Spring Dreaming

Snow can turn the most dreary of landscapes into spectacles of wonder. A perfect blanket of white neatly layered over hills and buildings, emanating peaceful beauty. Beyond the visual appeal, what resonates most is the silence. Layers of snow, damping vibrations and absorbing sounds, create moments of calm reflection and a most welcome refuge in an otherwise noisy world.

The day after a snowfall, we can glimpse into a world often unseen, where tracks from critters are literal storylines; tiny prints stamped on a blank canvas. The scenery is different, but nature moves unphased, subtly documented upon the layers of frozen moisture. Days like this it is a privilege to be along a river.

One last winter hurrah we tell ourselves. Half a foot of snow dumped on the city and even more just to the north. Heading away from the salt ridden and slushy roads of the Capitol, the snow remained undisturbed along the spring creek banks. Arriving at midday, it was a welcome surprise to lay the first tracks in pursuit of trout.

With a snow covered horizon, the polarized lense is your greatest ally. Clear skies and unwavered sun beams refracting off snow will quickly burn eyes and alter vision, an unnecessary obstacle that is easily avoidable. Still, it was difficult finding fish. Traditional runs proved fruitless and a lack of cloud cover made a stealthy approach not easy.

After many casts in vain, combing seams and changing flies, success was eventually found in deep slow runs. Nymphing a hare’s ear and worm pattern proved the winning recipe, although a brief wisp of clouds passing over brought several fish to the surface on a #18 BWO.

After a long winter and mostly frozen February, this was an excellent introduction to spring fishing and the adventures that lie ahead.  

*All photos provided by Charlie Church

Winter Trout

February is a bleak month in the nation’s capitol and for much of the east coast. Prolonged cold has finally permeated through our waters effectively shutting down the majority of our fisheries. It is a personal struggle to remain positive when my mood is directly correlated with my surroundings. But amidst the gloom, there are rays of hope. There is always hope. My hope lies in a chance encounter with my most favorite of coldwater friends, the trout.

After far too much time spent indoors, several friends and I headed west for the weekend, leaving behind a snowy cityscape for a snowy riverside campground in mining country, West Virginia. Arriving at the river in mid morning, we enjoyed a cup of coffee and took our time putting on waders and rigging our gear. The sun had not yet made it over the mountains and cold air hung stagnantly in the valley. Not until midday did the sun finally climb over the ridgeline and begin thawing the frozen ground.

The trout did not seem to notice the rising temperature and our hopes for more active fish were dashed. Aquatic lethargy and sparse hook ups remained the theme of the day. In a bid to discover the winning fly combination, each of us rigged up a streamer rod in addition to a nymph rod. A constant theme in fishing (the unexpected) occurred. The largest fish of the weekend took a streamer, an aggressive eat despite 37 degree water temperatures.

In the late afternoon, the sun passed over the opposite ridgeline and temperatures plummeted, signaling the end to our day on the water.

Back at camp, a fire warmed our bodies and spirits while the stars supplied the evening entertainment. My stubborn decision to extend the show by sleeping under the stars resulted in a crisp night of little sleep. Condensation from the adjacent river and temps in the teens was more than my 20 degree bag could handle. The next morning, I was selfishly reassured in hearing that each of my companions had also passed the night in frigid discomfort.

Stoking yesterday’s coals, we reignited our campfire and cooked a hearty breakfast accompanied by piping hot coffee to dispel memories of the previous night. As my friends started upstream, I hung back at camp, piling small twigs on the bed of coals and leisurely sipping my coffee. With another cold day ahead of us, my top priority was making the most of the remaining time outdoors be it fishing for otherwise.  A brief moment of reflection revealed that quietly sitting and listening to the crackle of twigs in the fire and muffled woosh of the river behind me was exactly what I wanted to be doing. I spent another hour slowly wandering around camp, cleaning up, and meticulously rigging my rods before joining the others upstream.

I caught no fish that weekend and I spent one of my colder sleepless nights in recent memory, yet I returned to the city refreshed and content. I am ready for more cold days ahead.

Fireside fly tying and sausage roasting

Embracing morning with a hearty meal

Born Again

Catching fish is the obvious goal, but what happens along the way is where the memory is made. I have seen some interesting and unique things on rivers. And this past summer the Shenandoah River added something new to the list.

Gearing up for a smallmouth bass float trip with a few friends out of Front Royal, I carried my kayak down to the launch ramp where a large number of people stood gathered. It is not entirely uncommon to see hoards of people spending a nice Sunday in the park (which runs along the river) so this spectacle didn't strike me as odd. That is, until I saw the white robes and heard the singing.

