Unwanted

The windy old road could have only been made a route by an old stubborn horse leading his owners from their farmstead to town in a now forgotten time, likely to trade and gather goods once per month, is now covered in gravel and used by miners to travel daily to the dark depths of the coal mines and factories of West Virginia. The path leads down a large scenic canyon, which through it's Western look seems out of place in this region of the Eastern United States. A modern horseman now rides into the canyon, not out of necessity of the bodily survival, but that of his soul. His silver steed races down the mazy labyrinthine of sandstone which towards its lower reaches gives way to limestone. Traveling at a rate 10 times greater than the stallion whose hooves pounded the Appalachian dirt into a path of least resistance long before him, he sets his sights towards the wild river that drains the hills surrounding the vastly underpopulated landscape . His expectations are high, as is his confidence, for last time he road upon this canyon he dueled with upwards of 40 finned beauties. His thoughts remind him of the allure his eyes gather as he wades his way up through the scenic river, one of the beauties of the east, he can already feel the cold breathe of the dam cooling his body on the hot summer's day, shades of turquoise blue contrasted by the white ripples caused by the rivers steep decent, not to mention the gratifying feeling of dropping his soul candy into his clear rubber basket where he admires these gems who resiled past pollution to blossom back into the colorful species in which god spent an extra few moments to paint. The daydreams shorten the trail and he sees the old white church where the road has a right hand branch that leads to the river. He makes the turn and passes through the old Appalachian strongholds to which the natives to this valley call home. Mostly unchanged from the way of life their ancestors lived when they settled in this area from Eastern Europe, the villagers of these small encampments refuse to conform to today's world, as if a protest to all that is wrong with society today.

He pulls into a small parking area and demounts from his steed. To his surprise the area that is usually glowing with life is eerily tranquil. A negative aura fills the air, not even a bird chirps. He ignores the weird feelings, suits up in all of his gear, and sets off to do battle with the mighty river. He carefully steps into the ice bottomed river and plants his boots against a rock that causes a small seam in the wild river. The observant fisherman watches the river for a few minutes looking for any signs of life that the fish would key their forage on, He strangely sees no signs of life in the river. After deciding to tie on an old standby search and destroy pattern he reaches into his vest to find that his fly box had been left in the parking area. A quick step onto a flat rock swipes the angler off of his feet in an instant, he lands hard on a rock, with his hip taking the brunt of the blow. In an effort to regain his footing he slips again and is swept off his balance yet again only this time the fall sends him under the water. His waders begin to get swamped as he swims back to the surface, a close call, yet the determination in him drives him back to the place where he left his fly box so he can go through with his mission. He quickly snatches it up and makes a straight line back to the promising run. Instead of walking the open path, he takes a shortcut through the woods, with the river in sight he picks up his step and just as he places a foot into the last tuft of weeds he hears an audible sound that will send chills down any avid outdoorsmans spine. The rattle quickly travels from his ear through his sensory system and the brain triggers the abort switch launching the angler through the air at a rate so fast that even the quickest of snakes couldn't strike. He lands in the river, his left hand catches his fall up against a log where he takes a moment to reflect on the close encounter with what is likely Appalachia's most dangerous native. As he goes to push himself off of the log and regain his balance he see's a water snake who was using the log to gather some heat on the summer's day, coiled and ready to strike the fisherman who intruded on his resting area.

