streamer — Blog — Parked Upstream

February is a bleak month in the nation’s capitol and for much of the east coast. Prolonged cold has finally permeated through our waters effectively shutting down the majority of our fisheries. It is a personal struggle to remain positive when my mood is directly correlated with my surroundings. But amidst the gloom, there are rays of hope. There is always hope. My hope lies in a chance encounter with my most favorite of coldwater friends, the trout.

After far too much time spent indoors, several friends and I headed west for the weekend, leaving behind a snowy cityscape for a snowy riverside campground in mining country, West Virginia. Arriving at the river in mid morning, we enjoyed a cup of coffee and took our time putting on waders and rigging our gear. The sun had not yet made it over the mountains and cold air hung stagnantly in the valley. Not until midday did the sun finally climb over the ridgeline and begin thawing the frozen ground.

The trout did not seem to notice the rising temperature and our hopes for more active fish were dashed. Aquatic lethargy and sparse hook ups remained the theme of the day. In a bid to discover the winning fly combination, each of us rigged up a streamer rod in addition to a nymph rod. A constant theme in fishing (the unexpected) occurred. The largest fish of the weekend took a streamer, an aggressive eat despite 37 degree water temperatures.

In the late afternoon, the sun passed over the opposite ridgeline and temperatures plummeted, signaling the end to our day on the water.

Back at camp, a fire warmed our bodies and spirits while the stars supplied the evening entertainment. My stubborn decision to extend the show by sleeping under the stars resulted in a crisp night of little sleep. Condensation from the adjacent river and temps in the teens was more than my 20 degree bag could handle. The next morning, I was selfishly reassured in hearing that each of my companions had also passed the night in frigid discomfort.

Stoking yesterday’s coals, we reignited our campfire and cooked a hearty breakfast accompanied by piping hot coffee to dispel memories of the previous night. As my friends started upstream, I hung back at camp, piling small twigs on the bed of coals and leisurely sipping my coffee. With another cold day ahead of us, my top priority was making the most of the remaining time outdoors be it fishing for otherwise. A brief moment of reflection revealed that quietly sitting and listening to the crackle of twigs in the fire and muffled woosh of the river behind me was exactly what I wanted to be doing. I spent another hour slowly wandering around camp, cleaning up, and meticulously rigging my rods before joining the others upstream.

I caught no fish that weekend and I spent one of my colder sleepless nights in recent memory, yet I returned to the city refreshed and content. I am ready for more cold days ahead.

A year has passed since my last encounter with one of the large locals that call this river home. I ventured back in the fall of this year, hoping to meet his friends. A game of hide and seek is the best way to describe the pursuit of these large trout. The rocky bottom of this anonymous trout stream is covered in thick moss, making it nearly impossible to sight fish among the dark contrast. However, this day was the exception. A gentle breeze and mostly clear skies resulted in fine sighting conditions.

Bored from throwing indiscriminate casts in countless pools and watching an indicator, I wanted to see a fish. I wanted reassurement that they were still there in the river. I positioned myself on an exposed rock two feet above the water surface searching for something at which to cast. In between passing cloud cover, I scanned the surrounding pool for movement, or any sign of life. A subtle flash caught my eye revealing a 20” trout 30ft upstream from my rock platform. I locked eyes on this fish and proceeded to cast the contents of my fly box to no avail. I cast without an indicator, using 7x tippet and #22 midges and nothing would turn this fish.

After an hour of frustration, I let my gaze slip and my eyes wander. That is when I realized that I had been nearly lining another 20” trout 10ft closer than the one I had initially sighted. Hoping this gaffe hadn’t spooked the second fish, I repeated my efforts. Unfortunately, the same events unfolded producing the same results: fly box casted, no fish. I relented and called my upstream buddy, Charlie, to come take a shot at these two fish. Only it was like a different musician playing the same old tune… a sad one. With both of us past our breaking point, we opted to abide by the familiar mantra, go big or go home. Maybe throwing streamer could work? It certainly couldn’t hurt after we had all but given up on these fish.

I regained my position on the exposed rock, sighting the fish, while Charlie headed upstream to swing a streamer. As Charlie began to cast, the communication between us went as follows… Charlie: Is that enough line? Me: I think so, the fish is in the same spot, but I can’t see it now that the wind has picked up. Try that same cast agai…

Mid sentence, while trying to locate the fish beneath the surface chop, I glanced up to see Charlie’s rod bent in half and him reeling frantically. Completely dumbfounded, the only thing I could think to say was, “Dude, is that a fish?” Not that I needed an answer nor my question even warranted an answer, the fish provided one, thrashing along the surface. I sprang into action, ditching my outpost and grabbing the camera and net. Trying to keep my adrenaline in check, I anxiously waited until the fish was close enough to net (it is very important yet undeniably difficult to not get over eager on the net job). Charlie reeled the fish in, expertly lifting its head out of the water while I scooped with the net. Just like that, the fish that had eluded us for two hours lay in the net, a mouthful of streamer. Charlie found the fish we were looking for, a fantastic reward for our efforts. Watching a friend catch a quality fish is something I cherish. The rush is contagious and even if I’m not in the driver’s seat, I love being along for the ride. Trout City delivered and fish were friendly. I hope to be back soon.