Summer Reflections: Mossy Creek

October 4, 2015 Parker Clemens

The source of much joy and much frustration flows out of the ground at a steady 55 degrees fahrenheit. On this slow moving spring creek my body convulses with mixed emotions; my hands uncontrollably shaking after releasing an 18” brown trout one day, and my face quivering hot with rage after losing back to back flies on a low hanging branch another day. I try to console myself in those darker moments by attributing lack of success to some unseen external factor easily dismissed as ‘the elements.’ Nature is the easy scapegoat because it does not argue... but I know I could have done better. Still I come back to this creek because I have had a taste of what can happen when the trout are hungry and my fly looks like food. Now I approach the creek like a job interview. I am confident in my abilities, but hide my expectation because I know the odds are not in my favor. I go through the familiar motions, the fly selection and cast, hoping that my training is sufficient. Sometimes it is, and sometimes the trout accept my offer.

There is a secret to this creek that I do not know, but I’ve found peace with not knowing. The creek is far away and our interactions are few. But what I do know is that there are brown trout over 20 inches waiting and learning every day. I only hope I learn quicker.

Snake vs. goose egg. Remember to watch your step.

Summer of Smallmouth

July 22, 2015 Parker Clemens

As I was leaving work on Thursday, excitement growing for the Friday holiday preceding our nation's independence day, my roommate sent me a text message. “I think someone’s broken into our house.” Sure enough, our laptops were gone, a gaming console and some cash also missing. Not the start to the weekend I had hoped for, but I had a fishing trip planned, and I wasn’t going to let this burglary sour my weekend. Friday morning, as I pieced together my gear in preparation for the day’s float, I saw the backyard gate ajar and knew instantly that the thieves had come back late during the night and stolen my bike out of the shed.

I must admit that I was disappointed and feeling sorry for myself. I thought about this injustice done to me and about those who would do such a thing. Then I thought about people elsewhere that endured life threatening injustices daily. My bike and laptop are replaceable, and I realized that I wasn’t upset so much about losing these things, but about thinking of the thieves benefiting from their crime. Again, I had to remind myself not to wallow in self pity, but to be thankful for freedom and safety. I filed a police report, then left for the river, grateful that I could simply leave this trouble behind.

Fishing requires focus, and maybe that is partly why we love it. Our thoughts, left alone, can easily turn towards self destruction. Fishing provides an outlet where we can channel thoughts towards a conceivable goal, and there is simply no room for negative thoughts when you are catching fish.

And catch fish we did.

The idle threat of rain seemed to keep most people off the river, although nothing materialized other than an occasional mist. About midday with the rise in temperature, damselflies of all colors began appearing, landing on anything they could. The fish responded to the surge of insect activity with consistent topwater action through the remainder of the day. My friend and proud owner of a fishing raft, Charlie, brought along his brother who had never fished for smallmouth bass before. It comes as no surprise that his brother caught the biggest smallmouth bass I have ever seen in person. When he hooked the fish on his spinning rod, a hush fell over the boat. Charlie and I took on somber tones as we voiced instructions for fighting the fish, maybe because we didn’t want to get too excited lest the fish come off or maybe because we didn’t want to burden his brother with the unnecessary stress of our own frantic thoughts. Whatever the reason behind the tense silence, it was broken once the fish passed that invisible line into the net. Knowing the quality of fish that lay before us, Charlie and my excitement rivaled his brother’s. In that moment, all thoughts of my lost possessions completely left my mind and only joy remained.

Photos graciously provided by Charlie Church as I am currently without a laptop.

Spring Creek Summer

June 22, 2015 Parker Clemens

It was noon on a humid June day when I arrived at the spring creek. Dense vegetation lining the banks shrouded the slow moving water, blocking out the sunlight and hiding its presence from the surrounding world. One could pass within ten feet of this stream completely unaware of its existence.

I sought shelter beneath the trees as a brief thunderstorm passed through, sheltered from the rain by the layers of leaves above me. Except for the few large drops collected in pools and dripping off leaves, I remained dry. After the storm, the air grew thick and humid with steam rising off the water. The sun returned and the few rays penetrating the canopy glimmered off the wet leaves. Slowly, a few mayflies began to emerge and the sound of rising trout perked my ears (it is difficult to explain the subtle difference in sound between a droplet of water landing in a pool and a trout rising). Searching in the direction of the sound, I watched as an invisible insect was picked off the surface by a hungry fish. I tied on a small mayfly, hoping it would be an acceptable offering. Slow moving, crystal clear water required a stealth approach into casting position. My first cast came from lying on my stomach in wet grass on the slightly elevated stream bank. The fish, positioned just below the end of a low hanging branch, refused to move two feet for my fly. Several attempts later, the fly landed six inches in front of the trout and the small trout took the fly. Unfortunately, lying on my stomach was not ideal for fighting fish and my first trout quickly unhooked itself and swam away to safety.

