Return to Trout City

A year has passed since my last encounter with one of the large locals that call this river home. I ventured back in the fall of this year, hoping to meet his friends. A game of hide and seek is the best way to describe the pursuit of these large trout. The rocky bottom of this anonymous trout stream is covered in thick moss, making it nearly impossible to sight fish among the dark contrast. However, this day was the exception. A gentle breeze and mostly clear skies resulted in fine sighting conditions.

Bored from throwing indiscriminate casts in countless pools and watching an indicator, I wanted to see a fish. I wanted reassurement that they were still there in the river. I positioned myself on an exposed rock two feet above the water surface searching for something at which to cast. In between passing cloud cover, I scanned the surrounding pool for movement, or any sign of life. A subtle flash caught my eye revealing a 20” trout 30ft upstream from my rock platform. I locked eyes on this fish and proceeded to cast the contents of my fly box to no avail. I cast without an indicator, using 7x tippet and #22 midges and nothing would turn this fish.

After an hour of frustration, I let my gaze slip and my eyes wander. That is when I realized that I had been nearly lining another 20” trout 10ft closer than the one I had initially sighted. Hoping this gaffe hadn’t spooked the second fish, I repeated my efforts. Unfortunately, the same events unfolded producing the same results: fly box casted, no fish. I relented and called my upstream buddy, Charlie, to come take a shot at these two fish. Only it was like a different musician playing the same old tune… a sad one. With both of us past our breaking point, we opted to abide by the familiar mantra, go big or go home. Maybe throwing streamer could work? It certainly couldn’t hurt after we had all but given up on these fish.

I regained my position on the exposed rock, sighting the fish, while Charlie headed upstream to swing a streamer. As Charlie began to cast, the communication between us went as follows… Charlie: Is that enough line? Me: I think so, the fish is in the same spot, but I can’t see it now that the wind has picked up. Try that same cast agai…

Mid sentence, while trying to locate the fish beneath the surface chop, I glanced up to see Charlie’s rod bent in half and him reeling frantically. Completely dumbfounded, the only thing I could think to say was, “Dude, is that a fish?” Not that I needed an answer nor my question even warranted an answer, the fish provided one, thrashing along the surface. I sprang into action, ditching my outpost and grabbing the camera and net. Trying to keep my adrenaline in check, I anxiously waited until the fish was close enough to net (it is very important yet undeniably difficult to not get over eager on the net job). Charlie reeled the fish in, expertly lifting its head out of the water while I scooped with the net. Just like that, the fish that had eluded us for two hours lay in the net, a mouthful of streamer. Charlie found the fish we were looking for, a fantastic reward for our efforts. Watching a friend catch a quality fish is something I cherish. The rush is contagious and even if I’m not in the driver’s seat, I love being along for the ride. Trout City delivered and fish were friendly. I hope to be back soon.

Winter Past

A glance back to last winter on the Gunpowder River inflicts a chilling realization of what is to come. Light will become scarcer and fish will become harder to find.

A cold snap held the water temperature hovering just above freezing mirroring the temperature in the air. The entire valley seemed to be hibernating. The spell of winter was further apparent where shaded hillsides lay covered in snow. It was cold and the fish knew it too. Everything was slowed down, myself included. Long hours gone, the silence was finally broken with two fish caught at the last pool fished. A slight rise in temperature over the day must have been the reason for success. Hands and toes numbed, I needed to remind myself that anytime on the water and in the outdoors is something to be relished. Still, I hate winter.

Trout City, USA

Far from the city, past the remnants of old mines, quiet towns, and tired factories there lies a river. This river has become my refuge for trout on the east coast. It has captured my imagination, refined my skills, and satisfied the void for adventure. The trout of a lifetime lurks somewhere in this river and each day I eagerly await our meeting.

