch where I meet my friends, Charlie and his wife Lauren. They have already loaded the raft in the water and readying for the float. It is an entirely different scene at the boat ramp; quiet and empty.

The river is remarkably clear considering the rain we had earlier in the week. The day is flawless. The striking blue sky and intense autumn sun penetrate the water, illuminating every rock and ledge on the river bottom and soon fish begin to appear. At first we only see the occasional catfish and sucker darting away from the shadow of the raft. As the flat bottom gives way to rock ledges, smallmouth bass appear. Even with maximum visibility, the fish are brilliantly camouflaged and more often than not spook before they are spotted.

Charlie and I take turns rowing and fishing while Lauren sits quietly reading The Fellowship of the Ring in the front of the raft. When it is my turn on the oars, I selfishly position the raft so that the sun falls squarely on my back, warming my body against the crisp November air.

Charlie and I love to catch fish, but we also love to see others catch fish and thus a natural partnership began. We alternate between fish, insisting that the other take up the rod. When the current allows, we both fish and let the raft drift freely. My first bass comes at such a moment while I am watching Charlie fight his first fish of the day. My dead drifting crayfish pattern neglected deep in the current attracts a bass which graciously hooks itself while my attention is diverted. Through no skill on my part, we have doubles in the raft and the day is off to an abrupt start. With renewed focus, more fish soon follow.

Photo: Charlie Church

Close up

Photo: Charlie Church

Occoquan October

The air is crisp and the shadows are long and the wind plucks the red yellow leaves from their branches. For many fishermen, this is striper season.

I met a friend and his canoe for a quiet Sunday afternoon on the Occoquan River. Neither of us had fished the river before, so while we waited for the outgoing tide to bring movement back into the water, we paddled up river towards the dam. Along the way, I threw several exploratory casts but the fish were as stagnant as the current. A mile from our launch point, the river narrowed and the scenery changed. The concrete lined banks and dilapidated industrial relics gave way to brush and boulders. The water grew shallower and protruding rocks prevented us from going any further. The river almost looked wild but for the concrete wall of the dam in the distance.

As the tide began to move, thousands of baitfish too small to see began breaking the surface looking like a soft rain dimpling the water. I tied on my smallest olive Clouser minnow and paddled to where a corrugated pipe pumped water of unknown origin into the river, churning its way down an artificial waterfall. In the frothy mixture of currents, mystery fish began breaking the surface with increasing frequency. I cast in the direction of the disturbances with a couple quick strips the line became taut and my first striped bass of the season was in the canoe. The second and third followed shortly.