It’s 9:25 AM now. I’m driving somewhere around the little Pennsylvania town of Bellfonte. My GPS device keeps telling me to make a left down a street that is clearly marked one way – the wrong way! Despite this fact I circle around twice and still make the turn only to have to veer off into a driveway or face a “chicken” confrontation with a daunting UPS delivery truck. My trusty little Navigation Device has been telling me since 4:30 AM that I would be succinctly arriving at my destination at exactly 9:02. Since leaving Buffalo city limits I had been calculating and recalculating that with 20 minutes to gear up, and 5 minutes of chit chat I could likely be into my first trout before 9:30am. Now it’s past that mark and I’m so desperate I might even ask for directions. Why is my new little digital global positioning device leading me astray? The day before I had Googled Fisherman’s Paradise and input the coordinates. But now as I’m scrolling through the map I realize I had input coordinates for a destination ACROSS the creek and not on any road. Mental note: only input addresses and intersections. I guess the one way street had just changed since my device was last updated. I sit there in the empty parking lot of a funeral home kicking myself mentally for a minute. I knew this was going to happen. I knew I was going to become one of those idiots that forget to follow their hard earned sense of direction. What’s worse is it only took 4 trips trusting the evil little device for me to throw good sense out the window. If I would have just used my good old DeLorme Atlas & Gazetteer printed on real trees I would be there by now. I lean back over the passenger side chair to find it’s not in its usual resting place because I didn’t bring it. Another mental lashing ensues. Oh well. Just like every other self righteous man in the world does when they are lost there is nothing left to do but drive! Drive until something looks familiar or you run out of gas. Just then a Text Message comes flying in past the car radio. It’s from Mark Hanes and reads: “2 nice browns all ready! Don’t forget your license!” A few more mental lashes. I did forget my license. I’m starting to get very impatient and my head is starting to bleed profusely form all these self inflicted ass kicking’s – metaphorically of course, but it still smarts.
This was not the plan. Not the plan at all. I was supposed to have landed and photographed 6 wonderful Spring Creek trout by now all the while laughing and looking like a hero in front of my fishing partners for the day. Instead I’m driving aimlessly around some odd looking suburb with baseball fields and a seemingly endless network of periodically changing one way streets. I contemplate the premise of not buying my license right away. What are the chances of getting checked I ask myself? If I have to go get it right now I’ll waste maybe another 30 or 45 minutes, right? That just won’t do. Ok, problem solved. I’ll fish without a license for the morning and then grab it at lunch. I mean, what’s the big deal? I’m going to buy it one way or the other – that’s for sure. Just then I realize what road I’m on and that there are 2 fly shops not more then a mile from current location. Ok, looks like I’ll get my license after all. The first shop is closed. That’s odd for this hour on a weekend day. Second shop is open. I run in and find two shop lack – one behind the counter chatting with a customer. The other on the phone obviously listening to some long winded story and trying to cut it short, but too shy to snip the cord. The counter lacky gives the phone lacky the “wrap it up” signal to which the phone lacky says: “I’m sorry sir we just got REALLY busy I need to go!” I’m one of two customers in the store. While phone lacky is typing up my license I do one of those running scans of the fly tying section for anything I might need. You know the one. That sneaky little side step with one eye on the lacky and one eye on the shelves like your team mate is about to bunt and you’re going to steal home. Aha! Root Beer Estaz and matching Palmer Chenille – that’s exactly what I need! When the phone lacky rings me up I ask him if he’s ever seen any Root beer Marabou? He says: “brown”? I say: “no, rootbeer.” He says: “no, but that’s a good idea. This is the stuff George Daniel won Nationals with!” I smile as I grab my license and chenille and say as I’m backing out of the store: “I know.” No time now to tell him that I was on a bus with the man and know full well what he won with because it’s the same stuff he more importantly used to personally beat me. No time for any of that now and quite frankly why would this poor minimum wage lacky who would probably rather be fishing care about it? However, I do say with a good amount of embarrassment as I’m backing out the door: “which way to Fisherman’s Paradise?
So, “paradise” was one left directly back down the road from hence I came underneath a huge green state highway sign entitled: “Fishermans Paradise 1 Mile.” I look momentarily at my GPS device wondering how it would look in flight when that late morning hunger strikes. As I reach back to grab one of the sandwiches I made the night before I realize I’ve forgotten them. 4 beautiful Salami on Rye with Provolone and Spicy Mustard sandwiches sitting at home in the fridge next to last nights meatloaf left-overs. 4 lovingly made sandwiches only constructed the way a fisherman can when he’s lost in daydreams of an upcoming trip. You know the kind, where each slice of meat is folded and layered accurately to allow for little gaps of air. With a little gourmet pepper to finish. Then cut and stacked and wrapped like bricks of tasty little gold. Tasty little morsels of deli wonder sitting at home now safe and sound. I’m sure my son will enjoy them.
