Catch & Release

Trout. They're constantly swimming around inside my head. Holding in the current of my thoughts, not willing to scatter, even when startled by the ruckus of the outside world. Especially brown trout. They're particularly stubborn creatures.

Last weekend I had the opportunity to travel to Atlanta for business. Atlanta is not terribly far away from my home, an hour by plane, about five by car. I bolt from work early on Friday afternoon, looking forward to the extended drive.

Adel, Cordele, Unadilla, Byron, McDonough. All stops along the interstate begging you to feed, fuel, and perhaps stay awhile. I speed past them all, save the Zaxby's & Shell in Tifton, keeping one eye out for state troopers, the other on the road.

But before Atlanta, I was going to steal a day and a half and head the mountains to the north. The mountains with cold water streams, tunnels of rhododendron, and those haunting wild trout.

The evening's destination was Dahlonega. A small college town with a tourist trap of a city square. It proudly boasts its heritage as the heart of the Georgia gold rush. However, for all the history and quirky charm, it's certainly not frozen in time.

Hey, isn't that Steak n' Shake at the top of the hill new? I know that Dunkin' Donuts is...

Besides the gold, it owes its attractiveness to travelers as a gateway of sorts to the Southern Appalachians. Their namesake Trail is nearby. The trout are as well.

Leaving Dahlonega on Saturday morning, it's chilly, cloudy, and not particularly promising. After winding through the mountains, gradually gaining and then losing altitude around each corner, I find the eventual gravel forest service roads are strewn with deep ruts, potholes, and puddles of thick muck and mud.

I pass by a few of the campsites within the Wildlife Managment Area, they are found to be all empty. Only barren, charred remains of fire pits past.

As the road veers to the right the stream presents itself through the break in the trees. Running high and fast, you can hear the power in its low rumble. It was clearly going to be a difficult wade.

Rod in hand, I entered the water only to find my head clear. The outside world quickly fades away as I am engulfed by moss-covered boulders, downed tree limbs, and rush of the cool moving water around my knees.

A few casts, a few silver flashes, a shot of adrenaline. The trout in my head swim at my feet, no longer captives of my thoughts.

The first to succumb was a small rainbow, it's body littered with dark speckles and the shading of parr marks. Plucked from behind a rock. Despite the rushing current, it rose to sample a simply tied white hackled fly. Suspended like my disbelief, right beneath the surface.

Shortly thereafter, the rain began. It was a chilling, steady rain. It was also a rejuvenating rain. You could tell it was cleansing the hills of their winter slumber. Eyes off the water to adjust my rain jacket, sprouting shrubs and flowers suddenly came into focus. It was hard not to smile... or at least smirk.

What followed were a few waterlogged hours of hopping rocks, picking apart riffles and runs, surveying plunges and pools. A handful of trout emerged from the foamy clouds of whitewater, guided one by one softly to the bottom of my net. I continued to follow the trail of rainbows until the pot of gold presented itself. Or perhaps a pot of brown?

Slowly, that beautifully freckled trout swam away, I felt content. It was time to head south. It was getting darker, the water was getting skinnier, and the rain was coming down harder. Atlanta was calling.

On the hike back to the car the realities of the world began flooding my mind.

Where are my car keys? Do I have enough gas to get to Atlanta? Where am I going to eat dinner?

And as my mind refilled with clutter, the trout returned as well. Holding, steadily in my stream of subconscious, waiting for the day they would once again be released back into reality.

Without Trout

I've got a serious case of trout withdrawal.

When you're a trout junkie like me and haven't really been in a place to find them since mid-May, well, it does something to your state of mind. It's unsettling, I'm off-kilter. I think I've got a case of the shakes.

Doesn't matter much that you live in Florida, home to endless saltwater and freshwater fishing opportunities. Those waters are devoid of trout. I could be called a species snob, but it's not necessarily the fish I'm after, it's the surroundings, the therapeutic experience. It kept me balanced. What I do know is that a handful of opportunities a year isn't going to work.

Social media doesn't provide much of an escape. When you curate your "friends" and "follows" around your primary interest, the constant flow of brookies, browns, & rainbows swimming in the virtual photo stream quickly goes from gratifying to grating. Like? Love? Retweet? Ugh...

It's definitely worse this year than the prior three. I don't handle cold turkey well. Has Pennsylvania been three years already? Wow. Can't believe it.

For now, a long Smoky Mountain weekend in October is the light at the end of the tunnel. Although pinning so much hope on a few short days of potential probably isn't the best recipe for true satisfaction. As easily as Mother Nature can giveth, she can also taketh away.

In the meantime, I guess there's football, family, & the possibility of flood tide tailers. The latter could be a decent distraction, the highlight of many an angler's year, although consistently locating them is still a missing ingredient in my salt marsh recipe. I'm not seeking challenge, I'm seeking comfort.

While I do mean to vent, I'm not looking for your sympathy or consolation. My overall quality of life is good. I'm just confused, existing in an odd state of fishing purgatory. It's even become hard to write this blog. I've been doing this for at least a quarter of my life, it's been such a long time since I haven't. Something is missing and I know it's not going to be found anytime soon.

