
I never saw myself as the chain-yourself-to-a-bulldozer, repel-from-a-dam-to-paint-a-crack type. But I wasn’t totally disengaged from the environmental side of fly fishing. As a teenager I had been involved in some conservation. Stream clean ups, seminars, science fair projects – those sorts of things.
So I was a little surprised at myself at what I did on the stream that day.
***
It was summertime, and a friend and I had quite the day fishing. I can’t remember how it started, but I know that it involved catching catfish and carp on the fly way before it was a thing. We were flabbergasted, and admittedly somewhat put off that we weren’t catching bass. Today I know our responses would be much different.
New to driving ourselves around, we bounced from spot to spot. Towards the middle of the day we had found our way to a local creek that we routinely passed, but had never fished before. In the heart of suburban hustle and bustle, the word was that the smallmouth action was decent. We rigged up and began to walk upstream.
Then it happened. Under a noisy, northern Virginia overpass, I had my throw-red-paint-on-a-fur moment.