 He again gathers himself and the stubborn fisherman marches forward to the juicy run. Growing exceedingly frustrated, he quickly ties on his absurd excuse for a fly and takes a cast into the current. Just as the cast is dropping into the heart of the strikezone, the angler sets into a deep snag which results in his tippet breaking and likely blowing up the spot. He reties his rig and continues working up through the section of usually promising water with the only result being a large number of flies lost to underwater debris and boulders. He has yet to even spot a trout in the gin clear water, the man can neither see nor feel any life on the river, the birds, deer, bugs, even the fish seem to have completely left the area in abandon. Out of complete arrogance the man ties on another fly, just as he puts his box back into his vest pouch, he hears some rustling in the woods behind him, being the first signs of life he has heard all day (That wasn't a snake trying to kill him), he quickly looks over his shoulder to see two men peering through the weeds pointing in his direction and sharing whispers. The two who appeared to be natives of the small Appalachian "village" quickly disappeared back into the thick timber after seeing the man had uncovered them. The man weighed the thought of catching a trophy sized fish which he knew resided in this river, with the strange negative feelings he was getting and like a mule, he pushed his way upstream towards a big chute that plunges into a nice deep hole. It was here where he had hooked a rainbow trout in the excess of twenty inches on his last outing, he was set for revenge and just as he motioned to cast he heard a loud CRACK on the hillside that towered above the river in this section. An old Hemlock tree decided to throw one of it's large branches at the angler as if to tell him to "get out". The fisherman dove out of the way of the limb and was flopping around in the river like a wounded duck, as he regained his footing he saw his rod floating away down stream, he ran to gather it slipping the whole way down. Upon gathering his rod back he found that his reel took some damage from the ordeal and was no longer functional. Angrily he ran back to shore and sets a waypoint in his brain directly back to the parking area. He hit the small path that leads along the river (this time looking for snakes and any other unexpected harm) and limped towards his exit finally admitting his defeat. Not even the hint of a bump from a fish on any of his presentations, how could this be after such a huge numbers day on his previous trip the man thought. Without even removing his water logged waders the man jumped into his steel horse and kicked it into drive, leaving his high hopes for the day in a cloud of red dust behind him. As he winds his way up and out of the deep canyon he reflected on the events that took place, lately the man had been trying to pursue his roots and fit his way into being a cog in the natural world like his ancestors were, learning hard lessons along the way. This time he learned the fable of  the natural world revealing to you warnings,when it does it's best not be arrogant to it and recognize the signals it is giving and follow suit. On that day, in that deep canyon, in the heart of Appalachia, be it for his own good or reasons he may never know, he was unwanted.

The Trout Also Rises

A sleepless boy lies awake in bed. His vivid imagination brightens the dark room in which he lays. The morning sun still hides from the moon, as the boy counts the grains of sand that fall through. In the bleakness of the night, bright colors of yellow, orange, red, blue, and so on fill his mind. His coming of age trip awaits him. Just like every other boy his age, the anticipation of opening day of trout season knocks at the midnight hour.

   Now that same boy is a young man, yet he still lies wide-eyed on the comforts of his pillow. He now knows that two things remain constant in nature: Time and Water continuously flow by his life and he can never have enough of the two. The man has been blessed to step foot in many different streams yet he desired to see a certain event on hallowed water. He heard the chatters and stories from men far past his elder that giant, notoriously lock jawed Salmo trutta would engorge their gullet on locust-esque monsters in a biblical event that only Moses’ himself could call up from the depth of the dolomite dungeons that shield the predators below. His restlessness awakened visions of these fabled flying creatures, known as, the Green Drake. His youthful arrogance caused him to remain skeptical and doubt the words of men his wiser. Would these may-dragons awake the beasts that laid dormant below? Would the hoards of angling pilgrims choking the stream cause him to curse this event and never return? These thoughts kept him awake until the alarm cried out that his time had come and he must begin his journey to the mecca. By 5 am he was on the road, his comrades wheels howled to the morning moon that began to run from the waking sun. Farmland gave way to rolling hills that climbed to steep mountain peaks that had rich hearts of lime that gave life to this precious water.  The man and his friend discussed their growing skeptiscm and both agreed they were not sure the coming day could match their ballooned expectations. They arrived and to their surprise, other fisherman had not yet arrived to this anticipated event. The young man eagerly ran down to the waters edge and his joyful movements awakened the mummies-to-be that laid still awaiting their tombs. His face was astonished at their sheer size and numbers. Within seconds his doubts began to vanish. Would the mythical tales soon become true? He sure hoped so. Excitement soon began to take hold of him as he and his friend entered the cold clear water. As he waded in, he looked down and gasped at the sheer amount of nymphal shucks that brushed past his legs. These ghastly creatures had felt the hand of Mother Nature and swam from their house of muck to cross the into an unknown world.