As I round the last bridge and enter the park M.H. is working the “no wade” section waiting patiently for his inept traveling fishing partner. As I pull up, radio blaring, he tells me he just released a gorgeous 15 inch brown and that they are “hugging the bank”. I for one won’t hold it against him. As I pull ahead to gear up I find the parking lot absolutely full! Not a single open slot in the some 30 odd parking spaces. For a moment fear grips my heart as I imagine 2 anglers spaced out every 50 feet of the stream. But on closer inspection I realize all the vehicles are official “PA Fish & Boat Commission” types. Must be a big regional meeting or something. Hopefully it’s not some new annual employee fishing trip. Luckily it’s the former. Can you imagine though? You’ve been driving since dawn only to arrive at your destination and find that every game warden in the state has taken the day off to fish together. Good thing I bought my license.
What is it about a flowing stream that calms and captivates the angler? Trout are most certainly the quarry, but the stream is the playing field. And whether it be a day or a year a true fisherman savors that moment when they return to the game. Walking out across some grassy pitch and kneeling at her side you turn a rock, test the water temperature, and remember the 1000 other times you’ve done the same. We are grown men playing the game of our lives.
But on a more biological level I always marvel at a simple astonishing phenomenon. The kind of thing a child might be amazed at: that streams keep flowing! It’s down right magical. Where the heck does all that water come from? Year after year water keeps spilling over the same old rocks – in some streams the same ones I sat on as a child and wondered the same innocent thought. Of course, any good study of watershed economics would immediately tell you that “perennial” streams – the kind that can hold trout are actually fed by a complicated supporting network of momentary streams. “Ephemeral” streams, named aptly so, are small fleeting rivers that form as rainfall makes its way down the high country side. Ephemeral flows become “intermittent” streams fed by groundwater and can only be seen above ground during wet periods of the year. “Perennial” streams are the evolution of all these “Feeders”. Way back in the mountains you will find the origin of these streams, often seemingly appearing out of thin air. And where do they all go? First order streams intersect with other first order streams to form second order streams, then third order streams, and so on, and on, and on toward the ocean. When we talk of “washing” our thoughts or our troubles away we are really only sending them on a journey. Just like each drop of water that is destined to flow in rivers and course through the high seas only to evaporate and return to the ephemeral bed of its birth. By chaotic providence all that we esteem to wash away in rivers will some day return. In a universe of transformation there is only a transition of form. I take deep solace in that.
All of this poetic aggrandizing actually takes place in a single moment though. The moment my hand touches the water. But enough of that self philanthropic banking – there’s fish in them yonder riffles!
As I pull on the last of my high tech underclothing – the kind that makes you look like a real winter athlete despite your beer belly, but keeps you slightly less warm then good old wool sweaters M.H. comes bouncing around the corner. There is a noticeable “pep” in his step – the kind of cheerful mid morning gate an angler has when he thinks the fishing is going to be relatively prolific. We stand around for a bit jiggling my new Cabelas 9ft 6inch 3wt CZN in the air. It’s a crisp little stick. Light as can be, but with a bit of fiber to its back. We use words like “Dampening” and “Tracking”, but unfortunately no one is within ear shot to take in our authoritative remarks. The same genre of fancy words connoisseurs use to describe fine wine and cheese at the beginning of a night, but later when they are “good and sauced” can’t help but think this is just some good olde “fermented grapes and cows milk”.
Fisherman’s Paradise was obviously named thusly for both its fertile population of wild trout, but probably more importantly its easy access. After all, it’s not necessarily this writer’s view of the world, but we know many fishermen enjoy easy access trout streams. You can clearly see this fact evidenced by car ridden bridges and state access parking lots from Provincetown to Seattle.
As we walk up the stately pea gravel packed ATV size path flanking the stream we meet Nick Naclerio and his wife. She’s sitting on the river edge looking a bit peeved, but mostly bored with the current state of “catching” going on. We exchange pleasantries and then give them a wide birth. The next good section is coincidentally the very same beat I had on the first morning of the 2009 National Fly Fishing Championship. Kalvin Kaloz was my controller for that session and I remember exactly where we had a chat as I strung my rods and leaned them neatly against a large overhanging tree separating the lower “riffle” section of my beat and the upper “slow glide”. About 10 feet off that position where the slow, quiet still water of a long featureless glide begins to pick up steam for the journey down a succession of reinforced step ladder riffles is where I tagged my single barely measurable brown trout and avoided that dreaded first session blank. Unfortunately, every other angler in the group also tagged at least one fish so I might have well took a nap and blanked or maybe a few beers with Kalvin at the local pub would have been a nice way to spend 3 hours. That was almost 2 hours into a 3 hour beat swinging double streamers on a type 3 full sink. A type 3 because the type 5 was just a little too fast for the turbulent dark chocolate rising waters. The exact conditions we had feared 10 hours earlier as local weathercasters were calling for heavy rain throughout the night which was coincidentally the same time we stopped frantically tying up size 22 red midges and started frantically tying size 1 Slumpbusters. But now, as I wave M.H. up to the next good spot Spring Creek is in beautiful mid winter shape. Not too high, not too low. Just right.
