Rapidancer

There is an air of exclusivity surrounding dirt roads. The best kind of exclusivity. They are the road less traveled and lead places few visit, at least to the extent where paving the way would be a waste of time and money. I am drawn to their rugged authenticity. Even if the destination is known, the road is unpredictable. Downed trees and eroded banks are wary reminders. But if the journey is made, and the road is travelled, the reward can be immense. If you are lucky, you will find untamed wilderness and if you are very lucky, you might even find a river.

Within 100 miles of DC, at least 2600ft above sea level, and next to an excellent trout stream, President Hoover established the Rapidan Camp. That was his criteria (exactly as I listed it); proximity, elevation (mosquito related), and trout. The Rapidan River met the requirements.

From presidential retreat to boy scout summer camp to national historic landmark, much has changed for the Rapidan Camp. Fortunately, the fishing has remained the same. The same river that captivated Hoover is still entertaining anglers today.

This story begins on a dirt road.

A recent storm left the already pothole riddled road muddy and slick. I would say that it is only navigable by a four wheel drive vehicle, but a baby blue Honda Civic hybrid would have made me a liar. Still, a sedan on this road cannot be recommended and I’m sure the driver of that Civic bottomed out on a few rocks along the way.

Miles of road paralleling miles of trout filled river leave no wrong spot to start fishing. Wracked with options my friend, Charlie, and I picked a dirt pull-off at random and began our day. I tied on a #16 Royal Wulff as I often do when targeting small water brook trout. In addition to being a great fly for imitating a number of hatches, there is a classic appeal to the pattern, which in my opinion is one of the most beautiful trout flies. Catching trout for nearly 100 years is another good reason to trust this fly.

With trout willing to rise on the Royal Wulff, I found little motivation to alter my rig. The routine was repetitive and anything but mundane. I cast at a pool until the fish stopped rising then rock-hopped my way to the next pool. Soon I began targeting the most isolated seams between rocks or rapids. It continued to surprise me when a trout would swipe at the fly in the most obscure holding water: hanging pools between waterfalls, tiny back eddies, pockets no more than a square foot in size, etc. There are trout everywhere in this river and you needn’t look far to find them.

The air and water is still cool in the mountains and the fish are slowly waking up to spring. For the moment they are sipping dry flies in the most aggressive sense of the word, a subtlety for brook trout. Soon warmth will infiltrate the river and one can expect full aerial displays of trout leaping after flies. Until then, keep on fishing.

Photo: Charlie Church

Photo: Charlie Church

Look at the bend in the rod! It is almost as if the fly is caught in a tree behind me. Wink. Photo: Charlie Church

Endless pools like this, one after the other. Photo: Charlie Church

Trying to set the hook without launching the fish. Photo: Charlie Church

More pockets than a pair of cargo pants. Photo: Charlie Church

Photo: Charlie Church

Photo: Charlie Church

The Carp and the Mulberry

Carp continue to gain high regard in the fly-fishing community with no signs of slowing. A well deserved reputation for an exciting pursuit. These cunning fish can be found in numbers in even the most urban of ponds and drainage ditches. They are subtle eaters and live in slow water environments, requiring a gentle and accurate fly presentation. And while the most common fly-fishing encounter with carp will test the angler’s prowess, there is always an exception.

Mulberry season. Even before I knew what a mulberry was, I realized these berries were special. Walking along the C&O Canal (sadly without a fly rod), I witnessed a frenzy of carp, ducks, and other birds gobbling up these berries and jostling for position below the overhanging mulberry tree. I figured, “if animals of the water and animals of the air are eating these berries, surely animals of the land can also eat them.” So I ate a few, and wouldn’t you know it, I didn’t get sick.  

That afternoon, I got on the computer and learned all about mulberries. I read about their cultural significance, growing season, culinary relevance, distribution, and most importantly fishing implications.

Later that evening I tied a few flies resembling different stages of the berries, ranging from white in coloration to a deep blackish purple.

The following day, hoping to put my newly acquired knowledge on all things mulberry and my freshly tied flies to use, I arrived at the canal to the same spectacle I had witnessed the day before.

I cast my berry fly at the largest carp I could see, careful not to cast near a duck incase it also wanted my offering. The ‘plop’ noise as the fly landed caused every carp in the vicinity to turn and race towards the fly. Luckily, the largest carp was nearest and took the fly. After a short fight, the fish was netted with the help of a German tourist (he held the rod, so I could stretch out with the net). He did well for a guy who informed me with a thick German accent, “...but I have never fished before.”

My German friend went on his way and I repeated the steps, landing one more fish until the pool was spooked.

When the berries drop, it is open season. Who in their right mind fears a berry? Certainly not carp as was clearly evident by their lack of hesitation. The opportunist fisherman I am, I exploited this trust.

I have since been on multiple carp outings and have realized that these fish are not always so willing to entertain the fly-fisherman. More often, they are worthy adversaries to the fly, not eager to eat. They can be as wary as they come and the carp is a fantastic challenge for the fly-fisherman (outside of mulberry season).

Spring Dreaming

Snow can turn the most dreary of landscapes into spectacles of wonder. A perfect blanket of white neatly layered over hills and buildings, emanating peaceful beauty. Beyond the visual appeal, what resonates most is the silence. Layers of snow, damping vibrations and absorbing sounds, create moments of calm reflection and a most welcome refuge in an otherwise noisy world.

The day after a snowfall, we can glimpse into a world often unseen, where tracks from critters are literal storylines; tiny prints stamped on a blank canvas. The scenery is different, but nature moves unphased, subtly documented upon the layers of frozen moisture. Days like this it is a privilege to be along a river.