            The man took a dry fly from his box and tied it to his line. He had never thrown such a beastly thing; his usual flies were tender and aesthetic. This large fly was rugged and boisterous. Casting this would be more like chucking a rock he thought to him self. Yet he knew to put aside his pride and listen to his friend. The two began to walk down stream and quickly they were met with welcome. Slurp after slurp, the trout fed. Feeding on the leftovers of the nights fall. The two began to sling their woven hooks at the gluttonous finned fiends. The crippled dun would ride the surface waiting for its sneak attack. The trout snacked in their harmonious rhythm.  The two anglers fooled quite a few lively trout to begin their trek into the mountain valley. The young mans soul was in high spirits because of their fast success, but the trout he had landed were all of the past. None of the fish caught his eye. Even though he was in high spirits, he felt the tug of the fisherman’s soul., that primal drive that turns the “last cast” into thousands more. He sought out the fish from the elder’s tales as they had stoked a fire that had burned this man’s entire life. The man kept his head held high and his eyes scanned the turning water for a sign of something bigger. The men fished for miles over treacherous water and bone breaking boulders. The sun climbed the mountains that hid the fly fisherman until mother earth could not hide her children from the sizzling heat. The man felt his muscles quiver and his knees begin to ache yet he knew that pushing through till the end was the only way a fisherman should live. Both anglers pushed on with all their might. Cast after cast his bones cried but he knew each cast was one closer to the beast he sought. Bleached skies and radiant light burned their flesh yet the finned fiends did not mind, they consumed and consumed like gluttonous pigs. The young man finally had to stop. They had arrived at a gentle bend where the roaring water swirled into a tender stretch. Two boulders could be seen between this yielding flow and its quickening tail. Smaller trout continued to rise. The younger man sat and watched as his elder continued to throw and throw. He could see the exhaustion and fatigue in his friend’s eyes. As he began to scan the pool, a small subtlety caught his eye. Something different, something quiet, something that wanted to remain hidden.. He continued to intensely stare upon this shadow zone until it happened. The dolomite door was rolled away, what lied beneath had thought it had sneaked but its blood lust for the drake caused it to lose his instinct. The young fisherman’s eyes grew wide and his face drained as he had seen a ghoul. The beast continued to rise from his lair in rhythmic fashion.  He snapped to his feet and ready his rod, his heart pounded and his hands shook. The biggest brown trout he had ever seen continued to rise before him. He waited and watched and when he felt the time was right he gracefully flung the crippled fly in symphonic fashion. As the fly celestially floated down to the surface, the man’s pride had lied and told him to be ready. In a split of a second that seemed to last a century, the old chiseled fish who rose to happily engulf the fly felt something was astray.  The goliath’s wild intuition came back to him and it’s old fins slapped the fly as he fled from its trickery. The first battle cry was led out and both contestants knew this fight would not end soon.

            The old fish shook the young man’s confidence, and he began to cast and cast out of youthful arrogance. His friend came down the stream to see why the young man had been planted in the water. Confusion dressed his friend’s face until the demon rose again. The older man’s face was shocked and he yelled to him that the beast was bigger than anything he had seen. The younger man moved down and let his friend in and they both begin to cast. The beast ignored each and every fly. Smirking at the two showing his wet wisdom, the yellow-bellied behemoth continually shook his snout at their patterns. The two men cast for over an hours time. The elder man had decided to hang his fly but the younger man was driven to catch this swimming myth. He began to enter a trance while he slung his fly over and over into the drift. He began to gingerly move his feet at different angles to find the right angle where the hawk-eyed fish would make a fatal error. In his trance, his confidence had gone missing. His persistence kept him going at the fish but blind casts were what they really were.  Finally the man’s feet moved in a new direction and his shoulders squared his fly into a new drift. In this split second, the ancient beast had grown zealous and he was fooled by this unique flow. The fish sprang forth from his dungeon and ripped his teeth into the feathered hook. 

In the young man’s daze, his friend yelled that the time had come, the young man’s eyes had failed him as they had grown weary. All of a sudden the man woke up and swung his sword back at the beast..