I choose the exact starting spot I began minute 1 at Nationals. It’s a triangular shaped peninsula formed by rail road trestles and crushed rock that focuses the streams flow enough to create pleasing runs and riffles. Pleasing both for oxygen seeking trout and the fisherman that seek them. With nearly endless visibility I tie on a long 20 foot “Euro Style” leader system – that’s competition jargon for a “whole mess of 25lb and 5x separated by a bright bouncy piece of mono”. I open up the fly palate and decide on a size 16 tanish olive scud tied on a Tiemco spbl2499 cress bug style with two strips of .25 lead fixed and crimped down the sides to give it more width than height. The scud has a nice little fluorescent orange hotspot I added purely as a passing thought back at the car. The scud goes on point and to accompany I add a nice little Micro May Fly on the 5inch dropper tag. The “Micro” is a big producer and catches fish just about everywhere I go. Not necessarily out of pure hard earned fly tying and fishing theory, but because there are always small bugs around and this particular fly imitates many of them. Could be a Baetis, could be a little black caddis, might be a midge. Hard to tell. Not only that but it tends to change as you fish it and the rattier and more beat up the better, but once the extra fine copper ribbing separates it’s time to retire it for another. I usually end up with a handful of these flies somewhere off in a corner of my fly palate each one with a long loose copper tag. I’ve thought about applying some super glue before finishing the fly, but it never ends up happening. She’s a delicate and beautiful little fly with a Coc De Leon tail of no more than 4 fine fibers tied long compared to the thin tapered body of thread. That would be the appropriate point to apply and dry a thin coat of super glue. Then I finish her with a sparse collar of multi faceted dubbing draped in a short section of small holographic tinsel and no finishing wraps before neatly whip finishing behind a copper, gold, or black 2.0mm Tungsten bead. Tied in black or olive it covers many forms of similarly sized aquatic insects.
First cast and I put the whole rig in a fan shaped branch just behind my head. I stand there for a moment with that half hearted smirk which says: oh, the delicious painful irony of it all. Realizing the branch is too high to reach and too stout to pull I give the whole rig a quick snap. It’s still hanging there.
All though the sun is shining elsewhere the section I’m fishing sits in the gradual tail-out of a Spring Creek gorge topography. I work my way through the midmorning shadowy darkness, changing a few flies here and there, but when I’ve reached M.H. at the big Tree I haven’t contacted nor spooked a single trout. Slow start to a slow morning. Seems appropriate. We decide to leap frog the slow stuff and bounce up to the next set of broken water. This time I take the lead and start in just above a downed tree which strides half the river width. The section above is rather flat and wide with 2 or 3 distinct riffles staggered side by side every 30 to 50 feet. Because there is a thorny stretch of pasture to our left the sun has found its angle and comes shining down on the water. My hopes are renewed. Funny how just a bit of warmth and light can do that to you. I tie on the same duo I left in a tree not 35 minutes ago and carefully start to pick apart the first riffle. Best to work from the tail in – you don’t want to just jump to the middle and suck out the tenderloin. You might miss a few little tasty side dishes. I realize right off the bat my tippet section is way too long for this water set. I’m also thinking that “leading” the flies isn’t the ticket, so I cut back the 5x below my sighter to about 2 feet and then re affix my flies with an arms length section of 6x. I run a bit of silicon down the sighter and a few inches up the end of my leader. Wiping off the floatant I then grab a bit of fullers earth mixture and slide it down the 2 feet of 5x. First cast and I hook a beautiful little brown trout – only about 5 inches long, a “dink” as Oliver Edwards would say, but it feels good to land that first fish of the day. Especially after my auspicious morning.
There is something palatable in the air now. I can almost feel that the fishing has turned on. Maybe it’s more confidence then any environmental change, but both have accounted for their own share of fish on many occasions. M.H. has leap-frogged me now and works the next section of riffles. I fade left a little and work a small, but swift shoot that flanks some overhanging weeds. It’s nothing more than a pittance of a channel, but it looks fishy. Taking care to slow down my casting stroke I lay out the curly monofilament indicator with tippet and flies splayed perfectly up stream. The individual coils of the indicator bounce and ripple ever so slightly with every single tickle of the waters changing direction. When the flies contact bottom or a fish you know instantly as one or more of the coils disappear, but more often then not they will just “act a little weird.” On the second cast you see the front coil suddenly turn and twitch. There’s nothing about it which screams “fish on”, but when some part of your cerebrum lifts the rod a pulsing 16inch class Wild Rainbow is taking you for a ride. And if you weren’t having so much fun you’d probably stop and take note of what happened, but those are the little lessons we mentally peruse as we’re lying in bed or driving to work the next day. I call to Mark: “this one’s got photo potential.” We snap a few pictures and take a moment to have some happy go lucky mystical flavored conversation about seeing a Bald Eagle on each of our last 3 trips while standing in the only strip of sun for as far as the eye can see. I can’t remember a lick of it though because I had a manure eating grin on my face and one thought on my mind: how much I love wild trout and spring creeks in the dead of winter.
Fri, Feb 5, 2010
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