Change is hard. Living five hours from a good trout stream is even harder.

With Apologies To Pete...

Being my last opportunity to fish in Pennsylvania before heading back to Florida, I hit Valley Creek after work on Tuesday hoping find a fish or two.

As I approached the stream, there was a father with two small kids playing in the water I was planning on fishing. No big deal, they were there first, no reason to interrupt their hi-jinks. So I walked about 20 yards on the trail upstream, stood on the bank beside the water, and started to extend my telescoping tenkara rod when I heard...

"Mike..."

And I when I turned around I was immediately greeted by a gentleman (& angler) that I didn't recognize. Scanning through my memory banks trying to place the face, he introduced himself as Pete, a reader of this blog for about five years.

To say I was surprised was an understatement, as I fished Valley regularly for almost 7 years, wrote about the creek almost weekly a few years back, and nobody ever identified themselves (or me) from the blog while I was fishing there. So my chance meeting with Pete might have been the coolest thing like ever.

I have to admit, I was a bit caught off guard, and really didn't know what to say. I don't even remember what I said exactly during our brief conversation. I think I said something open ended like "I'm about to fish this run," as in if you'd like to join me...but I probably came off as lame or self-occupied, and hopefully not too much like a douchebag. Pete said he was heading downstream and thanked me for writing the blog.

So in closing, Pete, if you're reading this, sorry if I appeared a little perplexed on the creek yesterday. I was just really startled and my mind was having trouble synthesizing what was going on. If you have a chance, please pop me an email HERE; I'd love to send you some T! swag. After all, it's not every day you meet one of your awesome long-time readers in person.

Oh, and I hope you did better downstream than I did upstream. I managed a hookup, but brought none to hand. Fish were rising, just couldn't get them to take...

Who Says You Can't Go Home Again?

...must have been the Valley Creek trout.

When presented with the need to be in Philadelphia for a few business meetings, I jumped at the chance to head up and get back on my "home" trout water, Valley Creek.

From 2009 to 2013, I probably fished Valley Creek at least every other weekend.  It was a 15 minute drive from my front door. It was where I caught my first trout on the fly. It was where I first fished tenkara. It was also a place that I knew like the back of my hand, and wasn't afraid to show others where to find the fish.

Ever since I moved to Florida, Valley hasn't been to kind to me during my sporadic returns. I had an underwhelming outing a year and a half ago...and this time...well, I went 0 for 2 again. 

Saturday just wasn't a good day. While it was tropical by Philadelphia standards (low 50s), it was the day after an early-Spring snowfall. The banks were a slurry of melting snow and mud, the sun refused to come out for the majority of the day, and it was just downright dreary. The scenery wasn't bad though.

I saw a few fish, honestly not many, but they just weren't active. They were all holding low in deep pools, not moving a muscle to any of my offerings. I even broke out some of the "break glass in emergency" nymphs, but they just weren't budging. I suppose it's somewhat symptomatic of this time of year, as looking back at fishing reports of years' past, February & March were always tough months to fish Valley, things never really picked up much until April.

Spring is trying to...spring...

On Sunday, the original plan was to meet up with Steven Smith from The Silent Pursuit blog around noon and give Valley a shot. We had worked this out ahead of my Saturday outing. It was actually to be about 10 degrees colder than Saturday, so I texted him to let him know that the prior day wasn't all that epic.  Basically I wanted to spare him a 40 minute drive for fishing I knew was going to be less than stellar.

I almost bailed on fishing completely, spending most of the afternoon in the King of Prussia Mall instead, but I did pop over for an hour or so around 3:30 PM, just to see if with the sun still relatively high in the sky, if there were any sort of bugs in the air or fish rising. Again, no dice. I wet a line in some of the spots that used to be tried and true producers, but no luck. Not even a nibble. I drowned my sorrows in a Wawa hoagie afterward.

A failed catch & release

I have to admit that it's a little disheartening to visit a place you miss so much, wish was closer to (your new) home, and never took for granted.  I know it's not really the creek or the trout's fault, it just would have been nice to have some success, even if only minimal.

A book of witchcraft found creekside?
Maybe that's why the fish weren't biting...

If one can take solace in something, I was really pleased to see a lot of twenty-somethings also fly fishing at Valley over the past two days. In all the years of me fishing Valley, I'd say the overwhelming majority of anglers I'd pass on the water appeared to either be guys like me in their 30s or 40s or anglers that were even more seasoned than that. 

It was extremely rare to see younger anglers at Valley, but this weekend I'd say 6 of the 8 anglers I hopscotched on the banks were decidedly younger than me. The few I chatted with seemed knowledgeable about fly fishing and very personable (which can be rare trait among anglers). One even knew what my tenkara rod was and asked a few questions about it. 

As a flight back to Florida awaits on Tuesday, Valley Creek is their creek now. I'm happy it appears to be in good hands.