MACFLY
Too many streams too little time
An excerpt from an Essay on Flyfishing I authored.
The first time I came upon this section of stream I sat in awe that such water could exist in a state where there are more highways than moving water. Yet here it was and to stand on the banks and see trout dimpling the surface I was immediately connected to this water so forcefully that I knew I would visit this place over and over again for years to come. The stream runs for many miles before dumping into a larger stream further south. At the point where this stream enters the larger stream any thoughts of rising fish are long gone but here in this section the possibilities of catching and releasing wild brook and brown trout was very real. the path that lead to this section of stream was well hidden and access to the path was granted by the owner of a local dairy farm.
I was 12 years old when I first learned of the "Secret Spot". Opening day of little league baseball was cancelled due to rain and my brother told me with a minutes notice to grab your gear and lets get in the car and go fishing. We started at the usual spot where the hatchery trucks dump fish off the bridge and dozens of fisherman stand in line on opening day hoping to catch a couple before scampering back home or to their job or wherever else life was taking them. It was not unusual to be lined up alongside the masses on a stock day waiting to catch these same fish. I was 12 years old and this seemed like more than enough excitement and wonder for a kid my age. This day was different though. After a couple of hours fishing the usual spots my brother called down to me from the pool above and motioned for me to head back to the car. I thought we were likely headed over the mountain to the other stream we fished regularly throughout our lives. As we crossed the bridge over the stream we immediately banked right and I knew we were headed to someplace new and I was already darting my head left and right trying to pick up the stream again. My brother senses my combination of excitement and bewilderment and simply said "We are going to the secret spot" For a 12 year old kid who had been bitten by the fishing bug at the age of 6 these were magical words.
I was somewhat puzzled when we made a right turn into the dairy farm and perhaps felt a little disappointed. Soon my disappointment turned to confusion and then back to excitement as we weaved our way into the back of a very large direct lot. Farther and farther back we rod until we came up to where the lot met the woodline. I didnt see the stream from the car and so this instantly bumped up the excitement level. As we headed towards a grassy section I could barely make out a small lightly traveled dirt path that seemed to disappear after a few feet but kept going weaving back and forth and up and down. After about 30 or 40 feet I could hear a small tributary to my right. The sound of rushing water got my blood pumping and If I could take a picture of myself at that moment I am sure I would have the silliest grin spread ear to ear. We walked for what seemed like a long time but was probably half a football field if that. When your 12 anything over 20 feet seems like a hike. Soon I could hear more moving water in front of me this time and I stepped up the pace eager to see what lie in front of me. My brother sensed my eagerness and let me lead as we broke out into small hill looking down at a good sized pool of water. An old railroad trestle stood at the top of the pool (the tracks long since torn down). The cement peers that anchored the trestle broke up the rushing water and fed the pool at 3 distinct points. I made my way down the small hill and stopped a few feet short of the water.
I was mesmerized by what lay in front of me. My senses were overcome not just by what I saw but what I heard,smelled, and more importantly what I didnt hear. No rushing cars or trucks, no horns or screams of angry drivers. It was like stepping back in time. Other than the cement trestle walls it was green and lush all around. I looked up and down the stream over and over again. Downstream the water was flanked by riparian growth on both side and a good canopy of trees overhead yet not so much that you couldnt get a decent cast. Upstream above the trestle the water seemed flat but no less inviting.
It was at that moment I felt instantly connected to this piece of water. It was if i had been given a precious gift which turned out to be true and yet I didnt know it at the time but felt it so powerfully it radiated within me. It was at this point that i finally realized I had not even bothered to fish yet. I began frantically going through my flies looking for a suitable fly but having no clue what to choose. Instinctively I looked up and saw a rising trout. It was a small brown rising against the far bank. He was feeding with reckless abandon oblivious to what was going on around him. My brother had already moved downstream a ways to give me some casting space. I had no idea what this fish was rising to but it was definitely on top. A 12 year olds fly selection most often resembles a flea market. An eclectic mix of old popular patterns in sizes too big or too small coupled with a few of your more popular nymphs and streamers and interspersed with what could be called a more useful fly if you knew that is what the fish were feeding on. I did not know so I proceeded to throw the kitchen sink at this one rising fish. An hour later and probably half a dozen flies down I took out what I would later come to know as an Adams dry fly. I tied it on because i though i saw brown flies swimming above the water and frankly it was either that or a sneaky Pete bass bug
I waded back into position slightly upstream of the rising fish and false cast for an eternity until I was sure I was close enough. My first cast landed too far upstream and swung away from the trout. My second cast was too short and so I took a deep breath and tried again. This time I was on the money and this magnificent little brown trout ate my fly like he had planned to do it all along. I stripped the fish in quickly half out of excitement and half out of fear of losing it. I knelt down and gently removed the hook with a pair of rusty hemostats my brother gave me a few weeks earlier. The fish had plenty of fight left and so I quickly released him and watched him swim away unharmed. I looked downstream and my brother gave me a wind and a nod to say good job.
