Dry or Die

At its core, fly fishing was born out of matching hatches and targeting rising trout. Anglers hone in on the hatch cycles of midges, caddis, mayflies, and stoneflies and closely mimic the stages of their lives with recreations bound on a hook. It requires a certain level of detail and skill with the rod and vice. On the water, it necessitates patience, careful observance, and a keen eye. It also helps to be a good caster. These days, so much of the aura of the industry is centered around catching the largest fish possible and that entails throwing meat. Large articulated streamers, mouse patterns, or tight lining jig flies all are very productive but lack the intimacy of dry fly fishing. The aforementioned techniques are also far easier than fishing dries, especially on highly pressured waterways like the Upper Delaware. Over the years, I have yearned for time on the water during the hatches of Spring. Living in Delaware doesn't afford many opportunities for high level dry fly action and being relegated to the weekend isn't great for timing emergences and good conditions. A positive byproduct of Covid-19 was the ability to work remotely. This led me home and to a river with an under appreciated hatch scene. I found myself with the ability to leave work and head to the river every afternoon. I got in touch with the pulse of the river and experienced the progression of hatches, the response of the river's trout, and found the intimate side of the sport that I sought for so long. I lived the river, and in turn, discovered a few of her secrets. 

Woah, Big Gulps huh? Alright...Welp, Cya Later!

The Freshwater P4P Champ  

It was April Fools Day, and the stealthcraft raft drifted on its own accord down the middle of a popular Pennsylvania watershed home to a population of world class smallmouth bass. I stood atop a custom casting platform placed over what would normally be the front seat. I labeled it "TRONS," to serve as a reminder of the float's goal but also to quickly measure and release my quarry. As is the norm, the raft spun in the current, got redirected from wind gusts, and occasionally was pushed into prime lies, overhanging branches, and log jams. Floating alone while trying to cover many river miles is a frustrating and rewarding experience. You have to make due with the opportunities that present themselves and quickly forget all those that pass because someone else isn't on the oars. I could anchor up and dissect each little lie but the float would probably take me four days to complete. 

I had just gotten down from my platform in order to steady the boat in the current. I stood back atop the casting perch and saw my target. A root ball at the base of a large sycamore tree. I quickly double hauled into a side arm cast and threaded a 7 inch articulated fly under the overhanging branches. As the fly approached, I stopped the forward motion of the cast causing the fly and leader to jackknife to the side. My fly landed parallel to the bank a few inches from the base of the tree. I immediately gave a hard strip causing the deer hair fly to make an audible and visual commotion on the water. As the fly paused, the largest smallmouth bass I have ever tangled with engulfed the fly from the rear. I set the hook and triggered a moment of chaos that won't soon be forgotten. Two water clearing leaps and several bulldogging bursts under the raft bent the 7wt. H3 in half. I let out an audible grown as my net slid under the smallmouth. Thick, muscular, and long, she measured a solid 22 inches. 

Moments like this are what make smallmouth bass such an enticing fly rod target. Their tenacity once hooked is legendary. Interacting with them on large flies careening around the surface is an adrenaline filled blast that will always have me coming back for more...

Quarantine

Solitude and Home Water

I found myself in a cabin in West Virginia during the first few days of the lockdown. After the trip, I had a long drive home to contemplate the next few weeks of my life and what I wanted to get out of it. While most decided to stay indoors and binge watch an endless amount of television, consume alcohol, and scroll for hours on end, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity at hand. As selfish as that may sound, I have never been one to sit around and allow others to dictate my schedule. I decided to head home and leave my apartment behind. The decision meant copious amounts of fishing on my home water during the peak spring trout season. That was something I had not experienced since high school, a long sixteen years ago. Thankfully, Governor Wolf did not close the outdoors, our rivers, and our woods like some states, and angling/recreation was permitted. Although my parents welcomed me with open arms and wanted me to stay in the house, I couldn't consciously do that until more information was available and the recommended two weeks ended. I slept outside, in my car, and eventually lived out of the garage for over a month. Less than ten minutes away was a river of endless opportunities on the fly rod and I intended to take full advantage of the time and solitude it afforded me. 

A Real Singularity

There is a quote we've all heard about not being able to step into the same river twice. The river isn't the same, and neither is the angler. No other river encompasses this more for me than the Savage. Usually I am there with my brother. Sometimes with friends. Once with my wife. Once, alone. Each pilgrimage has found me at an inflection point or a singularity in my life. While my last visit had me contemplating impending fatherhood, this most recent visit had me daydreaming of what it would be like to bring my son here someday.

This time, as well, the aforementioned truism inverted upon itself as we found the world to have changed each time we returned to shore. Lockdowns, shelter-in-place orders, quarantines, ominous newscasts and their portents of an impending horrific sloughing-off. A societal inflection point. A real singularity.