Moving upstream, I saw another rise just in front of a submerged log. The theme of low hanging branches remained true, but this time I was able to position myself downstream of my target. Kneeling on the gravel bottom in six inches of water, I threw a backhand cast, careful not to catch the foliage overhead. I watched the fly set on the water only seconds before it disappeared in a swirl. Hopping to my feet, I worked the fish downstream into my net.

Yellow Drakes began to hatch in small numbers, immediately drawing the attention of fish and birds alike. Any mayfly that hovered too long in the air was picked off by a bird and any lingering too long on the water was a meal for a trout. A violent splash upstream and nearly out of sight drew me to the next pool. The fish was rising in a small pocket between downed trees. Impossible to cast at from any other angle but directly overhead, I crept parallel to the fish, concealing myself in the brush. Using the length of the rod, I held the fly in my fingers, flexing the rod to sling-shot a cast towards the two feet of unobstructed water surface. I watched the trout come into view and eat the fly. With logs and branches on either side, the only option was to pressure the fish skyward and hope the hook would not pull out. Careful not to snap my 6x tippet, I brought the fish to the surface for just enough time to swoop my net under and land my biggest fish of the day. As light faded and the hatch slowed, I made my way back to the car and reflected on the events transpired; reliving each cast and hook set in my mind.

Harpers Ferry

May 29, 2015 Parker Clemens

I cherish the solitude that is only found in the wilderness, but I also love sharing in the wonder with close friends. Nature can be overwhelmingly spectacular and a second set of eyes help confirm the beauty does in fact exist.

A few weeks ago, a childhood friend came to visit DC for a few days. A shared fondness for adventure that has remained much unchanged since our kindergarten days set pace for the weekend. Also unchanged remains the constant struggle of too many activities and too little time. With only a few days together, a creative combination of activities seemed the only solution. Even so, the options are many: kayaking and fly-fishing, backpacking and fly-fishing, [insert here] and fly-fishing. We decided that canoeing and fly-fishing down the Potomac River might be the best use of time. Is there a better way to sight see, visit historic towns, experience a culturally significant river, and catch some fish? If there is, I want to know… I need to know.

Fly-fishing is a sport that demands patience and focus, and I am easily distracted. My attention shifts from fishing to paddling a canoe, watching birds, or simply observing the shoreline. This would be a problem if I was fishing for sustenance and survival, but I’m not. I’m fishing to be outdoors and relax. I’m fishing to enjoy nature with friends. I have learned to embrace the distractions as reminders of the joy of being outside. The freedom to take a couple minutes or an hour to be still and observe leaves of a tree is an incredible freedom to have. Such was the mentality on our canoe trip. We set out to have fun and fish along the way and we accomplished both.

Warm weather and good flows and seemingly perfect smallmouth bass conditions was not reflected in the number of fish we caught. A wet spring and early summer shouldered much of the blame. Distractions to the angler could have been another reason. The handful of fish we managed to find came from slowly bouncing a crayfish pattern off the bottom. It seems the lethargic feel of the stagnant humid air had penetrated the water and only the slowest fly movements got a response.

The beauty of setting out with the objective of fun is that it is not dependent on fishing. While fishing certainly maximizes the fun, if the fish are not biting, it is important to reflect back on the number one goal: fun.

Photos Credits: Donnie Hedden and his Polaroid camera

The Potomac River

April 28, 2015 Parker Clemens

Like a mangy dog, the Potomac River can be a little off putting at times but it is always loyal. No matter how much trash and waste we dump into the river, the shad return every spring. Anglers eagerly await the arrival of these fish, desperate to be outside fishing after a long winter.

A wooden row boat with Charlie on the oars brings us towards the center of the river where there is a little more current and the depth is around 20ft. Here, a rope tied to a rock anchors us in place. The fish are somewhere below us, so we row and anchor in several spots until we find where they are holding. Once the seam is located, the excitement begins.

Repeating the same cast with the same drift and the same retrieve brings in dozens of shad, one after the other. If this sounds repetitive, it's because it often is, but only in the literal definition of the word. There is no lost excitement in catching fish after fish and even when the next bite is expected, the thrill remains.

I often wonder where old fishing tropes find their origins. I can remember watching the cartoons of my childhood where the character reels in everything and the kitchen sink without catching a single fish. Tires, tin cans, and after fighting what finally seems like a trophy catch, out pops an old boot. The fisherman sits defeated, watching the boot drearily bobbing at the end of the rod, slowly draining a soggy heel full of water back into the river. Yes, the old boot is a classic, and while I never learned its origin, it remains the most iconic.

Perhaps this explains my excitement when I saw a hiking boot floating 30ft away in the Potomac current. I knew this was my chance to fulfill the old trope (albeit intentionally), and pay homage to the cartoons I grew up watching.

I cast in the direction of the boot, which was now downstream of the boat, and I missed. I picked up the line and recast, stripping my flies back until I felt tension. The boot fought harder than any fish that day and seeing it attached to my line produced the biggest smile of the day. Landing the boot was met with triumphant chuckles and joyful hoots from neighboring boats. I felt like I had officially joined an elite brotherhood of anglers, initiated into the Brotherhood of the Boot.