The rest of the day was spent exploring this section of the stream that in truth seemed like a different stream entirely. Downstream the water was a mix of soft riffles interspersed with some glassy pools and one spot in particular that screamed giant brown trout hole. An old oak tree had fallen into the river with its giant trunk pointing straight upstream. A continuous rush of water ensure the hole just before the trunk continued to deepen every year.
I did not catch any fish in that spot on that day but years later on my first leave from the Army I headed to this spot on a cool summer day right after a strong summer shower had clouded the water. I raised a brown trout in that hole with an imitation helgrammite I had purchased just for an occasion such as this. The trout was easily 5 pounds and north of 25 inches. He may have been a holdover or breeder from the fishing clud I had learned owned a couple miles of river upstream.
After my first encounter with the secret spot I returned over and over again in all seasons for the next 20 plus years. When I was a bit older I started to walk the stream all the way from the bridge. I became intimately familiar with every inch of stream seeing it in every season and fishing it in high water or low water or whatever water. I became aware that in the summer due to the heavy riparian habitat and overhanging tree structure the trout remained active. The water remained cool and the river never got too low. It was not uncommon to not see anyone else while fishing. I truly treasured this aspect of the water. While this section was not a secret spot it sure seemed as if regulars were content to fish the stock spots and were not willing to explore.
I once walked the stream in the middle of November when the brookies were on the spawn. My buddy and I had hiked up a couple of miles from the bridge fishing all the way when we came across several redds and then saw 3 separate spawning beds with brook trout paired up for the spawn. If they were aware of us they hardly seemed to care.
On another rainy November day I fished this section of stream with my oldest brother in what turned out to be one of my best fishing days ever. I caught my very first trout on a pattern I tied myself and released it unharmed. We fished and laughed all day long and my brother closed the day out catching a beautiful 15 inch brown just above a very small footbridge that crossed over the stream.
Another time I landed an enormous rainbow trout on a San Juan worm just as they sun dipped below the tree line. As the years passed, I became more and more connected to this water. It gave me a peace and calm everytime I came for a visit.
Just as we evolve over time and make progress so too does moving water. I was saddened when I heard of the housing development that would go up in place of the now defunct Dairy Farm. I decided I needed one move visit to the secret spot. Although I had not fished the section in quite a while it was no less familiar to me when I returned. It was an Autumn Day with a mix of sun and clouds. For this trip, I decided to retrace my steps from the very first time I encountered this water. As I turned into the dairy farm I saw a roadblock up and an older gentleman guarding the access. I rolled down my window and before i could tell him my purpose for being here he waived me through and casually stated that he would miss this section as well. He seemed to look right through me and knew I was coming to say goodbye.
The path was well worn by now and there seemed to be less trees along the path. I made my way down to the river and sat on the banks feeling a bit saddened by the whole affair. I could still make out the gurgling brook along the path. For a moment it was as if I had been transported back in time to that first day in early April almost 20 years ago. I recalled all of the wonderful memories walking these banks and fishing with all manner of friends and family members over the years. I thought about the gift my brother had given me on that day so many years ago. I sat there for a long time and as I finally worked up the will to leave I gazed out at the far bank where I had caught my first brown trout and a tear formed briefly. As I went to wipe it away I saw the unmistakable rise of a trout almost to the very spot I saw the first riser so long ago. It was as if I was given a message to say "we are still here..please come back and visit us some time..
The joy of flyfishing is in its ability to connect you with moving water, with nature, with life in its pure and natural state. I am thankful I was given the gift to be connected to this piece of water.
