Shenandoah Days 2 and 3

The wildlife in Shenandoah has balls. This much is clear. On our first night 'camping' in the veritable hotel that is Big Meadows campground, deer and a skunk walked within feet of the 5 of us as we roasted hot dogs. The most bold display of disregard for the might of man, with our opposable thumbs and all, came from a raccoon. He leaped upon our picnic table, WHILE WE WERE SITTING AT IT, grabbed an entire pack of hot dog buns and ran off into the bushes. We were too stunned to give chase. Unbelievable.

Mangy-looking yearling.

Yearling of a different species.

In the morning we decided to take on Old Rag. Rising 2,300 feet above the starting point, reaching the summit requires some long uphill walks, vertical climbs, squeezing through some short caves and shimmying along some narrow cracks. The views are spectacular and the 9 mile hike took more than 5 hours.

Beginning the scramble.

On Sunday we again took out the fly rods and hiked down the Dark Hollow Falls trail, following a stream that flows over 5 waterfalls between 40 and 90 ft and countless other magnificent plunges. Each bend and dip in elevation revealed stacked pools surrounded by giant trees, lush vegetation and decent casting lanes. We slayed.

Gearing up with a hopper-dropper.

Greenage.

Brookies reside in almost every tiny pool.

In a word: lush.

The brookies along Dark Hollow falls trail are uniquely colorful. We hooked into one trophy which we pulled from a 25ft narrow waterfall which terminated in a trench about as big as a picnic table. My size 22 black adams dry fly was invisible in the turbulence and it sank, but I saw an uncommonly large flash near the undercut bank. Setting the hook, we brought a 10inch brook trout to hand, snapped a few pics, marveled, and released. The rest of the 6 mile hike, up and down with more than 1000 vertical feet traversed, we hammered them on dries around every bend of the river. It was an awesome day.

The Trophy returning to his lair.

Evolution, baby.

oranges, golds, blues, reds....

grays, whites, blacks...

and greens.

Shenandoah Day 1

Shenandoah National Park, situated within the heartland of Virginia is a special place. Miles and miles of beautiful and rugged terrain have been set aside to be used for public recreation. In our case, it happens to contain hundreds of small streams chock full of the prettiest brook trout you may ever lay eyes on. Arriving slightly around 2 o'clock my brother and I set off down White Oak Canyon Trail to catch some brookies in an incredibly beautiful setting.

An 80 Footer Looms in the Distance.

At the Base.

Finding A Trophy.

After a two mile hike down the mountain, we finally strung up our 4 piece small stream rods at a small pool between two 50+ foot waterfalls. Our first two casts produced two nice brookies in the 7-10" range. Quite large for such a small stream. From there we continued downstream for several hours getting farther away from our car at the summit. Each time we felt like heading back, we decided on seeing what was around the next bend or down the steep incline. Usually we found another huge waterfall that showed some promising holding water.

Streams Are Rich.

Getting Into Position.

What It's All About.

This Waterfall Made Me Want To Slide Down It.

Another Nice Set of Falls.

Made The 4 Mile Hike Out Just In Time.

Rise Forms.

Of all aspects of fly fishing that I have encountered, I have yet to find anything that gets me more excited than a rise to a dry fly. Rises represent an open invitation by the fish, that challenges anglers to fulfill some of the basic fundamentals of fly fishing: Observation, Positioning, and Presentation. When those three basics come together, and the fish decides to investigate, the angler is left afloat, supported by a sudden rush of adrenaline that seems to transfer from the fish, to the fly rod, eventually finding its way coursing through the veins of your body. In that moment, when everything comes together, you have reached one of the most fulfilling aspects of the sport.

Fly Fisherman's Paradise Tying Session.

Matching The Hatch.

Getting The Best Position.

Setting The Hook.

The Fight Is On...7x.

Big Bow.

Close Up.

Yea Baby.