            The sky was still bright but in the young man’s eyes everything had grown dreary. As the fish went to slurp the fly, the man’s senses overreacted and he drove the fly into the lunker’s lip all too bluntly. The young man felt like a boy as his line flailed back in the wind and greeted his face. He fell to his feet, soulless and defeated. His older friend could not believe what had happened. Things fell quiet as he sat there. The two could not fathom this reality. The young mans heart broke when the tippet twanged. The older friend gave words of encouragement and said he would continue on but the young man could not accept this fate. He chose to sit and introspect upon the things he had done wrong so this would never happen again. Time began to drift away as he sat there figuring out how he would be able piece his fragile self back together. His friend left to seek new risers but he chose to stay, some wild intuition was transfigured into him that glimpse of time the fish was hooked before the tippet broke. The two had become connected and now the young man knew he would not give up. A half hour pasted until something different happened again. The fisherman focused in on the spot just as he had before. This time he knew his adversary had returned.

 Sipp.Slurrrpp.Sipppppppp. The man sat watching, this time his heart did not race. He knew he had grown since their last encounter only a short while before. His plan this time was to let Goliath control the board and only move his pieces into action when the aging fish was not ready. He sat watching and studying the water warrior’s movements and analyzing this fishes quirks. The sun slowly began to descend down the mountain and different bugs began to fly. The young man’s friend returned from his journey astonished to see that he still sat where he had left him. He explained to him that he would wait until dusk to make another cast. The older man gave him a crazy look but he sensed the determination and moved up stream to find more fish.

As the night air began to draw in, fishermen began to migrate towards the hidden section that the young man had been fishing. He grew agitated as fools began to herd around trying to inch in to the waiting battlefield. One by one more fly fishermen crept in. Pressuring him to put up his guard and prepare for the final battle. He knew the time wasn’t right as the beastly fish was out of rhythm but stranger’s flies began to coat the water. Reluctantly, he tied on another cripple dun. He moved back behind his enemies line and lightly fanned his fly back into the drift.  He was not ready to catch the beast but knew he had to protect what he had staked out.

Fisherman after fisherman poured into the area and the young man had to hide the feeding monster. Soon another man crept too close into the beast’s water. The young man knew it was time to act quickly, goliath was beginning to rise in closer sequence but this time the toothed terror ignored the great mighty drakes. The angler’s heart began to beat harder as he saw the other fisherman close in. He watched the giant fish, trying to figure out what it hungered for. All of a sudden, a bead of gold floated up from the hidden treasure of the dolomite dungeon. A sulphur emerged and the brown behemoth was overcome by the tasty treat. The fish pounced , slurped, sloshed and slapped the water. The young man had seen enough, he grinned and time seemed to once again slow down as he tied the size 16 sulphur emerger pattern to his tippet. The approaching angler waded faster to cast to the prized fish.  The young man threw his first perfect cast and smirked to the greedy approaching man.

He took a breath as he and the beautiful fish locked eyes. The giant rose and sipped the perfect pattern. In this moment, all was silent. The fisherman and fish were connected to one another again and then…chaos.

The man swung his sword and this time connected. The Grendel became enraged and the wrath of war erupted. The fish pulled harder than anything the man had felt before. His 5wt rod began to buckle to the beast but the man would not give into its mythical might. His reel cried out as the fish flung through the air. Run after wicked run the fish thrashed and thrashed. The man grew tired as he fought his greatest foe. He yelled for his friend who tromped down through the water to him, amazed that his persistence had brought upon the reckoning the young angler sought. Anglers began to watch as he fought the beast. At once he realized what his pride had blinded him from…. the net. He had forgot the net. His lust for revenge slowly began to diminish, as he knew that his foolishness would cost him his treasure.

The old beast began to tire and the young man knew that risking this fish’s life for greed would haunt him for a lifetime. Instead, the angler bowed his head pulled the beast into his feet. The fish’s immaculate beauty was showcased onto him as it bowed out before his feet. The man reached down and brushed the fish with his hand under the water, showing his respect. The trout looked up to the man and then shook his vomerine-clad jaws. The giant swam back to its haunt where it would continue to reign. Everyone around the young man had a look of disgust as the fish slipped from his fingers. This time around though, the man stood their smiling. He knew he experienced something on those hallowed waters that few would be blessed with.