One last winter hurrah we tell ourselves. Half a foot of snow dumped on the city and even more just to the north. Heading away from the salt ridden and slushy roads of the Capitol, the snow remained undisturbed along the spring creek banks. Arriving at midday, it was a welcome surprise to lay the first tracks in pursuit of trout.

With a snow covered horizon, the polarized lense is your greatest ally. Clear skies and unwavered sun beams refracting off snow will quickly burn eyes and alter vision, an unnecessary obstacle that is easily avoidable. Still, it was difficult finding fish. Traditional runs proved fruitless and a lack of cloud cover made a stealthy approach not easy.

After many casts in vain, combing seams and changing flies, success was eventually found in deep slow runs. Nymphing a hare’s ear and worm pattern proved the winning recipe, although a brief wisp of clouds passing over brought several fish to the surface on a #18 BWO.

After a long winter and mostly frozen February, this was an excellent introduction to spring fishing and the adventures that lie ahead.  

*All photos provided by Charlie Church

Winter Trout

February is a bleak month in the nation’s capitol and for much of the east coast. Prolonged cold has finally permeated through our waters effectively shutting down the majority of our fisheries. It is a personal struggle to remain positive when my mood is directly correlated with my surroundings. But amidst the gloom, there are rays of hope. There is always hope. My hope lies in a chance encounter with my most favorite of coldwater friends, the trout.

After far too much time spent indoors, several friends and I headed west for the weekend, leaving behind a snowy cityscape for a snowy riverside campground in mining country, West Virginia. Arriving at the river in mid morning, we enjoyed a cup of coffee and took our time putting on waders and rigging our gear. The sun had not yet made it over the mountains and cold air hung stagnantly in the valley. Not until midday did the sun finally climb over the ridgeline and begin thawing the frozen ground.

The trout did not seem to notice the rising temperature and our hopes for more active fish were dashed. Aquatic lethargy and sparse hook ups remained the theme of the day. In a bid to discover the winning fly combination, each of us rigged up a streamer rod in addition to a nymph rod. A constant theme in fishing (the unexpected) occurred. The largest fish of the weekend took a streamer, an aggressive eat despite 37 degree water temperatures.

In the late afternoon, the sun passed over the opposite ridgeline and temperatures plummeted, signaling the end to our day on the water.

Back at camp, a fire warmed our bodies and spirits while the stars supplied the evening entertainment. My stubborn decision to extend the show by sleeping under the stars resulted in a crisp night of little sleep. Condensation from the adjacent river and temps in the teens was more than my 20 degree bag could handle. The next morning, I was selfishly reassured in hearing that each of my companions had also passed the night in frigid discomfort.

Stoking yesterday’s coals, we reignited our campfire and cooked a hearty breakfast accompanied by piping hot coffee to dispel memories of the previous night. As my friends started upstream, I hung back at camp, piling small twigs on the bed of coals and leisurely sipping my coffee. With another cold day ahead of us, my top priority was making the most of the remaining time outdoors be it fishing for otherwise.  A brief moment of reflection revealed that quietly sitting and listening to the crackle of twigs in the fire and muffled woosh of the river behind me was exactly what I wanted to be doing. I spent another hour slowly wandering around camp, cleaning up, and meticulously rigging my rods before joining the others upstream.

I caught no fish that weekend and I spent one of my colder sleepless nights in recent memory, yet I returned to the city refreshed and content. I am ready for more cold days ahead.

Fireside fly tying and sausage roasting

Embracing morning with a hearty meal

Born Again

Catching fish is the obvious goal, but what happens along the way is where the memory is made. I have seen some interesting and unique things on rivers. And this past summer the Shenandoah River added something new to the list.

Gearing up for a smallmouth bass float trip with a few friends out of Front Royal, I carried my kayak down to the launch ramp where a large number of people stood gathered. It is not entirely uncommon to see hoards of people spending a nice Sunday in the park (which runs along the river) so this spectacle didn't strike me as odd. That is, until I saw the white robes and heard the singing.

Scanning through the mass of people, I found the reason behind the gathering. Baptism. Now, I have seen baptisms before, but this was the first time I've stumbled across a river baptism. I was much enjoying my role as observational bystander until an anxious park ranger informed me that, “...technically, they are not supposed to do it in this spot,” followed by what I imagine was an internal battle of whether or not the ranger wanted to shut down a baptism. As far as I know, it carried on without interruption.

Now that the white robed mystery was solved, I began rigging up my rod and kayak while singing and clapping filled the air. The music was lovely and unlike anything I've ever heard. Mostly because the songs were performed in Spanish as the congregation was largely Hispanic.

Things took a turn for the awkward when it came time to launch the kayaks, seeing as the only route to the water was through the middle of the crowd. Not knowing how long the ceremony would last, my friends and I were left with little choice, but to politely and subtly shuffle our way through the crowd. That is when everything stopped. I am not sure if they paused mid song (not being a Spanish speaker) but it sure sounded like mid song to me.

All eyes now on us, the only sound to be heard was the scrape of gravel beneath our kayaks as we dragged them towards the water. It was kind of like eating noisy chips in a silent room full of people.

One exceedingly long and uncomfortable minute later I was in the water. I paddled swiftly around the priest and the man being baptized, giving them a silent head nod as if to say, "sorry about that, carry on." A glance back over my shoulder revealed fifty heads with faces blank of expression swiveling in unison as I paddled down river. I put my head down and paddled faster.

A coupled hundred feet downstream, the clapping and singing resumed and I breathed sigh of relief, pulled off some line, and began fishing.

It truly must have been a blessed day because the fishing was that good.