None of that existed between the banks of this little river. The most anxious thought that could occur within the dome over water bounded by the tailwater fog was whether or not this beautiful brown would break you off in the deep pockets. Nothing from the world outside of the river manifested upon anything that was done along or within it, or on anything that came from it. Emerging from the sanctuary to get food or make contact only made us want to retreat into it again. 

As the inexorable end to the trip loomed nearer, my thoughts turned to parting ways with my brother. We'd probably be going our separate ways for a while, and the uncertainties of the immediate future and the precariousness of life seemed all of a sudden more visceral. Were we living in the good old days without fully realizing it?

This river makes me want to pare down my kit, to make the interface with its ecosystem as uninterrupted by conscious calculations as possible. To be able to focus on what provides satisfaction. A few of the several flies that I know work, some tippet, a net, hemostats, a beer tucked into my waders and my brother working upstream on the far bank opposite me. Keep it simple. Here, and elsewhere. And enjoy every minute of it.

Reminiscing and Moving Forward

A whole life in front of me...

There I was, laying in a hammock on the deck of a sailboat in the middle of the Caribbean. The Milky Way loomed overhead, clearly visible amongst an unfathomable amount of stars. The gentle swells of the ocean slowly began to lull me into a sleep and the only thing keeping me from dosing off was the occasional gust of wind. It was "only" day three of an excursion mooring off several of the British Virgin Islands scattered across the Lesser Antilles. My brother, Matt, rested in an adjacent hammock while Adam slept on seat cushions sprawled out on the main deck. In the main quarters below, were the Haider brothers from Austrian Outdoor Sports, Stephan Dombaj of the Fly Fishing Nation, and our gracious host Alexander Davidson. During the day, we hunted for bones, perm, and tarpon before reconvening in the evening to talk about our experiences and plan the next day's adventure. Occasionally, we found ourselves taking a dingy to the mainland for a quality meal, drinks, and camaraderie.  It was an epic trip during a summer spent in the sand, sun, and heat. I was living the life and was too young to fully comprehend the moment...

Finding Winter

Winter Gold

The dead of winter. For most serious fly fishermen, winter represents a greater chance at solitude, and the power that one can find in being alone. Few people are willing to leave the comfiness of a warm home to venture into low temperatures. Far fewer are eager to stand in 34 degree water silently hoping for a tug at the end of their line, as they slowly lose feeling in their toes. Thankfully, nature and the elements are often all the company one needs on the water. There, they can find solace in the ethereal beauty of a snowflake, the intricate formations of ice, or the way a gust of wind can cause tears to form in the corner of their eyes. Small moments like this, easily make up for cold extremities. 

The bees knees of fly fishing in winter is the the silence of snowfall. Standing alone in the middle of the river, swinging a fly, with only the sound of the water rushing between your legs is therapy for the mind. An equilibrium check from the rigors of work and the constant barrage of a negative news cycle. Living in an area where snowfall can be scarce, it is an easy decision to search for and find these experiences. If you yearn for that moment of chill, make it happen. 

Find your winter. 

Internal Swing Monologue

A Beauty of a Skamania Buck

That's definitely the sweet spot and there has to be a fish there. This must not be the spot. Are they holding right now or moving? Are they in their winter lies or in the transitional water? Hmmm, let's slow this swing down. Slower, slower, there it is. What the hell? Ok, broadside AF...Was that a bump or a leaf?  Why did that Spey Jedi give me shit about having bead chain eyes on a fly? I bet he'd get a kick out of this tungsten cone. He'd probably think I'm "dredging" with this sink 4 tip. This is definitely the wrong angle for this spot. This is definitely the right cast for this spot. This center pinner is definitely going to low hole me. Maybe if I bought the 450 grain, the extra 30 grains would cast better and I'll catch more fish. Nah, I already have like 34 shooting heads. I'm going to pick this guy's pocket. I have no idea what I'm doing. I've caught more browns the last few days than the past five years combined. There must not be any steelhead this year. Maybe, I should go to Malinda's and buy some fly tying material. That is definitely the last thing I need, but I'll probably spend 100 dollars. Gotta get that perfect shade of brown dubbing. When was the last time I nymphed? I can't remember.  There it is, thats the swing. BAM! Now, that is definitely not a brown trout...

A Fleeting Fall

Sometimes you blink and it's over...

My Girl

Riley

2005-2019

All dogs are special in their unique ways. Riley was the runt of the litter who had a passive, "you first," personality. She played second fiddle for her entire life to two much larger labradors, one aggressive and the other a big goof. Despite this, her heart was pure and her calming personality made her a favorite amongst family and friends. She garnered the nickname, "Queen Riley," because she majestically took her time in everything except retrieving and water. For me, she was known as, "my girl". I picked her out on an impromptu, just to appease Mom, trip to the pet store. Later, I gave my parents a call and convinced them to go back and get her. Sometimes, those types of decisions end up working out well. 