As he walked out from the stream he rested upon the bank, thinking about all the events that had just taken place. He knew that the beast would swim through his dreams but all was okay with the fact that his heart had pulled through and pushed away the greed that would have slayed the beast. The young man sat there staring into the water when suddenly the sight that the two men had come to see had appeared almost as an apparition upon the water. Millions of coffin flies returned to their final resting place in miracle like fashion. The biblical sight consumed his mind as the dying drakes zoomed around him. Amazed, the man smiled.

 All was at peace.

A Blank Place Paints A Colorful Mind: My Journey to Penn's Creek

    

      “To those devoid of imagination a blank place on the map is a useless waste; 

                           to others, the most valuable part.” –Aldo Leopold

            Every year that I grow older, my perception of the world evolves through a “phoenix-like” metamorphosis. Ideas and images are created, built, and then torn down as my mind learns and grows.  Remote water that I fished in my youth slowly becomes more civilized and controlled as my innocence is washed away.  The slightly looming feeling of predictability and order influences your imagination and strips you of the sensation of the unknown. Sitting against the giant sycamore that sat firmly rooted along the water as a boy, left my mind wondering of this elder’s origin and if it had been waiting for me all this time. Sadly, I couldn’t understand the fact that the towering ivory colored giant wasn’t planted by legends or had a mysterious past. It most likely was planted by a man, who looked like myself, for more grounded reasons.

            Fortunately, places still do exist in this world that can open closed windows in one’s heart and mind. I stumbled upon this water at the right time. My eyes had grown hazy and my mind had begun to close off paths that winded and twisted. These paths weren’t simple. They complicated the maturing mind. I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. Most of the places I had been fly-fishing came close within populated places, and yet they contained beautifully colored fish, their beauty was stunted by my closed mind. I agreed to take the journey to this water that I had heard of from others. They talked of forests and mountains that even Tolkien couldn’t put into words. Massive boulders strewn along the hillsides that pointed down to the calming water. A peaceful water that the native people would have been mystified by because of its clear reflection. Yet the real reason for the almost sacred talk of this water was the amazing treasure that hides within its liquid “chest.” Once the angler takes the time to open its lock, a world of colors painted by God can be seen and held. Yellows, gold’s, greens, blues, and so on will meet the pursuer. Although seated beneath all the high praise, murmurings of murky water filled the discussion. A celestial environment stained by the reluctant attitude of the creatures that swim below. Men are drawn here to find their “fountain of youth” but are tortured by the rthymic pattern of the treasure teasing them feet away. The water grows colder around the ankles with each disrespected drift. Only those willing to sacrifice the hours of their own life will ever be able to obtain what they sought out for.

These words replayed in my head as I turned off of the blacktop to reach this hidden valley, the uniform road that I had grown used to, began to deteriorate and became less obvious. The smoothness of the black top was replaced by the chaotic disarray of a road that had seemed to escape the balance of society. The road rumbled up a steep mountain to its peak. As I arrived at the top, I rolled the window down. The bleak silence of the wind whispered into my ear, that it was time to begin anew. The twisted and complicated roads that my mind had blocked off began to reopen. The innocence of a young imagination was needed to carry on with my journey. I eased my metal steed slowly down the tumbling mountain and entered into a forest where time had waited, at least for me, to arrive to a place that I had heard call from afar. I arrived at a place with a strange name. A name that seems destined to be created by a youthful dream.  Usually, I would race to the water after a long drive, but this time I took my time and let my senses consume the environment.  For once I was living within the moment, existing within a realm I had been seeking. I gathered my gear and headed onward to the limestone glass. I stood on the soft sandy bank and day dreamed about the hour. The smell of spring filled the air and hope rushed through my veins. With my head held high, I stepped into the gin clear water. A new world full of life much smaller than I coexisted below me, I felt like the real life Gulliver and these little life forms were ready to help me, trick me, or teach me in my travels. I stood there and watched the “treasure chest” begin to shake, the “treasure” taunted me as it stepped into my world, like I just had done to it.  Overconfidently, I smirked, thinking that my day would be filled with an over flow of wealth. I tied on my dry fly and began to bend the air, I effortlessly launched the key to my success. Except, it was not the one that would unlock the priceless “chest”. The trout watched and scoffed as my fly drift by. Over and over this repeated, I slowly began to get desperate. I switched my fly and to no avail, the trout turned his nose and shook his fin. The chest shook more and more as colors slowly popped out of its lid. I tried “key” after “key” but each one lead to no avail. There were so many dry flies in the pocket of my waders; it looked like an old pillow full of fluffy feathers. I had become encompassed by the breathtaking scenery that renewed my mind but it became apparent that this bounty I had been seeking would not come by hast. Trout after trout, sipped the surface like I envision Churchill would drink his tea. The smugness of these fish filled my dreams. One by one, I was denied and held unworthy.

