After thinking and writing about the progress on Big Spring Creek in Pennsylvania last week, it got me thinking about other famous streams that have fallen on hard times. Largely due to the impacts of poor fisheries management and/or environmental neglect, some of the rivers that our grandfathers lauded as destination waters have declined in one way or another. The quantity or quality of the fish just isn’t there anymore. There are still fish present, and there is still good fishing to be had, but things have changed. And people don’t like change.
We could argue the various and sundry issues that face our rivers all day long. Everyone has an opinion as to what the real culprit or culprits are. I’ve heard that the real problem comes from corrupt state agencies, climate change, invasive species, fast action fly rods, twenty-somethings in flat-brimmed hats, strike indicators, the picture of the fish strung up on the Eagle Claw snelled hook package, the media, the internet, or, of course, bait fishermen. Some of those are worthy of consideration, others are simply the curmudgeonly rants of disenfranchised fly fishers. But should any of it keep us off those creeks?
No way. But in just the past year I’ve had two fly shop employees give me the smirk-and-huff routine when I mentioned I was either just at or on my way to one of these streams.
I get it. They are “overrated.” Sure, there are plenty of other secret and under-the-radar waters where the trout grow fat on the self-righteous oil slick of certain fishermen. But those places weren’t where I wanted to fish.
One was the Beaverkill. A friend and I were up on the West Branch of the Delaware for a weekend, and the rain had been torrential prior to our arrival. We’d been catching fish, but the flows were a little bit wonky and it wasn’t spectacular. I love the history of fly fishing, and I’d never been on the Beaverkill. We fished the Junction Pool or the headwaters made famous by Lee Wulff. We had a blast. The trout weren’t huge, nor were they as strong as the torpedoes of the Delaware. But we had fun in a beautiful place.
“Oh… yeah, we here in the shop don’t fish there that much.” Well good thing, because when I was there I saw a guy with a… wait for it… spinning rod. That would have really gotten their streamers in an articulation.
The other was Mossy Creek in Virginia. I lived in the state for over 10 years and just never made the trip. Last winter I had a day to fish while visiting family, and I decided to finally fish what is debatably the most well-known creek in the Old Dominion. It was cold and I was harassed by cows for the two hours I got to fish, but I was able to get into some nice browns. Again, I had a great time.
It wasn’t like fishing in Kamchatka (in ten years, I’m sure you’ll hear that everyone goes to Kamchatka). But it was fishing on a remarkable stream that I had wanted to fish for a long time. “Mossy isn’t worth a drive anymore,” growled Grumpy McTies-flies-for-a-living. “I could tell you five streams that you would have caught more fish in.” I could have told him why more people are buying their tying materials online.
If you’re into fly fishing just to catch fish, then there are trout farms a-plenty that cater to that desire. Admittedly, there is a lot of water that is incredibly productive. Those, unlike the farms, are candidates for being the next passé, overrated river. Sadly, one overturned tanker truck, magazine article, or clump of rock snot can make it the stream that our grandkids hear us reminiscing about.
Thankfully, places like Mossy Creek and the Beaverkill River are still very viable fisheries. Beautiful scenery, historic significance, and more than enough trout to keep one interested make them worthwhile. Fly fishing always has been about the fish and what goes into pursuing them (some might say the quarry and the culture… hmm…). Fishing where Lee Wulff fished is fun to experience. Spending the day on a spring creek that you’ve read about for years is going to be, in one way or another, a pleasure.
In closing, I kind of want to give the fly shop guys the benefit of the doubt. Not to wax all psychological about it, but maybe their façade of indifference or indignation was a defense mechanism to cope with a loss. Maybe they knew those rivers when they were the places that journalists wrote about, famous angling personalities made their homes, and the fish grew fat on bountiful hatches of nostalgia. Maybe early in the season, right at dawn, they go to those rivers and smile warmly at how in a certain light the water is the same as it has always been.