Regards
Macfly
Connected Waters
The first time I came upon this section of stream I sat in awe that such water could exist in a state where there are more highways than moving water. Yet here it was and to stand on the banks and see trout dimpling the surface I was immediately connected to this water so forcefully that I knew I would visit this place over and over again for years to come. The stream runs for many miles before dumping into a larger stream further south. At the point where this stream enters the larger stream any thoughts of rising fish are long gone but here in this section the possibilities of catching and releasing wild brook and brown trout was very real. the path that lead to this section of stream was well hidden and access to the path was granted by the owner of a local dairy farm.
I was 12 years old when I first learned of the "Secret Spot". Opening day of little league baseball was cancelled due to rain and my brother told me with a minutes notice to grab your gear and lets get in the car and go fishing. We started at the usual spot where the hatchery trucks dump fish off the bridge and dozens of fisherman stand in line on opening day hoping to catch a couple before scampering back home or to their job or wherever else life was taking them. It was not unusual to be lined up alongside the masses on a stock day waiting to catch these same fish. I was 12 years old and this seemed like more than enough excitement and wonder for a kid my age. This day was different though. After a couple of hours fishing the usual spots my brother called down to me from the pool above and motioned for me to head back to the car. I thought we were likely headed over the mountain to the other stream we fished regularly throughout our lives. As we crossed the bridge over the stream we immediately banked right and I knew we were headed to someplace new and I was already darting my head left and right trying to pick up the stream again. My brother senses my combination of excitement and bewilderment and simply said "We are going to the secret spot" For a 12 year old kid who had been bitten by the fishing bug at the age of 6 these were magical words.
I was somewhat puzzled when we made a right turn into the dairy farm and perhaps felt a little disappointed. Soon my disappointment turned to confusion and then back to excitement as we weaved our way into the back of a very large direct lot. Farther and farther back we rod until we came up to where the lot met the woodline. I didnt see the stream from the car and so this instantly bumped up the excitement level. As we headed towards a grassy section I could barely make out a small lightly traveled dirt path that seemed to disappear after a few feet but kept going weaving back and forth and up and down. After about 30 or 40 feet I could hear a small tributary to my right. The sound of rushing water got my blood pumping and If I could take a picture of myself at that moment I am sure I would have the silliest grin spread ear to ear. We walked for what seemed like a long time but was probably half a football field if that. When your 12 anything over 20 feet seems like a hike. Soon I could hear more moving water in front of me this time and I stepped up the pace eager to see what lie in front of me. My brother sensed my eagerness and let me lead as we broke out into small hill looking down at a good sized pool of water. An old railroad trestle stood at the top of the pool (the tracks long since torn down). The cement peers that anchored the trestle broke up the rushing water and fed the pool at 3 distinct points. I made my way down the small hill and stopped a few feet short of the water.
I was mesmerized by what lay in front of me. My senses were overcome not just by what I saw but what I heard,smelled, and more importantly what I didnt hear. No rushing cars or trucks, no horns or screams of angry drivers. It was like stepping back in time. Other than the cement trestle walls it was green and lush all around. I looked up and down the stream over and over again. Downstream the water was flanked by riparian growth on both side and a good canopy of trees overhead yet not so much that you couldnt get a decent cast. Upstream above the trestle the water seemed flat but no less inviting.
It was at that moment I felt instantly connected to this piece of water. It was if i had been given a precious gift which turned out to be true and yet I didnt know it at the time but felt it so powerfully it radiated within me. It was at this point that i finally realized I had not even bothered to fish yet. I began frantically going through my flies looking for a suitable fly but having no clue what to choose. Instinctively I looked up and saw a rising trout. It was a small brown rising against the far bank. He was feeding with reckless abandon oblivious to what was going on around him. My brother had already moved downstream a ways to give me some casting space. I had no idea what this fish was rising to but it was definitely on top. A 12 year olds fly selection most often resembles a flea market. An eclectic mix of old popular patterns in sizes too big or too small coupled with a few of your more popular nymphs and streamers and interspersed with what could be called a more useful fly if you knew that is what the fish were feeding on. I did not know so I proceeded to throw the kitchen sink at this one rising fish. An hour later and probably half a dozen flies down I took out what I would later come to know as an Adams dry fly. I tied it on because i though i saw brown flies swimming above the water and frankly it was either that or a sneaky Pete bass bug
I waded back into position slightly upstream of the rising fish and false cast for an eternity until I was sure I was close enough. My first cast landed too far upstream and swung away from the trout. My second cast was too short and so I took a deep breath and tried again. This time I was on the money and this magnificent little brown trout ate my fly like he had planned to do it all along. I stripped the fish in quickly half out of excitement and half out of fear of losing it. I knelt down and gently removed the hook with a pair of rusty hemostats my brother gave me a few weeks earlier. The fish had plenty of fight left and so I quickly released him and watched him swim away unharmed. I looked downstream and my brother gave me a wind and a nod to say good job.