I stood in the stream with a sense of disbelief draped over my face, wondering if I should of listened to my experienced peers. A howl rang out from behind, high up from the heavens.  I quickly looked backed to see the darkness of the mountains beginning to slither down into the valley. The serenity was smashed like a pane of stained glass as bolts of lightning struck the boulders to my right. Rain and hail pelted my face as I gathered my defeated self and took for shelter. While sprinting to safety from this grisly storm, I turned and glanced towards the rippling water. A haunting thing happened, the “chest” shook once more. 

   

 It was then I decided I would return to this maleficent kingdom and figure out the secrets that lay in its depths. Deep within me, something awoke. I would return again and again to a place where this reality fears to climb up and over the nestled mountains. This would start my lifelong pilgrimage to a stream named Penns Creek.

A Drift Under the Surface

A Drift Under the Surface

       by Mike Emanuele / July 12th 2016

       It was getting hot and so was my temper. I had just retied a few new sections of tippet because my concentration had begun to wander mid cast. My nymphs hung up in the branch above me softly swaying and passively mocking my blunder. Sweat dripped into my eyes as it fell from brow. The combination of piercing sunlight, suffocating heat, and a restless night of sleep made my patience subside to a new low. Everything was tied back up and I was once again ready. My eyes focused on a perfect run which was canopied by an overhanging root tangle. I blocked out my thoughts and let my muscle memory take over the cast. The nymphs gracefully plopped down into the perfect angle, a cast I couldn’t repeat. My pride overtook and I let out a smile as a daydreamed of a twenty inch Brown coming from the depths to strike my flies. I would hold him high and proud for a picture to plaster all over social media. The dream had me grinning ear to ear until it distracted me long enough to delay my lead. My nymphs delicately drifted into an unforeseen nemesis, a submerged log. I couldn’t take it. I quickly broke off my tippet and threw my rod and self onto the bank.

             Nothing was going my way and it had seemed this regression had been taken place for the past weeks or so. It was my 73^rd day on the water for the year. Dollars, equipment, blood, sweat, and tears had been sacrificed this past year when I decided it was time to take my fly fishing to a new skill level. Competitiveness can be a blessing, allowing some to attain skills that few men can reach but this instinctive drive that men like myself possess,  can be a true Achilles’ heel of self destruction. My drive to be the best had me sitting on a weeded stream bank in central Pennsylvania having a toddler-esque meltdown.

            Exhausted, I stretched my legs out and put my boots into the water. The cold clear water rushed into my waders through the large holes in my stockings. My eyes opened. I could see once again. I began to see the things that I had always loved. The contrasts of colors of all different forms of life all around me and the harmonic balance of nature that was nestled into the pristine spring water that roared past my boots. I slowly took my boots out of the water and stood on the bank. The silt and gravel that was loosened from feet slowly drifted downstream, nature had begun to clean itself. As the shroud of dirt lifted, a small brown trout poked his head through the jungle of watercress. It was then I had realized what I had forgotten. The foolish pursuit of my own ego had blinded me. The veil of dirt in my own eyes had finally drifted past and I was nothing more than the small creature I had been seeking. A fly fisherman’s version of nirvana…

           