When one embarks on dog ownership, they are entering into an agreement known as "the deal". Dogs are loyal companions who will shower you with love no matter your mood or hardship. They will always be there for you. For fourteen years, I could count on Riley happily meeting me every single time I walked through that door. When she began losing her eyesight, hearing, and became riddled with arthritis and cancer, it became apparent that it was time for our part of the deal. When they have given you all that they can, you have to make the decision to do what is best for them. 

Thanks for fourteen wonderful years girl...

On the Cape

Salt Pond Bay

The trip began as a mid-week question that I didn't have to think long or very hard about. A roommate trip to Cape Cod for several days seemed like a perfect way to ring in the end of summer. Sometimes, you just have to go for it. When adventure calls, simply answer the bell. I packed a few flies, a 10 weight, and my stripping basket. The days called for bike trips around the cape to cool little towns, their coffee shops, and the various sights that abound. Rather than bike, I played the role of support vehicle. I fished along the way and met up with everyone at each destination. Often, I'd provide a respite for tired legs or a drive back to home base. 

On the fishing side of things, I had no idea what I was doing. I'd hop in the car, peruse google maps, and head to a place to check it out. I caught a bunch of small stripers, had two keepers pop off at my feet, and had an encounter with a relatively large line sider who missed my game changer. The highlight was spotting a great white shark off a beach. I instantaneously knew what I was looking at and so did a bunch of other beach goers in the immediate vicinity. I found a massive seal colony off North Truro Beach, enjoyed the company of friends, and had my fair share of good food. More often than not, it is the spontaneous little trips that mean the most for my soul. 

Add this one to the list...

The Hour of the Mouse

"...this past weekend, Mark and I met to float the West Branch of the Delaware river, one of the only rivers around with consistent cold water and reliable hatches. Last August we had an excellent weekend of dry fly action in much higher flows. This weekend the water was very low. We planned to do a night float, our first, throwing streamers and mouse patterns for nocturnal browns.

Friday, we put in at Stilesville and had a car shuttled to Shehawken, essentially the entire west branch. We put in at 1pm under a sparse flock of cedar waxwings, barn and tree swallows gorging on sulfurs, olives and cahills. The waxwings seemed ill-suited to the pursuit compared to the graceful and unhalting cursive the swallows carved into the sky.

Trout were taking the mayflies from the surface as their wings dried, and we watched a few as they ascended only to be intercepted by the aerial predators. We saw a dragonfly catch and devour a sulfur while flying its zig-zag over a shallow riffle.

West branch trout see an awful lot of pressure from anglers that come here to test themselves. Consistently rising fish will be put down by a dead-drifted artificial that is off in ways known only to the fish.

We spent that whole day looking for risers and positioning the boat to make a presentation. It is challenging but one of our favorite ways to fish. The two eats we each had over the course of the entire day was only a little bit worse than I expected us to do.

As the sun set and we continued our float, our minds began to turn to something new.

We took off our sunglasses and replaced them with clear safeties as the five weights were stowed and a 7wt was readied with 4ft of 20lb and a mouse fly called a master splinter that Mark made some secret adjustments to.

The sky had gone from bluebird to stellar jay to lilac-breasted and then indigo bunting, all foregrounded by chunky grey clouds. Mark began to cast the mouse as the first stars began to shine through the gaps in the increasing cloud cover. Now it was dark and we heard the first sploosh from a fish missing the slowly twitched fly.

Beavers abounded and slapped their tails on the surface, making a sound like that of a bowling ball dropping into the water from a considerable height. There were far more of them than signs visible in the daylight would have had me predict.

Shortly, Mark connected with his first fish on the mouse, an 18" brown that tore his thumb up. I was up and proceeded to go 0/10 over the remaining miles of the river. So many takes, only a few momentary connections. One broke me off and at first I thought I'd snagged a beaver but beavers don't headshake, I think.

My eyes were playing tricks in the darkness and the intermittent light from the waxing gibbous cast one riverside into a darker shadow than the other, obliterating my ability to discern distance or depth of field. I could only imagine a murky visage of where my fly had landed and how it was swimming. 

We were both exhausted. Then it began to rain and lightning. We pulled over. I did not have a rain jacket and began to shiver. Mark's older safety glasses fogged, giving him the sight of a person wearing drunk goggles. Whoever was on the oars began to doze. We finally found the takeout at 1:45am. One fish landed all day. We were asleep at the campsite by 3:00am.

The next day found us riverside by 2:00pm and gearing up for another marathon float, in direct defiance of our sworn vow to not attempt a repeat. The tug really is a kind of drug.

