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.

WD-40 Midge

Flies are often tied more for the fisherman than the fish. We can't help ourselves, colorfully decorated hooks are appealing. When I look into my flybox the flashy ones draw my attention and I convince myself that they will do the same with trout. Little midges continually fight for my recognition yet they they deliver time and again. None more than the WD-40. It is little more than thread, dubbing, and wood duck feather and it needn’t be anything else. Trout love this fly. 

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

Los Padres Trout

There was once water in California. I have seen the evidence. Black and white photos commemorate the steelhead that frequented the rivers in the southern part of the state. Some still do, although they are few. It is the same old song, sad and redundant, humans came and nature left. Long since dried up creek beds offer bleak reminders of the life that once flowed through their veins. Yes, trout were here but they left with the water. Years of drought and diverting rivers for agriculture and growing populations has taken its toll. Fire is now more familiar than rain. Yet there is still hope in the hills. Faded green chaparral hides trickles if life.

Sespe Creek, hidden among the dusty hills of the Los Padres National Forest, offers a glimpse into what trout fishing in southern California might have looked like 100 years ago. The water still flows, but it is dominated by algal lined pools baking under the sun. Surprisingly, the water is much cooler than it appears. In fact it seems it could support trout. In fact it does.

A distinct shadow moves along the sandstone bottom. It is not living, but the one swimming above, responsible for the dark shape is alive. A precious seven inch rainbow trout moves slowly in the deep pool. The water seems stagnant, but its current is revealed in the bits of foam moving across the surface. There is movement, although it is not much, not enough for the trout to sit stationary so it moves, tracing the outline of the pool.

A single fly cast into the middle of the pool breaks the surface tension and slowly descends through the water column. It is a gold bead prince nymph. There is no indicator attached to the line because the water is clear and the sun reflects off the gold bead, shimmering as it sinks. The fish changes course ever so slightly, it does not speed up or slow down until the fly is directly in front. Then it pauses, watching the fly for a few seconds, deciding. The mouth comes open, sucking in water, as the fish ever so slightly lurches forward. It is amazing how carefully the trout approaches this action. A motion it has done thousands of times before. But there is good reason for hesitation and perhaps the trout should have hesitated longer, but it doesn’t and the hook brings the fish to the angler’s hand. A small silver spotted glimmer of hope remains in the hills of southern California.

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.