 As fly fishermen we are called to take care of the lesser creature that gives our lives meaning. We must protect the true beauty and innocence of these animals from man’s selfish pursuit of possessions. Man’s ignorance will always leave a path of destruction and it is up to us to be the guardians. Strive to educate your fellow fishermen and help them see the real meaning of this sport. Make sure your mind is in the right place while on the water and not focusing on catching a trophy to brag on your Instagram account. They say that things posted on the internet last forever. Unfortunately the beautiful trout that took ten years to achieve its size that you kept out of the water for five minutes to take the perfect picture of…will not last forever, let alone the next hour.  The concept of life is something humans have become too comfortable with as we set out to build a world of our own. Yet we forget about the mystery of our own beginning and we fail to keep “life” sacred. Do not forget the reason you rise early in the morning, remember that they are out there rising for you too…

The Last Cast

It was late in June, a month that wasn't very friendly for fishing last year. The rainfall had far surpassed the average levels, therefor it was a month long of blown out streams, leaving limited if any places left fishable. On this day, a Sunday Ross and I set out in hopes to catch if we were lucky, a fish or two with the possibility of hitting some nearby brookie streams. We set sails for a favorite stream that was flowing at a CFS that would keep even a hardcore kayak junkie at bay. We arrived at the stream to find that it was basically one big class v rapid, there were very limited areas that looked feasible to even get a drift in. We each found a break in the overgrown rapid and working it over. To our surprise we began picking up fish on some highly visible patterns. It seemed as if the fish took to these small pockets behind structure and just off the shoreline to escape the wrath of the thrashing current. We traveled the road paralleling the stream and pulled off on the rare occasion that we saw a fishable seam. Each seam held many fish, we turned a day where we hoped to get outside and land a few fish into a solid day.

On the trip homeward we fished a few brookie streams in hopes of finishing the day off with a few little beauties. They fished with mixed results. The scenery on these little streams though, is always the best part. Ross picked up quite a few more than I had, it was starting to get late in the day at this point, "Bout ready to pack it up Stew?" Ross yelled over the noise of the roaring streams that was on a normal day but a trickle. One last cast I yelled, just as I always seem do. I walked up to a small waterfall and shot a cast in, BAM, an aggressive little gem of a brookie hit my fly as if he wasn't sure he'd ever see another meal. After enjoying his beauty for a few short seconds I yelled back "Ok now let's call it." We took the scenic walk back to the truck and made it there just in time for the rain to pick up, as was the theme of the summer last year. We smiled as we drove home and laughed as we thought we were just making the trip to "only get out of the house".

As Monday morning came rolling in, it was just another routine day at work and as usual I was still coming down off of my high from spending the weekend in my true home, the outdoors. It was a nice cool morning, in the mid 60s on the mercury, my favorite type of weather. I remember looking into the sky and thinking wow, the sun. I had almost forgot how it had looked. Just at the time everything went black and I felt a feeling I've never felt before. As I came back to I wasn't sure what happened, I frantically felt across my entire body to see if anything was injured. The ambulance arrived and took me to the hospital. There, I was told it was more than luck that kept me alive, it was a miracle. What I felt was 7200 volts of electricity racing through my body and out of my leg. A piece of equipment that I was replacing was mounted next to a feed line and with my lack of concentration I had not realized. After a few nights in the hospital and a few months of recovery I started to get back to my normal life and was finally able to make my return to fishing in the fall, This time with my rod and gear, I carried with me a different outlook on life. In the months leading up to now it's been fishing that has served as a major recovery for me. Pushing myself to walk further and wade harder each time. Now I'm in as good of shape as I've ever been mentally and physically.

So wade a little bit deeper, don't be afraid to lose your flies in that log jam, drive as far as you can to explore new rivers, share tips with a fellow fisherman, share laughs on the streams with friends or family, fish in the pouring rain, the bitter cold, high water, and never been afraid to take that one last cast, for you never know when it'll truly be your last.

