The Transition: From Bait Chucker to Bug Slinger
by Josh Stewart / February 25th 2016
"It's a dangerous business going out your
door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's
no knowing where you might be swept off to." J.R.R. Tolkien.
It was the early Spring of 2013 and March was rolling around. For us this meant one thing, the time of year when the local sportsman's club dumps buckets of trout into our favorite river. The excitement was almost uncontrollable as we cleaned off our St Croix rods and Pflueger reels. I took advantage of a few rainy nights to pick our favorite trout bait. Ross fired up the new jet boat and we took it for a test run. "We'll be able to smoke the other boats to the honey hole now." I yelled above screaming sound of the jet motor as we raced up river. After being sure everything was in working order, We docked the boat and planned a meeting time for the following day. The day had finally came, the first stocking of the year. It almost felt as if we were cheating being able to fish before the states mid April "Opener". (Since the river was not approved trout waters and stocked by a local club we were able to fish it as soon as they felt river conditions were suitable to stock). As we ran down the hillside like children running down the stairs on Christmas morning, we heard the sound of a boat motor upstream and around the bend. We ran to the boat, threw all of the gear on the deck, and fired the motor up. Leaving a huge wall of water behind, we raced upstream to ensure we were the first to get to our favorite spot. We raced upstream and seen an old V bottom boat from the Montgomery Ward era. We ripped past the old 9.9 Evinrude as if it were anchored. Upstream another mile and around the bend we could finally see it, the Mecca of all trout fishing, the locally famous "Rapids" which produced most of the bigger fish I had caught during that time period. Much to our surprise we had won the race and claimed the riffle to ourselves. As we neared the head of the hole, I sat crouched on the bow of the boat, anchor in hand, Splash! I threw the heavy homemade anchor into the deep run as I have many times before. Now it was a waiting game. It was around 1:20 pm as we sit waiting, knowing at any moment the stocking crew should arrive with buckets full of the creatures we so lovingly pursued. Some time had gone by, growing increasingly impatient, we finally hear it. The familiar roar of the two jet motors that were to bring us our prized fish. We cock back our rigs as they near, bait flailing in the wind and so do the 40 other fisherman anchored within feet of us. The boats pull up, two guys grab the big blue buckets, they yell "Good Luck" as they start dumping them into the long riffle. Before the first fish even hit the water I cast my bait into my favorite seam. A few drifts go by, then SLAM, my rod tip bends down. The first fish of the year, a nice rainbow, one of many we'd catch that day. Silvery rainbow after silvery rainbow fell victim to our night crawlers, which at the time I believed was the ultimate bait, only rivaled by dynamite for it's effectiveness. At the end of the day I pulled the anchor up and we started our drift homeward, I thought "How could it get any better than this, We are at the top of the trout fishing game now". Well, little did I know at that time, the trout fishing game was about to get better, a lot better.
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| A trophy of a Rainbow for "The Rapids" |
After weeks of fishing the river, it finally arrived, the opener. The best day of the year for many trout fisherman across the state of Pennsylvania. I spent the weekend on Wills creek with my family (As I do to this day and still enjoy the time spent there with then now as much as I did then). Weeks followed and I spent my weekends doing as I always did, Chasing the stock truck. One day while fishing on Laurel Hill creek with an old "Mountain Man" friend of mine, elbow to elbow with anglers, I became annoyed. Every time I would reel in a fish another two anglers swarmed me as if I miraculously found the only fish left in the creek. I shouted over the sound of the stream " This is getting old, let's head out". On the long walk back to the truck he kindly asked me if I wanted to go and check out a more secluded spot he had fished many years before. Being an adventurer at heart, I gladly accepted his offer and down the road we went. We took all back roads on the way, as he liked to do no matter where we went and eventually we ran into an old rugged dirt road, which he explained to me was an old access road to a farm from days passed. The old Chevy truck rattled and I bounced around as we drove down the steep rocky road (If you could even call it a road). We reached a beautiful hollow that had an old Appalachian feel to it, I instantly felt right at home and relaxed. It must have been three miles or so until we reach a meadow at the bottom of the road, He says "This is the spot, just as I remember it". We get out of the truck and grab our gear, "this way" he yells as I try to keep up with his mountain man pace. I instantly noticed the beauty of the river, every run, every bend looked like the rapids in which I had previously held so dear. Almost at a running pace we rounded a large bend and he said "That riffle right there, that's where we start, I caught some real trophy's out of there over the years". I climbed down the big hillside and laid my eyes on what was the prettiest piece of water I had saw up to that point.There was a big seam that flowed by a leaning sycamore tree, this is where I took my first cast. Seconds after my bait hit the water I felt a small bump, the next thing I know the drag on my old Pflueger Supreme was screaming like I've never heard before. After a 5 minute struggle I finally saw the huge rainbow rolling in attempt to throw my hook, I knew right at that moment there was something better than "The Rapids". At that instant a spark was started, one that turned into a flame, and eventually a wildfire that is now burning out of control for exploring and chasing wild trout.
After telling Ross of my experience he was in. We set sail in my canoe the following weekend on this "New River". This is when the spark lit a fire. As we drifted down through the ruggedly serene river, We consistently caught the biggest trout we ever had up to that point, we both agreed that we wouldn't be racing fisherman to "The Rapids" any longer. There was something about the solitude and beauty of the wild river that made me feel more at home than I did in my own house. The drive home resulted in us wondering what other hidden gems could be around that we were missing out on.
After a week of research and reading, we learned about something called the "Green Drake Hatch" that was supposedly coming up. Off we went into Limestone country thinking this would be a good time to try out the new fly rods and to see what all of the excitement was about. We arrived at the parking lot to see many other fisherman. Only this time instead of a number 2 Mepps soaring overhead it was a Bald Eagle. There was no worry about crossing another fisherman's line, the biggest fear there was rolling out your flies under an overhang to a rising trout without catching a branch. There was certainly no race and the fish were beautiful wild brown trout, not a silvery rainbow to be found. Despite being a bit crowded, every fisherman gave each other room to fish and let you have runs and riffles to yourselves. No garbage to be seen laying around, just fresh air that seemed to give you an extra shot of energy needed to walk the trail in. We approached a very nice looking riffle and Ross crossed to fish one side of it as I worked the other. A nice long cast into the riffle and my indicator dips, the wildfire starts, and the rest is history.
I'll let the pictures tell the rest of the journey as we continue to explore waters in which to catch wild trout, each time leaving our comfort zone, and spreading the fire. I urge others to do the same, not only with fishing but in every aspect of life!
