Can we fish in your creek?

“Sure. Um… what’s in there?”

I don’t know. But there has to be something.

***

We had passed by the creek countless times. It was always just scenery. It was never the destination. If anything, as a small tributary, it was an afterthought. The Potomac is a big river. It is intimidatingly big. There are bass and musky and who knows what in that waving grass and off those rock ledges. But there are a lot of those spots and a lot of water. That is why we usually just drove over the Potomac. That  is why we usually drove past the creek.

To be fair, we didn’t know about the creek for a few years. The mouth of the little creek is obscured by dense foliage. You can’t see it from the highway. It was a wrong turn that took us west and over the little culvert-bridge. Even then we didn’t have any desire to fish there. The NO TRESPASSING signs were the first deterrent. The real reason is more embarrassing now. The creek didn’t have a name or a reputation. Why fish there?

As the years went on we became more adventurous. Surprising fish in surprising places reoriented the lenses we used when we fished. We also didn’t want to drive so far. Trout were two hours away. Premier bass rivers were just as far. We had fished enough to know there were bass nearby. Suburban ponds and ditches running behind strip malls held fish. In some ways there was more adventure in finding these fish than in fooling finicky spring creek trout. That realization came with time. It made for homegrown adventure. And it saved us gas money. We were seeking instant gratification and authenticity in equal measure.

The house closest to the creek sat on a high hill. We didn’t think much of driving up and asking to fish. After we ascended, the million dollar view had me a little nervous. We looked like we were two bindles away from being hobos. There were topiaries. We parked and walked up, together. The interaction couldn’t have been more benign. We assured the landowner that we practiced catch and release. She didn’t seem to mind one way or another. Instantly we felt privileged. We could fish this stream. We had access. We had permission.

We parked precariously on the side of the secondary highway. Poachers and trespassers move with subtlety. We rigged up at a leisurely pace because we had access and permission. Descending to the creek was hazardous. What the steep path lacked in convenience it made up in thorns, poison ivy, and loose soil. I fell once. The creek was cool, quick, and pristine. No trash or footprints or pressure. The first cast yielded a rock bass. Most casts yielded a rock bass. Each was a feisty as the one before it.

Rock bass are the RC Cola of panfish. You have that one uncle who eschews Coke and Pepsi. It is inexplicable, but he is content. For their own reasons, some people opt for rock bass. They are just a little different. That uniqueness makes them surprisingly enjoyable. Rock bass are quick to take a fly; be it on top or below the surface. They fight as hard as any fish. Their limiting factor is their stature. But everything is relative. A lightweight fly rod makes this tangibly evident. A lightweight fly rod makes a rock bass great fun. Or vice-versa.

The species of fish was beside the point. The fish themselves were almost beside the point. We were fishing our own stream. We didn’t discover it but we found it. It was close. It was practically invisible. We were hardly trailblazers. Still, it was different than following a map to a big parking lot with dozens of other anglers. It took a little bit of effort. It took some time. The payoff was worth it.

And there were also fish. Since it fed into the mighty Potomac, who knows what swims up there. Certainly more than rock bass. But that is all we caught. We had no regrets. I have no regrets. That creek and that experience is an example of what fly fishing really is about. It is about friends. It is about adventure. It is about catching the fish that is in front of you.