Weekend Warriors

A pattern is begging to emerge, Stuck working all week during beautiful unseasonably nice weather and getting one day of fishing in with the worst possible conditions. We've been hit with it all every Saturday so far in 2016, Inches of rain dumping on our heads, freezing cold, feet of snow, drift destroying winds, blizzards, and high water. This weekend was no disappointment, we got caught up in an epic battle between Spring and Winter.

I've been doing a ton of research lately trying to find some new streams to fish, to me exploration is as much fun as the fishing itself. I tortured the internet for a few months until it uttered a few stream names that sounded very promising and supposedly hold some trophy class fish. Ross and I met up a few hours before daylight and headed deep into limestone country. We drove well behind Amish lines and arrived at the first stream. It was a bit small but looked awesome it had a ton of structure and some sneaky deep holes. The weather was very gloomy and it was spitting some rain. Fishing a creek like this was a little bit outside of my skill level yet, but we still managed a few pretty rewarding little fish. Every time I'd see a good hold for a fish I'd attempt a cast into it, only to be blocked by a tree branch. It was as if I were a high school basketball player trying to play in the NBA. Time after time I'd try to get a cast in and get denied by a tree, I'd finally line up a good cast in front and get blocked from behind, it's as if the trees were protecting these precious little gems of a fish from me. While untangling my flies from a branch I quickly realized that I wasn't the only one, as I found a rather large streamer tangled up in the same limb. This kind of confirmed to me what I read that there were some trophies in this small sneaky little stream. I got beat up by branches and the tough fishing for about a mile or so, Somehow I was still having fun and really liked this stream regardless. I came to a nice hole and sent out an S.O.S. as usual it almost instantly hooked into a beautiful example of a wild brown. We even got into a few what I think were wild Rainbows.

Higa saves me yet again

Wild Bow!

I met back up with Ross and we decided to explore a few more streams in the area, driving around these parts was a real blast from the past. It was almost as if we hit some time warp and got sent back into the 1700s, it was actually a very freshening reminder that you don't need modern things to get by in today's world. We arrived at the other stream and it looked very nice, around twice the size of the first and even more promising. The third creek we came to looked the best to us. It fit into the type of water we like to fish. Some nice pockets and big chutes. We're definitely going to have to spend some more time in this beautiful part of Pennsylvania.

On the way back home we decided to spend the afternoon and evening on a stream we were passing by in hopes of running into an olive hatch. We got there and the weather was perfect, overcast and warm, I was down to just a flannel shirt. As soon as we got the the stream Olives and a few Hendricksons were coming off. We picked up a few fish right away, then Winter reared it's ugly head. Sending frigid gusts of 30-40 mph winds instantaneously destroying any drift we attempted and putting a halt to the hatches. Spring would then battle back and the sun would come out and warm the stream up, bringing the hatches back and good fishing with it. This became the template for the day, Fishing was void during the high winds and when they'd stop we'd stick a few fish on olive nymphs. I spent most of the day battling a reel malfunction, free spooling drag made landing fish in pocket water interesting, yet fun, even though I lost a few fish due to it. The day ended with a pretty calm stretch of weather and right before leaving Ross and I each stuck a nicer fish. We decided we were wind burnt enough for the day, so we ended on a high note. We battled our way to a dozen or so fish a piece for the evening including some solid fish, which given conditions was a win. The one nice thing about being a weekend warrior is you have to make the best out of any weather or conditions God throws your way, I truly believe that fishing through such adversity is how you become a better fisherman though. Fishing will seem a little too easy when we finally catch some good conditions (Which is highly unlikely).

Mean Mugging

Love the hooked jaws these fish have in here

 

"You thought I was a big brown trout ya sucker"

Can get used to this scenery

 

 

 

 

We took a long walk back to the truck and talked about some future camping trips that are planned. As we made the journey home, I watched the temperature drop from 50 degrees to 32 in a matter of minutes. Winter blindsided Spring with a surprise attack and we just so happened to get caught up on the battle ground. A few huge cracks of lightning soon led to the worst blizzard conditions I've ever saw. It was absolutely a nightmare to drive in, the swirling snow was making my head spin. I set the Silverado into Hyperdrive (my fellow Star Wars nerds will get the reference) and we flew out of the storm and home safely.