Falling Down

Getting skunked is a humbling experience, and so is falling into the water. If I had to choose, I would take the plunge if it meant catching fish. Of course no one has the privilege to choose when the fish will bite or when the foot will stumble or to experience neither or both. 

On this trip I caught fish. I also fell into the water. If it was only a brief dunk and bruised ego, it really wouldn't be worth mentioning; I fall a lot. But this fall reminded me of the real threat, ever present, whenever alone in the wilderness. 

This particular stream is remarkable for its sheer grade. It drops down the side of a mountain like a gigantic set of stairs, water pouring down as if there is a busted pipe in an upper story bathroom. Except the rise between each step is 10-20ft of granite and above each waterfall there is a pool teeming with brook trout. 

Among such rugged beauty one can be forgiven for getting distracted by the splendor. Unfortunately the river does not share such sentiment. One misstep on a steep rock can be your last and this is where I made my mistake. I was reaching for a branch that had unfortunately  fastened itself to my fly and put all my weight on a rock that caught just enough spray from the descending water. It was like stepping on a maxed out treadmill. Immediately my feet were no longer under me, but level with my waist, my body rotated 45 degrees momentarily floating above the rock ledge. This is where I credit a childhood spent skateboarding… I know how to fall and what to protect. In that aerial moment, I sent my rod flying vertical and gripped my head with both hands preparing for the backwards assault. My back and shoulders made first contact with the rock before momentum took over. I bounced down the rocks end over end like a breadstick. I stuck the landing in the way a bag of flour sticks the landing off the counter with a thud and guttural exhale, there may have even been a cloud of dust. They say water can act as hard as concrete when struck from a certain height… I don't know what they say about hitting six inches of water over a bed of gravel from about seven feet, but it felt like concrete. 

Laying in the water blankly looking up at where I was seconds ago, Royal Wulff still thoroughly attached to the tree, it took some convincing that I did not in fact hit my head and that pain in my extremities was in fact a good sign. My fly rod, in some form of solidarity, followed me down the falls. The four piece rod lived up to its name, each section separating and hidden below white water. I would have never found all the pieces but for that #16 Wulff, vibrating away in the tree as water crashed against the fly line. The very source of my descent yet also my redeemer. I reeled the spooled out line until I could follow the tension to the next rod section, working my way back up the rocks...slowly. Once more I found myself in the same situation, rod back together, fly stuck in tree. After such a debacle I was not going to lose this fly. It seemed symbolic or at least consolatory. This time, with utmost prejudice I chose a dry rock in which to put my trust and body weight. As if to say, “we are not all treacherous,” it lifted me to recover the fly. 

The next cast, a brook trout violently swiped my fly off the surface seemingly unaware or uncaring of the story below. To some extent so was I, because moments after grappling with my mortality, I found myself right back to grappling with those voracious little trout.

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.

Spring Creek Summer

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.