The Fuse – Jackson Browne: The Pretender, 1976
Singer-songwriters hit even better at 5 in the morning. Familiar lyrics accompany familiar highways. Alan and I were accustomed to the meandering route from Northern Virginia to South Central Pennsylvania. 7 to Leesburg, 15 north through Point of Rocks, past Big Hunting Creek in Thurmont, and then west over South Mountain in Cumberland County, PA.
We both cut our fly fishing teeth on the Yellow Breeches. With driver’s licences, wanderlust, and some fly shop tips we began to explore more rivers. More spring creeks. Spring creeks within a few hours of metro Washington, DC demanded an early start on Saturdays. Fish that were spooky and selective by nature didn’t tolerate being fished over multiple times in a morning.
Little Lies – Fleetwood Mac: Tango in the Night, 1987
The McDonald’s in downtown Gettysburg is at the far-right end of Hancock’s defensive position. Or, if you prefer, the far left edge of Pickett’s Charge. Regardless, this morning in the predawn hours they were playing synth-pop. Empty fast food restaurant music hits loudly. Especially at 6 in the morning.
Alan wasn’t always as concerned about lunch as me. So I wanted hotcakes and sausage and anything that would allow me to survive until late afternoon. Plus, I was dead set on digging my heels in and catching a trout on the Letort. Neither of us had ever been. But we had read, heard, and fantasized. It was the stuff of Mid Atlantic angling legend.
Twilight Zone – Golden Earring: Cut, 1982
Sunlight was breaking behind us as we crested the gentle hill coming out of Mt. Holly. The anticipation and the loud classic/prog/psychedelic rock hit just right and I tried to pass a car on the narrow road. Alan jerked the wheel back to the right and I played it off.
Soon enough we were in our waders. And in over our heads. We had fished spring creeks. We had fished spring creeks in South Central Pennsylvania. But nothing like the high grasses, muddy banks, waving aquatic vegetation, and swirling currents of the Letort. All these years later, I know there are fish there. That day? I was just trying to get my cress bug in the water.
No fish frustration is one thing. Snags, getting wet, and not seeing any fish frustration is a whole other level. It started to rain. We quit while we weren’t losing as badly as we could be losing.
Tuesday’s Gone – Lynyrd Skynyrd: (Pronounced ‘Lĕh-‘nérd ‘Skin-‘nérd), 1973
Twenty years later and I can’t remember after driving away from the stream. Not because of trauma or because I took a hit from something you’d pass around at a southern rock show. Because whether we went straight home in the late morning or just fished one of our safer creeks the rest of the trip wasn’t remarkable.
For whatever reason, the tracks of that morning and my first trip to a river I would come to fish regularly are clear in my mind. On my next visit I’d catch a small brown trout on a cress bug alongside an old bridge abutment. Years after, I’d move to Carlisle and fish the Letort multiple times a week. Countless fish, countless stories; but only a few that stand out as much as my first time and the river winning.
Back to the Beginning Again – Switchfoot: Fading West, 2014
The fish pictured above is my most recent trout from the Letort. I was driving through Pennsylvania and made a few hours for some casts. The brown and the nostalgia hit from an undercut bank making my day and my trip.
There are more productive waters I could fish when I’m in the Mid Atlantic. There are rivers I’ve never fished, that are worth exploring and discovering. That does happen. But it is okay to have a favorite record, and to have a favorite stream. In two decades’ worth of collected angling memories, this little creek gets a lot of playtime.