Saturday was windier and there were fewer bugs and almost no birds feeding on the wing. We floated until we found some risers and made some attempts but nothing really began to awaken until the evening. The wind had died and a sulfur hatch materialized. In a long, meandering pool hundreds of fish were dimpling the surface, distorting the mirrored image of the coloring sky. We worked on two fish for an hour before putting them down in turn with missed eats then drifted through the pool casting at rise forms. This kind of proliferation of life and death and metamorphosis and transition is thrilling to see and participate in. We went something like 0/148 through that stretch but this is the west branch so it was alright.

As the sky darkened we pulled over to prepare for the night. I made a thermos of coffee as we split a hoagie and cracked a few beers. We made sure the rod was ready and the knots were strong. The fly already had some teeth marks and was ready to go for a swim again.

We resumed the float in full darkness and almost immediately entered into an incredible feeding window for an hour or so over only a few hundreds yards of water. Whatever causes fish to turn on was turning them on.

Mark had 7 missed explosions in the darkness before coming tight to number 8. "Big fish," he said, as the glint of the rod bowed out of the moonlight and into the darkness, canted over the bow as he hauled slack with his off hand. In a moment I'd netted his fish and dropped anchor. A 22" brown, thick and handsome. Mark was stoked, and it was my turn.

I missed a take on my 2nd cast but hooked and landed a slightly smaller fish, 21", on my fourth. A 17"er came to hand a few moments later, and then another a short while after that. Several fish were missed between them. And just like that, the fishing turned off for good with 7 more river miles ahead of us.

Nothing was splashing but upset beavers and we were satisfied and tired. We decided to row out the float and get some rest instead of letting the river carry us until the early morning.

The crisp multicolored arrangements of the stars were punctured by the glowing green wire of a shooting star. A vantablack mountainside loomed at a river bend bounded above by the satin of the sky and the high gloss of the riffled water. A lone Canada goose stood footed in the midriver current, like he'd been waiting for us to pass by. Browns revealed themselves in the sweep of my headlamp as pale yellow forms, ghosts of themselves, sidling in the flows among the swaying vegetation. An American eel, probing between the rocks, 400 miles from the mouth of this river and who knows how far from its saltwater spawning grounds, became illuminated by my searching headlight. A profound encounter, and brief, as our campsite beckoned. We took turns at the oars to stay warmed in the tailwater chilled air, and were asleep in our tent by 3:00am again."

Cadillac Mountain

The South Ridge Trail on Cadillac Mountain, Acadia National Park

The sunrise atop Cadillac Mountain is famous for its stellar views, easy accessibility, and most importantly, being the first place on the eastern coast where one can see the sun ascend over the horizon. A road travels straight to the mountain top and on each day of the year, one will find a crowd gathered to take in the event. In the peak of summer, the competition is fierce. I had no hope of witnessing the event with a 45 minute drive from my campsite, so I settled for other locations to take in the views. On this particular day, I planned a short circuit hike to complete my second summit of Cadillac. After a hearty breakfast and coffee at 123 Main Street Restaurant, I was able to find some relative solitude on my afternoon hike up the mountain.

The Coast of Maine

Bass Harbor Lighthouse

Selected photos from the drive to Baxter State Park and the journey home through Acadia National Park. 

The Travelers Loop

Traveler Mountain Overlooking Mt. Katahdin

After Katahdin and a few other jaunts in the southern portion of Baxter St. Park, I embarked on the second leg of my trip. Situated in the northern section, the destination was South Branch Pond and the famed Traveler Loop. The 11.1 mile Traveler circuit bags four peaks: Peak of the Ridges, Traveler, Little Traveler, and North Traveler.  Together, they form a picturesque backdrop to the views of North and South Branch Ponds from the campground. Once on the loop, the hiker is exposed to a constantly changing landscape, vegetation, rocks, and vistas that overlook the woods and waters of northern Maine. It is a stunning hike that surpasses Mt. Katahdin in terms of difficulty and beauty. 

On The Knife's Edge

Baxter St. Park and Mt. Katahdin

Life can be an emotional rollercoaster. Sometimes you just need to get away and find your equilibrium. I'd been daydreaming of a trip to Maine for most of my school year but never seriously looked into the logistics behind it. On the first day of my summer vacation, I found myself beside a fire with Murphy decompressing, or at least trying to. It was then that I just decided to go for it. I wanted the comfort of the road, a wild place, and a campsite. I pulled out my laptop and found a few locations along the eastern seaboard to book. I hit the road the following morning with my sights set on Baxter St. Park and Mt. Katahdin, the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail.  Two days later, I arrived in the buggiest place I had ever been. I was entirely alone and I wanted to do the Knife's Edge...