The rest of the day was spent exploring this section of the stream that in truth seemed like a different stream entirely. Downstream the water was a mix of soft riffles interspersed with some glassy pools and one spot in particular that screamed giant brown trout hole. An old oak tree had fallen into the river with its giant trunk pointing straight upstream. A continuous rush of water ensure the hole just before the trunk continued to deepen every year.
I did not catch any fish in that spot on that day but years later on my first leave from the Army I headed to this spot on a cool summer day right after a strong summer shower had clouded the water. I raised a brown trout in that hole with an imitation helgrammite I had purchased just for an occasion such as this. The trout was easily 5 pounds and north of 25 inches. He may have been a holdover or breeder from the fishing clud I had learned owned a couple miles of river upstream.
After my first encounter with the secret spot I returned over and over again in all seasons for the next 20 plus years. When I was a bit older I started to walk the stream all the way from the bridge. I became intimately familiar with every inch of stream seeing it in every season and fishing it in high water or low water or whatever water. I became aware that in the summer due to the heavy riparian habitat and overhanging tree structure the trout remained active. The water remained cool and the river never got too low. It was not uncommon to not see anyone else while fishing. I truly treasured this aspect of the water. While this section was not a secret spot it sure seemed as if regulars were content to fish the stock spots and were not willing to explore.
I once walked the stream in the middle of November when the brookies were on the spawn. My buddy and I had hiked up a couple of miles from the bridge fishing all the way when we came across several redds and then saw 3 separate spawning beds with brook trout paired up for the spawn. If they were aware of us they hardly seemed to care.
On another rainy November day I fished this section of stream with my oldest brother in what turned out to be one of my best fishing days ever. I caught my very first trout on a pattern I tied myself and released it unharmed. We fished and laughed all day long and my brother closed the day out catching a beautiful 15 inch brown just above a very small footbridge that crossed over the stream.
Another time I landed an enormous rainbow trout on a San Juan worm just as they sun dipped below the tree line. As the years passed, I became more and more connected to this water. It gave me a peace and calm everytime I came for a visit.
Just as we evolve over time and make progress so too does moving water. I was saddened when I heard of the housing development that would go up in place of the now defunct Dairy Farm. I decided I needed one move visit to the secret spot. Although I had not fished the section in quite a while it was no less familiar to me when I returned. It was an Autumn Day with a mix of sun and clouds. For this trip, I decided to retrace my steps from the very first time I encountered this water. As I turned into the dairy farm I saw a roadblock up and an older gentleman guarding the access. I rolled down my window and before i could tell him my purpose for being here he waived me through and casually stated that he would miss this section as well. He seemed to look right through me and knew I was coming to say goodbye.
The path was well worn by now and there seemed to be less trees along the path. I made my way down to the river and sat on the banks feeling a bit saddened by the whole affair. I could still make out the gurgling brook along the path. For a moment it was as if I had been transported back in time to that first day in early April almost 20 years ago. I recalled all of the wonderful memories walking these banks and fishing with all manner of friends and family members over the years. I thought about the gift my brother had given me on that day so many years ago. I sat there for a long time and as I finally worked up the will to leave I gazed out at the far bank where I had caught my first brown trout and a tear formed briefly. As I went to wipe it away I saw the unmistakable rise of a trout almost to the very spot I saw the first riser so long ago. It was as if I was given a message to say "we are still here..please come back and visit us some time
..The joy of flyfishing is in its ability to connect you with moving water, with nature, with life in its pure and natural state. I am thankful I was given the gift to be connected to this piece of water.
Regards
Macfly
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