I had the morning to myself. While on a family trip in Northern Virginia, I could have easily found my way to some amazing fly fishing opportunities. Feisty mountain brook trout. River smallies on topwater flies. Thick spring creek browns. While there is no such thing as a done deal in fly fishing, each of those options probably would have yielded fish. I’m familiar with all of them. I know the flies, the pools, and the fish.
But something else was on my mind.
Three years prior, while living in the area, I had hiked up a muddy river bank to access a small spring creek in search of wild trout. I failed. That failure had been camping out in the back of my mind all this time. It stood out from fish that I had missed or casts that I had messed up. Those memories were just moments I couldn’t get back. This little spring creek was still there. I had another shot.
So that was my choice on that morning. The challenge outweighed the familiar.
The hike was the same. A hot, humid Virginia morning. A muddy, slick riverbank. Dense weeds and posted property kept me along the water. I had to climb over fallen trees and their accompanying jams. Dried in the summer sun, anything thinner than a man’s wrist would snap under any weight. Add in a few snakes, and it was slightly harrowing while carrying two rods.
One rod was for spring creek trout. The other was for anything swimming in the river. There was a lot swimming in that river. Panfish cracked at dragonflies. Bass sent baitfish skittering across the surface. And there were more common carp than I have ever seen in my entire life. I’m glad I brought the larger rod, but I quickly realized that it was a distraction that was going to keep me from making upstream progress.
Upon arriving at the spring creek, I remembered a few vital pieces of information from my last trip. First, the silt and mud at the mouth was frighteningly deep. Second, as enticing as the first few pools looked they probably weren’t going to yield any trout. Mature rainbows would jockey for prime spots upstream in the cold, clean water. Smaller trout wouldn’t stand a chance in the pools that big bass could access. I walked upstream, and didn’t disturb anything other than sculpins and frogs.
I quickly fished through a bend with a series of runs. Looking up to the head of the glassy water above me, I saw a small splash. It was a splash – that meant a small fish. But it was a big enough splash that I was confident it wasn’t a fallfish or a dace. So I sat. And I watched.
There were grasshoppers all over the banks, but I didn’t want to risk this fish being disagreeable to an aggressive presentation. With no small bugs buzzing around, an emerger was probably the right fly. I just didn’t want to guess where my fly would be and miss the take. The solution was a size 18 parachute Adams; floatant lightly applied. Dropping it at my feet, the little dry sat flush with the surface. A lazy shot at the right thing to do.
The first cast was on the money and the little fish rose. I pulled it out of it’s mouth. As I was gathering my line and fly, I noticed the fish rising again. There wasn’t enough time to get frustrated. I knew I was fortunate. I knew I’d need to be patient. There was enough time for a careful second cast: head of the pool, three feet drag free, splash.
Setting the hook was an encouraging sign. A dace or small panfish would have come sailing out of the water, even on my 3-weight. I quickly and carefully pulled the fish in. I was looking for a red side stripe. Kneeling in the cold water, I corralled the little trout into my hand. The rainbow had a speckled dorsal fin, white-tipped fins, and a big paddle tail. Clean, well proportioned, and healthy.
Six inches; my trophy.
Of course I would have been thrilled with a 16- or 26-inch trout. Size wasn’t the challenge, though. It was catching a trout in that stream. That stream that I had thought about. That stream that was inaccessible. That steam that was so close to home. It was a challenge: a challenge purely of my own making.
Fly fishing is best enjoyed when pursued according to subjective criteria. A small trout. A challenge. Eschewing the familiar. A morning and a little fish, 20 years in the making.
This post is part of a larger series. You can find the whole thing here.