It probably isn’t normal for a teenage fly fisher to consider streams two hours away as his home waters. Yet living in Northern Virginia, I grew up fishing and dreaming of fishing on the cold, trout-filled waters of South Central Pennsylvania. The Yellow Breeches, Big Spring, and The Letort were where I fished. There were plenty of opportunities to catch fish close by. But by my estimation: why settle for second best?

The fishing was good, but part of the allure was the legacy of the region. My local library had a number of volumes written by Pennsylvania authors such as Vince Marinaro, Charlie Fox, and Ed Koch. I was learning fly fishing, and I was learning fly fishing history. Specifically, I was soaking up the history of the Cumberland Valley.  I’d check out, read, and reread everything about the spring creeks around Carlisle cover to cover. Wondrous battles with trout of mythic size and intellect were digested and meditated upon. Photographs from the ’50s were analyzed to try and ascertain locations.

What quickly became my favorite book is titled Limestone Legends. Collecting the papers of the Fly Fishers’ Club of Harrisburg, the stocky paperback was a treasure trove. It was the angling history of my home waters, in the words of the men who fished it in its heyday. The library didn’t have it, but the local bookstore did. I’d sit in the aisle and read selection after selection. Eventually I wanted it for my own bookshelf. I received it for Christmas.

Before my senior year of high school, I attended the Pennsylvania Rivers Conservation & Fly Fishing Youth Camp. Held on the banks of the Yellow Breeches, I was enraptured by every element of the week. The fishing was spectacular. The education was world-class. The time with my peers was excellent. But I was incessant in talking to the counselors, who were mostly locals, about their recollections of the area. One of the directors, Rod Cross, had the right combination of tolerance, patience, and interest to engage me in a handful of these conversations. He asked how a Virginia boy became so interested in their little streams. I told him about my fishing and my reading – including my fondness for Limestone Legends.

One evening that week we had just finished dinner and were preparing for an evening of fishing. Rod came over to me, pointed to an older man, and said, “do you know who that is?” I didn’t. Upon arriving at camp, I had scoured the agenda and speaker list for names I recognized. By that time I had already put a name with every face. “Remember that story in your book about the washtub trout?” Rod asked. “Come meet Mr. Chestney.”

“The Washtub Trout” was one of the selections in Limestone Legends that I read over and over again while sitting on the bookstore floor. The paper, originally presented in  1992, outlined a remarkable occurrence on Big Spring Creek from the 1940s. Two massive trout were trapped in a pool under a mill that had been running all day. A 17 year-old boy was the first to spot them. As an angler, he had the kind of reaction to two trout over 30 inches that you might expect. One of the fish was captured by a game warden and became somewhat of a local sensation. The other escaped, only to be caught later and become the subject of another chapter in the book: The Monster of Big Spring.

The boy who came across the trout? It was a young Jim Chestney. In meeting him, I wasn’t captivated because of  a big fish. His words – words that I had read countless times – painted a picture of a time when the Cumberland Valley and the fly fishing and the world were simpler: farmers sitting around a country mill, shooting the breeze; boys catching brook trout for their grandparents’ table; a big fish that made waves for miles. Mr. Chestney saw things I had only read about. Half a century prior, he had walked a path that I was only stepping on here and there.

I asked about the trout in the washtub. He said it was big, but the other one was indeed bigger. I asked about fly fishing Big Spring. He reiterated the position he stated in his paper: the creek is a pale shadow of its former self. But he was optimistic about local fly fishers and their efforts, and about the next generation represented by the Rivers Camp. We talked for a few minutes, and then I was herded outside to get my waders on for a few hours of evening fishing.

Just last week I received an email from the Cumberland Valley Chapter of Trout Unlimited. Jim Chestney passed away on September 26th, 2019. He was 90 years old.

The quarry of fly fishing is worthwhile. Catching trout is fun – sustaining, even. But the culture of fly fishing adds a level of richness that goes beyond besting a fish. Intrinsic to that culture are the people, places, and things that go into the pursuit of catching fish. Only one of those is capable of holding a conversation. Only one is capable of communicating memories. Places and things carry meaning, but more often than not the meaning is still tied up in the conversations and memories of people.

Through one published paper and one brief personal interaction, Jim Chestney added some measure of depth to every cast I’ve made and trout I’ve caught on Big Spring Creek in Newville, Pennsylvania. Along with so many other men and women, he laid some portion of a pathway for those who would come after him. It is a gift. As often is the case, some of the most significant gifts aren’t extravagant. They are simple and real and relatable. In fly fishing, these are the gifts that perpetuate a culture. These are gifts that manifest through time on the water, conservation, and contemplation. These are gifts that we should readily receive, and ones that we, too, should be ready to give.

 

 

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Do yourself a favor, and buy a used copy of Limestone Legends. When you get it, be sure you turn to page 278 and read “The Washtub Trout” first.