This is the fifth part in this series. Catch up by reading the beginning  here , 

Life gets in the way of even the most obsessed-over pursuits. That is the way it ought to be. Diversions should be just that: a deviation from the major thoroughfare of work, school, etc. Fly fishing, as important as it is to me, is still just a diversion. A handful of trips to local ponds and creeks a month, punctuated by a more sizeable outing or two is sufficient for the stage of life that I’m in. If fly fishing in general requires time to be carved out of my busy schedule, the little “local trout” quest in specific gets even less time.

Almost a year since I plotted, schemed, and attempted to confirm the existence of a remnant trout population amid suburbia, I decided to take it to the next level. I knew a stream less than ten miles away that held a trout population. Exclusively rainbows filled this little spring creek. Not much is known about the fish, other than that they naturally reproduce and have been doing so for some time.

And the vast majority of the length of the stream is on private property. Including all reasonable access.

The only exception – the only way, as I saw it, was to fish up from where the creek entered a larger river. The river is fully navigable, public, and accessible. The access points, however, are not necessarily near the junction point I was looking for.

Thus began a Lord of the Rings style adventure. I could see my destination. I could even plot out a very simple path. Yet that path would lead to certain doom at the hands of the local authorities. I would have to take a more circuitous, adventurous route.

As a bit of an aside, I know that many an angling tale spins out of some “creative access.” Without wading into the public/private land debate too deeply, my thoughts are this: If possible, so far as it depends on you, be at peace with all men. If I want to fight the system in regard to something like strolling right up to a spring creek in a private community, I’m not going to fire the first shots by protesting my forceful removal. There are other channels to pursue; ones that I’m not willing to take the time to deal with at this point in my life.

Plus, a little Mordorian expedition every now and again doesn’t hurt. The Tolkien parallels are not a stretch: I contended with swamps, spiders, cliffs, and despair. And I didn’t have a lick of magic to help me, either… unless you count Google Maps.

Fantastic analogies aside, I did have a couple of miles to cover. Trails made up the first half of the journey, but a muddy river bank on the back end slowed me down significantly. I slipped a lot. But dirty shoes significantly outweighed poison ivy and Lyme disease. Additionally, the river I was following was teeming with life. I saw eagles (more LotR!), deer, and vibrant summer flora.

Fish were also active. Bass were crashing baitfish, bluegill were making their trademark crack! Rises, and every now and then a big carp would do that crazy carp jump-and-splash. Trout was my destination, but these warmwater species had to be part of the destination. It took a lot of self-control to not tie on a popper as I walked the slow, rock-strewn river.

I finally got to the mouth of the creek. Turning off the river’s bank, I was immediately on rockier ground and in thicker canopy. Most notable though was the water’s temperature. It was cold. I knew it would be, but standing knee deep in cold water on a 90-degree day feels like trout fishing in Virginia. Everything felt right and looked right. I knew there were trout in this stream, now I was experiencing the stream that I knew held trout.

All I had to do was find one, catch it, and complete my quest.