The Potomac is a big river. Flowing from  the steep hollows of western Maryland and West Virginia down into the tidal portions of Washington, DC, it is big. There are diverse sections of river, each with it’s own composition and angling opportunities. Downstream of historic Harpers Ferry, there are bass and musky hiding in waving grass and sitting along sharp rock ledges. The grass beds go on for hundreds of yards and there are countless rock ledges. As a young angler, that bigness was intimidating. I usually just drove over the Potomac, heading towards the more manageable trout creeks of Maryland and Pennsylvania.

That intimidation and perception of greener fly fishing grass was ultimately why we usually drove past the creek. Countless times I passed by the creek. It was always just scenery. It was never an object of curiosity, much less a destination.

As the years went on I became more adventurous. Surprising fish in surprising places reoriented the lenses used when viewing fishing. Convenience also played a significant role. As life became busier, driving two hours for trout every time I wanted to fish became less alluring. I had fished enough to know there were bass nearby; suburban ponds and ditches running behind strip malls held very good fish. In different, but in similarly compelling ways, there was more adventure in finding these fish than in fooling finicky spring creek trout. That realization came with time. It was about instant gratification, but it was more about authenticity.

The mouth of the creek is obscured by dense foliage. It is invisible driving past at 50 miles per hour on the highway. It was a serendipitous wrong turn that took me west and over the bridge.  There was water. There were also NO TRESPASSING signs. There was no harm in asking.

The house closest to the creek sat on a high hill. Ascending, the million dollar view and the topiaries had me a little nervous. My friend and myself,  two bindles away from looking like hobos, walked up to a bona fide mansion to ask permission to fish. The entire conversation couldn’t have been more benign. We assured the landowner that we practiced catch and release. Communicating this bit of fly fishing ethics, we thought, would assuage any concerns of vandalism or other teenage mischief. She didn’t seem to mind one way or another and granted us access.

The creek was pristine. The water was cool and moved along at a quick pace. There was no trash to be found. Just as important, there were no footprints in the muddy banks. This very situation, an unpressured fishery close to home, was ideal. The fish – their species, size, whatever other specs – were now secondary to the resource and our seeming sole ownership of its secret.

The first cast yielded a rock bass, about a foot in length. Nearly ever subsequent cast yielded a rock bass, within a few inches of a foot. Each dark green specimen was a feisty in its take and fight as the one before it.

At the end of the day, the species of fish was beside the point. The fish themselves were almost beside the point. I was fishing what felt like my own stream. I didn’t discover it, but we found it. It was close and it was practically invisible.

And there were  fish in the creek. Rock bass, yes. But since it fed into the mighty Potomac, there was always a chance that I could catch something big or mysterious on the next cast. But for all the trips and all the casts, rock bass was all that I ever saw caught. That creek and that experience is an example of what fly fishing really has come to be about for me. Friends, adventure, and catching the fish that is in front of you is what matters.

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This post is a reworked version of an article I wrote back in November of 2019 called Rock Bass & RC Cola. You can read the original here. Editing and altering older pieces is an opportunity for me to think about and work on my writing as the project of Casting Across continues on.