I’ve driven on Maryland’s I-70 countless times over the years. Most of the miles have been on the stretch between Frederick and Hagerstown. I’ve taken a handful of drives further west, either to continue to the extreme end of the state to fish the Savage River and the Youghiogheny, or to take the spur up to the Pennsylvania turnpike. It is a beautiful drive, with some pretty spectacular vistas as you descend South Mountain.

Something you notice as you come down this gap with a view of the entire valley is the patchwork spread of farmland. Aside from the highway, the only exceptions to this pattern are small settlements spiked with silos or church steeples and tree lines curving and snaking irrespective to the fields’ organization. All too often, the creeks concealed in these trees are creeks in the most basic sense of the word: small, flowing waterways. Channelization, irrigation, agricultural chemicals, and general human impact have led to siltation, increased temperatures, and the virtual elimination of native flora and fauna.

Perhaps the fact that they’ve persevered in spite of these remarkable challenges is why the spring creeks of the Mid-Atlantic are cherished by fly fishers. Even the spring creeks that are less productive seem to garner a greater reputation than perfectly serviceable freestone streams. Certainly the unique ecology, robust insect life, and fat trout are a part of it. But spring creeks are beloved.

Beaver Creek, a typical spring creek for the region, flows just east of Hagerstown and under I-70. The stream actually originates as a small brook that tumbles down South Mountain. However once the stream meets up with the water from a large spring just north of the highway, the whole ecosystem changes. The creek cools, widens, and becomes a viable trout fishery.

But all of that is from the Fish and Wildlife Service’s website. I’ve never fished on Beaver Creek.

Aside from perhaps a subconscious acknowledgment that there is some flowing body of water that I’ve passed over immediately after cruising by exit 35, I can’t say that I’ve ever seen it. I’ve fished most of the famous (and some of the not-so-famous) spring creeks in the “limestone belt,” but never wet a line on Beaver.

How can that happen; living and fishing in an area for years and passing up a noteworthy creek? The fly shop I worked at carried Gelso and Coburn’s Guide to Maryland Trout Streams, and I can’t believe that I never read about Beaver Creek as I perused the little yellow paperback. I understand that it isn’t as prominent as Mossy Creek in Virginia or Falling Springs in Pennsylvania, but to think that I drove by it over and over again without paying any mind?

Maybe you fish Beaver Creek and think that I’m making much to do about nothing. That it is a fine little stream, but it isn’t worth getting all broken up about if I’ve fished there. Conversely, you could be a devotee of Beaver and feel strongly that I should lose my spring creek credentials for ignoring your local gem. Regardless of the trout I will or won’t catch, I do want to fish there – and hope to do so sometime this year. More important in my mind is the question of how anglers pick and choose where to fish. Why, all variables such as distance, aesthetics, productivity, etc. being equal, do we fish stream X and lake Y, but never river A or pond B?

Although I still can’t believe it, I think I can claim ignorance on this one. Like somehow I knew Beaver Creek was out there, I just didn’t think it was convenient. I know that ignorance is a reason many anglers pass up very fishable water. Even in the internet age, or the previous decades where thick guidebooks detailed any trickle that have ever held a fish, it is definitely possible to miss out on local waters if you aren’t looking. Most fly fishers don’t mind some anonymity for their favorite spots. That is, until the call needs to go out for a funding a conservation project.

Alternatively, the fact that Beaver Creek didn’t have a dedicated fly fishing only, catch and release section until the early 2000’s could have deterred me. I am, and have been for a long time, completely aware that the best fishing isn’t always between the special regulation signs. But I’m guilty of defaulting to that stereotype. If that is the case, Beaver is one of many streams that I essentially turned my nose up at for the wrong reasons.

As I think about it, I think that missing out on a stream has more to do with the circles that anglers travel in. The vast majority of the waters that I fish are places that friends and mentors have revealed to me. I have blazed my own trail and tried new waters on solo ventures, but even those places were chosen by some sort of word-of-mouth recommendation. There is hope and assurance in this personal vouching. The closest thing to a guarantee in fishing is knowing that a friend with similar angling skills has caught a fish in a particular place.

It isn’t like I don’t desire solitude. Being on a stream by myself is one of the best parts of fly fishing.  But you can fish somewhere with someone without both being present at the same time. Like all of life’s relationships, fishing with someone is more than standing in water and casting a fly.

Consequently, there is a dichotomy in being a part of the fly fishing community. On one hand, you want to travel to and with the familiar. There are fewer things more rewarding than becoming closely acquainted with the rocks, logs, and currents of a stream. Often, the only thing that trumps such an experience is being able to share those moments with someone who can relate and reflect alongside you. But outside of the few young, untethered, and adventurous among us, we’re limited in our options. Time, resources, and exposure limit the days on the water and the miles we can travel to get there. So we stick with what we know to maximize our chances to be in rivers and into fish.

Until an opportunity presents itself, that is. A move, an article, a new friend. Then our horizon broadens a bit, and we have a new place to fish. With that comes everything that we love about this pursuit: new flies, new fly shops, new restaurants, new history, and new fish. I’m excited that Beaver Creek might open up some of these things to me as I return to the Mid-Atlantic and the drive is an easy one. I’m also excited about grafting all of that into the angling relationships that I have, and making Beaver Creek – and all of the rivers, lakes, and ponds that may come along – part of the bigger picture.