My first excursion to this river was as much an exploratory mission as anything. Internet searches turned up dated reports of large trout, but I could find no current information confirming the existence of these fish. Luckily, I don’t require much convincing to explore a new river. As is often the case for approaching unfamiliar water, I shamelessly rigged up the tried and true San Juan worm tied off a midge. Not knowing where to start fishing, I entertained the classic approach, thinking, “If I were a fish, where would I be?” On the far bank of the river, I saw a slow riffle, about 3-4 feet deep and figured it was as good of a spot as any to begin fishing. As a self enforced rule (which I would recommend to all fisherman), I never walk through a run before casting through it first. As I made my way to the far bank I cast, took a few steps, cast, step, repeat. Once in prime location, I worked my casts closer and closer to the best looking water. I cast at the seam of the riffle and mid drift, my indicator paused and I set the hook. The 20” rainbow had taken the San Juan and had completely caught me off guard. Standing in the current in the middle of a river and on slippery rocks is not the best place to be fighting a large trout, especially with a DSLR camera around your neck. But that was where I found myself. I began thinking, “Okay, I’m going to lose my camera or the fish, or both.” I am a firm believer in the buddy system and my buddy, Charlie, must have heard my incoherent screams as he came running downstream, wading out to relieve me of my camera. First problem solved, the next problem was the tip of my rod. My leader knot was caught on my top guide and my leader was at that perfect length where the fish was just out of reach of the net. Waving my rod side to side like a windshield wiper, I eventually popped the leader knot free allowing me to reel in enough line to land the fish. A gigantic sigh of relief paired with some sort of garbled battle cry marked my largest east coast trout to date. The fish was released and while the uncontrollable shaking in my hands subsided, the smile firmly planted on my face remained for days. Days like this are why I fish.

Photos courtesy of Charlie Church and the camera he saved from a watery grave

City Carp

Eleven floors above K Street in a nondescript office building in downtown Washington DC, the minute hand crawls slowly vertical. That sacred hour arrives, lunchtime. A time to stretch the legs, wolf down a sandwich, and catch some fish. Yes, time to catch some fish. The countdown begins. Three minutes elapse when I reach my bike. No time to change clothes, the slacks and loafers must remain. One mile and a few close calls later, I evade traffic and reach Georgetown. The historic C&O Canal holds my quarry: the common carp. Forty minutes until I must be back in the office. The reel and rod are rigged, the fly tied to my line, the fish right in front of me. The first cast is good and the fish inhales the fly. I almost feel bad about deceiving such a willing creature, using my lunchtime to interrupt it’s own lunchtime. I almost feel bad, but the feeling passes as quickly as it arrives. There are more pressing matters to attend to, like the fish on the end of my line and the receding lunch hour. The fish eventually tires, but not before a new problem arises. The water level in the canal is low and from the ledge I am standing on, my net cannot reach the fish. My line is too weak to lift the 12lb carp clear out of the water and my options are running out. At a stalemate, I desperately look around trying to conceive a plan that doesn’t involve me and my dress pants waist deep in urban runoff. As I mentally debate cutting my line, losing fish along with fly, the solution jogs right up to me. My request catches her off guard, but the jogger graciously accepts and I hand over my fishing rod. Strangers no more than 30 seconds ago, we are now fishing partners. She is at the helm and I am laying face down on the dirt path, my torso hovering above the water with net in hand. “Keep the rod tip up and slowly walk backwards,” I instruct while trying to avoid sliding headfirst into the murky brown water. She executes flawlessly and the fish is in the net, high fives ensue. A quick photo together and the fish is thrown back. There is no need to explain to her why she found me spending my lunch break fishing for slimy fish in slimier water. The smile on her face is rivaled only by the smile on my own. She understands; we both do. Twelve minutes before 2:00pm and I must say goodbye. I arrive back at the office with just enough time to brush the dirt off my pants, and wash the fish off my hands. Back at my desk, I reflect on the events transpired. The hour is gone, but the memory remains.

Rose River Farm

My first fish of 2014 came in mid January. While I didn’t have to work for it, I had to pay for it… $95 to be exact. A new year brings new goals. It allows us a time to reflect on our past shortcomings and successes and apply knowledge accumulated and lessons learned towards shaping the future. For two years, I volunteered at Casting for Recovery’s annual 2Fly4Hope event on Rose River Farm. For two years I sat on the bank and watched even the most inexperienced fisherman catch big trout after big trout. I had had enough, I paid the $95 fee for a day on the farm.  It was, as expected, a fish frenzy. Every riffle or pool that would appear to hold a fish held multiple fish. Fish that were more than willing to eat. After countless 16” bows, I had satisfied the need to catch fish and I swapped my 5wt for my 2wt and my battle tested nymphs for unproven ones.

Douglas Dear, who owns and operates the farm takes great pride and care in this fishery and it is reflected in the population of healthy trout. As much as I hate paying to fish, I didn’t so much mind the money going to Rose River Farm. Every year, they donate several days on their fishery to Project Healing Waters and Casting for Recovery. Two quality organizations with the shared belief that fly-fishing has healing potential.

Apart from a great blue heron trying to steal the fish I was fighting, I couldn’t have asked for a better day on the water. The Rose River Farm itch has been scratched. I can rest now.