Brothers, Fly fishing, and the Potomac River

Blood on the River is the title that I might lead with if I intended for a heart felt dialogue about the familial bond between brothers and the commonality among fly fishermen. The truth is, A River Runs Through It covered that topic pretty well, and besides, my brother doesn’t really fly fish.

My brother and I are similar in many ways, but we have our differences. We have different priorities and different hobbies. But something we do share is an appreciation for quality time with each other and quality time in the outdoors. We are intentional about spending time together. Sometimes these fraternal hangs meet on neutral ground, but most recently, we met in my arena.

After departing early from work on Thursday, I picked up my brother in Georgetown and we headed up river. Two miles later, the noises of the city gave way to the soothing chatter of birds and the soft rhythmic thumping of rain hitting damp leaves. The air was thick and wet, a steady back and forth between heavy mist and light drizzle. To many folks in D.C., it was a dreary day, but to those fortunate enough to be fishing on the Potomac, it was perfect conditions. As might be expected on a rainy Thursday afternoon, the usually bustling Fletcher's Cove was empty save for a few other fishermen silently combing the water. We arrived at slack tide and watched as the current shifted, pulling towards the Chesapeake Bay. The return of movement to the water prompted a flurry of activity on the surface. It looked as if some unseen persons were lobbing handfuls of gravel across the entire river. The splashes most likely belonged to gizzard shad swiping the surface. Every few minutes, a big kerplunk turned our heads just in time to see bubbles and rings sent out from some mystery fish. I have heard that the larger splashes are from catfish jumping, but I know that carp also join in the acrobatics. Fish of many sizes jumped all around us.

I rowed our small wooden boat into a seam and dropped anchor. I quickly hooked several fish. The hickory shad dominated the catch, but a few herring also made it to the boat. Once I selfishly confirmed that the fish were biting, I shifted from angler to instructor. I handed my brother the 8wt rod and gave him a few casting tips, 10 and 2...allow the line time to unfold...let the rod do the work. I wanted to believe that my brother heard to my instruction only to be betrayed by his stubborn arm movements. He tried and often failed to maximize casting distance, repeatedly swinging the rod past the two o’clock position resulting in a finely coiled fly line plopping down on the water. But we pressed on and there were moments of brilliance exemplified by outstretched line and leader. My brother progressed, and more importantly, my brother caught fish entirely on his own: cast, retrieve, hookset, fight, land, unhook, release, high five.

A friend, Charlie Church, hooks into a shad upstream of my brother and me. 

Family and fly fishing are two beautiful things and I am hopeful that they will continue to overlap more in my life. 

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

Harpers Ferry

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

My friend, Steve, fighting a catfish.

The Potomac River

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.

Photo: Charlie Church

Photo: Charlie Church

Photo: Charlie Church

Photo: Charlie Church

Photo: Charlie Church

Potomac Shad

Before moving to the east coast, I had never heard of shad. Four years later, I have become well acquainted with this herring like fish affectionately dubbed ‘the poor man’s salmon.’

Any half respectable fisherman in the DMV (DC, Maryland, Virginia) area will tell you with wide eyes about shad season. It is a saving grace for those beaten down by winter. It is a promise of spring and new life. It is a reason to go outside. Perhaps most of all, shad season is a chance to catch an obscene amount of fish.

Winter limits my fishing options to where I often find myself driving further and further out of the city in search of fish. However, everything changes with the arrival of spring and the annual shad run. Not only do my fishing options increase, but the fish come to me. In fact, I don’t even need to drive anywhere. Eight miles on my bike and I am in the middle of the action.

The Potomac River at Fletchers Cove, just above Georgetown, is as good a place as any to catch shad. Rent a wooden rowboat from Fletcher’s Boathouse, paddle out, drop anchor, and start casting. This is no secret and there is often a wait list for the limited amount of boats.

Fly selection is not of great importance. I use short Clouser minnows of various colors because they are cheap and easy to tie. The biggest factor determining success is depth and location of the fly. The fish stack up in certain places and a sinking line is needed to reach them. More than once, fishermen in other boats have called out inquiring about my fly choice and I tell them, “It is a #6 white Clouser, but the fly is not that important. You just need to paddle around and keep casting until you find a school of fish.” Once you find a school, there is a good possibility for constant hook ups upwards of 50 fish.

Although fishermen have caught high numbers of shad in recent years, the population of both American and hickory shad is still at a fragile level compared to past numbers. The sad and redundant theme of human caused decline through over fishing, pollution, and river obstruction once again rears its ugly head. Efforts are currently being made to increase the fish populations and return significance to this historic species. In addition to large scale stocking, a moratorium on American shad has been in effect since 1982 and all hickory shad also must be returned to the water.

I remain optimistic for the future of these fish. Still, the tales of old serve as a painful reminder of what could have been; prolific runs of fish beyond imagination. In the early 1600s, famous explorer John Smith noted that the fish were “...lying so thicke with their heads above water, as for want of nets we attempted to catch them with frying pans.” As for the now, I will stick with my fly rod and enjoy any fish I am fortunate enough to catch.

See you on the river this spring.

Photo: Charlie Church

An unexpected bi-catch. Photo: Charlie Church