I only lived in Pennsylvania for seven years. But the quantity and quality of the angling I squeezed in during grad school and my first career was remarkable. Primarily focusing on spring creeks, with the overwhelming majority  of the time on three in particular, I can’t fathom how many  days of my life were spent stalking Keystone trout.

While I’ve logged more hours fly fishing in Pennsylvania than in any other state, the list of different streams I’ve fished in Virginia is the longest by far. Driving down either side of the Shenandoah National Park, there are memories linked to countless trailheads and bridge-side parking spots. There are plenty of brook trout creeks south of the park and, further west, in the George Washington and Jefferson National Forests that I have spent time on. I have ticked a lot of larger rivers and spring creeks off my Old Dominion list, but the mountain streams have worn the soles off of multiple pairs of wading boots.

There was the fishing that occurred alongside the outings when a friend and I performed amateur biological surveys with the blessing of the Department of the Interior. Often these days started in the dark and ended in the dark. Multiple times have I been fishing a stream with the strong, sneaking suspicion that I had been there before.  In all likelihood, I was in the same pool that I had stood in a decade or more before.

There were the fledgling moments of my fly fishing journey, when I was taken wherever I could tag along. The rivers we fished weren’t my choice. And the rivers that we  fished when the first river of the day wasn’t working out so well weren’t my choice either. Add to that tributaries, feeder creeks, and random “maybe there’s something under this bridge” stops, and did a pretty good job of dotting the states’ blue lines.

But there are still so many brook trout streams to fish.

I currently live in New England, where there are incalculable miles of excellent brook trout water that I feel like I have only dipped my toe in. Because of family visits I find myself back in Virginia at least twice a year.  As much as is appropriate, I venture out for some fly fishing. Thinking through my options, the brook trout of the Appalachians win out  more often than not.

Such was the case on a recent trip south. Looking at a map of the ridges and hollows (hollers, ’round there), my curiosity was piqued by a creek that I was confident I had never seen with my own two eyes. I had read about it. I had deliberated about fishing there. I had fished the rivers immediately adjacent to it. But a few of the distinguishing features reaffirmed I had never been there before. The parking lot is unique. The geology is noteworthy. I’m not above forgetting; but this was indeed new to me.

So I went. And I caught fish. The trout were the normally spectacular  brookies of the region. Their colors were amazing. They hit with vigor. They weren’t pushovers, but I didn’t need 7X tippet and camo. I am certainly not downplaying the joy of the brook trout.

Yet the biggest kick I got was from fishing another new stream in the state I have canvassed with a fly rod. There are assuredly many anglers who have fished more rivers in Virginia than I have,  but I still love the experience of seeing another creek. I am happy to catch fish. But I am happy to explore. I am happy to return to favorite haunts. But I am happy to continue rounding out the personal map that I know so well from poring over guidebooks. It is all good.

There is a same-but-different surprising familiarity that keeps my coming back to new water.