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.

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.

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.