The Last Day of the Trip

It was the rain that woke me.  It dripped through the cracked truck bed window and soaked the foot of my sleeping bag.  The stench of wading boots in the enclosed space made sure I stayed up.  The back of my sleep-crazed brain registered that we wouldn't be fishing the Little Juniata in the morning, or any time soon, for that matter.  The last stop of the annual 'Taste of the Dream' fly fishing trip would have to be re-discussed in the morning, hashing out the most viable body of water within reasonable driving distance of last nights home base, which just happened to be the parking lot of a Wal-Mart near State College, PA.

This is the third year in a row that my younger brother Mark and our friend Adam have used a broke, college student's budget to fall off of the grid for 10 or so days and fly fish their way through the best of Pennsylvania.  This was the first year I could join them and, through my newly acquired solvency, was able to ensure that we only stayed in 24-hour shopping center parking lots for three nights.  Only ate ravioli, cold and straight from the can, on a precious few occasions.  

The conversation in the cab of the truck was one-sided.  It was Mark naming theoretically fishable locales and the two of us, groggy from the shitty night's sleep and not looking forward to a day spent cold and wet, mostly remaining silent.  After the flu, a few awful nights in the truck bed and a week spend wading through some treacherous water I may have thought, blasphemously, that I was ready to head home.  Mark made a decision, plugged Fisherman's Paradise into the GPS and started the truck.

 

We pulled up to Spring Creek, the only flowing body of water he knew wouldn't be completely blown out.  The parking lot was empty, no one walked the shoreline.  The storm had taken care of them, and was awfully close to adding two more notches to its belt.

My brother looked at our faces and read our minds.  He exhaled, slowly shook his head.  He launched into a speech not unlike one usually reserved for aging generals preparing their nervous army for war.

As he spoke, instead of listening to his words I started to relive scenes from our fishing past.  Trips to Colorado for some western water, Erie and Ontario tributaries for steelhead, North Carolina for redfish and sea trout, stalking the homewaters with spinning rods as kids, the list goes on.  I remembered his respect and reverence for the water, and the fish he briefly encounters from within it.  I remembered his frustrating beginnings as a fly fisherman, 10 years past, and how I'll probably never approach the level of passion, skill and knowledge he as acquired since then.

He ended his speech with the words "...or we could go home, rejoin everyone else, go back to work."   His unenthusiasm for all preoccupations unrelated to fly fishing was obvious, dripped off of every word.

He opened the door and stepped out into the pouring rain, leaving his waterproof wading jacket crumpled on the dash.

I looked to the sky through the window, opened my own door, embraced the rain.

Imitations.

Art Imitates Life...

& Catches Lots of Fish.

The Yough.

This River is Wild left the Upper Potomac and headed to the next stop in line, the Yougiogheny River. We heard a lot about the Yough from local fly shops and magazines and had high expectations. We also heard it was some more crazy water to fish, with massive fluctuations in flows and some class V rapids. We ended up deciding to fish the catch and release section of the Yough which encompasses a few miles beginning upstream from Sang Run. We arrived early that morning to heavy showers and the rain continued throughout the entire day.

Easy Choice.

Weirdest Chubs of All Time.

Hooking Up.

Again.

Most Acrobatic Fish of the Trip.

We immediately began catching small bows and browns who eagerly attacked not only our nymphs but our large dries as well. These small fish were easily, pound for pound, the hardest fighting fish of the trip. Most likely due to their environment and the ever changing flows of their habitat. During our time at the Yough the river was low and and the water was very shallow making it difficult to find the holding water of the resident trout. After fishing several miles Adam and I found several nice pockets that contained numerous fish. For our efforts we only caught one large fish, a bow pushing 15 inches. Several large rainbows approaching 25 inches were spooked in the long glides of the river and we missed some nice brown trout. Overall the experience on the Youghiogheny was difficult despite the number of fish that were caught.

6wt is Straining.

Get Out of That Rock!

Big Bow.

Relaxing With a Warm Stogy.