Scanning through the mass of people, I found the reason behind the gathering. Baptism. Now, I have seen baptisms before, but this was the first time I've stumbled across a river baptism. I was much enjoying my role as observational bystander until an anxious park ranger informed me that, “...technically, they are not supposed to do it in this spot,” followed by what I imagine was an internal battle of whether or not the ranger wanted to shut down a baptism. As far as I know, it carried on without interruption.

Now that the white robed mystery was solved, I began rigging up my rod and kayak while singing and clapping filled the air. The music was lovely and unlike anything I've ever heard. Mostly because the songs were performed in Spanish as the congregation was largely Hispanic.

Things took a turn for the awkward when it came time to launch the kayaks, seeing as the only route to the water was through the middle of the crowd. Not knowing how long the ceremony would last, my friends and I were left with little choice, but to politely and subtly shuffle our way through the crowd. That is when everything stopped. I am not sure if they paused mid song (not being a Spanish speaker) but it sure sounded like mid song to me.

All eyes now on us, the only sound to be heard was the scrape of gravel beneath our kayaks as we dragged them towards the water. It was kind of like eating noisy chips in a silent room full of people.

One exceedingly long and uncomfortable minute later I was in the water. I paddled swiftly around the priest and the man being baptized, giving them a silent head nod as if to say, "sorry about that, carry on." A glance back over my shoulder revealed fifty heads with faces blank of expression swiveling in unison as I paddled down river. I put my head down and paddled faster.

A coupled hundred feet downstream, the clapping and singing resumed and I breathed sigh of relief, pulled off some line, and began fishing.

It truly must have been a blessed day because the fishing was that good. 

Potomac Shad

Before moving to the east coast, I had never heard of shad. Four years later, I have become well acquainted with this herring like fish affectionately dubbed ‘the poor man’s salmon.’

Any half respectable fisherman in the DMV (DC, Maryland, Virginia) area will tell you with wide eyes about shad season. It is a saving grace for those beaten down by winter. It is a promise of spring and new life. It is a reason to go outside. Perhaps most of all, shad season is a chance to catch an obscene amount of fish.

Winter limits my fishing options to where I often find myself driving further and further out of the city in search of fish. However, everything changes with the arrival of spring and the annual shad run. Not only do my fishing options increase, but the fish come to me. In fact, I don’t even need to drive anywhere. Eight miles on my bike and I am in the middle of the action.

The Potomac River at Fletchers Cove, just above Georgetown, is as good a place as any to catch shad. Rent a wooden rowboat from Fletcher’s Boathouse, paddle out, drop anchor, and start casting. This is no secret and there is often a wait list for the limited amount of boats.

Fly selection is not of great importance. I use short Clouser minnows of various colors because they are cheap and easy to tie. The biggest factor determining success is depth and location of the fly. The fish stack up in certain places and a sinking line is needed to reach them. More than once, fishermen in other boats have called out inquiring about my fly choice and I tell them, “It is a #6 white Clouser, but the fly is not that important. You just need to paddle around and keep casting until you find a school of fish.” Once you find a school, there is a good possibility for constant hook ups upwards of 50 fish.

Although fishermen have caught high numbers of shad in recent years, the population of both American and hickory shad is still at a fragile level compared to past numbers. The sad and redundant theme of human caused decline through over fishing, pollution, and river obstruction once again rears its ugly head. Efforts are currently being made to increase the fish populations and return significance to this historic species. In addition to large scale stocking, a moratorium on American shad has been in effect since 1982 and all hickory shad also must be returned to the water.

I remain optimistic for the future of these fish. Still, the tales of old serve as a painful reminder of what could have been; prolific runs of fish beyond imagination. In the early 1600s, famous explorer John Smith noted that the fish were “...lying so thicke with their heads above water, as for want of nets we attempted to catch them with frying pans.” As for the now, I will stick with my fly rod and enjoy any fish I am fortunate enough to catch.

See you on the river this spring.

Photo: Charlie Church

An unexpected bi-catch. Photo: Charlie Church

Surfperch

For me, it is much a shame that I spent my youth oblivious towards the fishing opportunities that surrounded me. I may be older and wiser these days, but I am also living far from my childhood home. The east coast is where I reside for now, but once a year I make the journey west to my place of birth, Santa Barbara, CA.

Each trip home uncovers new fishing ventures in old familiar places. Surfperch, the most recent of these discoveries, spurred from a casual conversation about fly-fishing. A family friend alerted me to the existence of these aggressive fish living amongst the waves. Eager to make up for lost time, I borrowed a 6wt rod with sinking line, a box of flies, and a stripping basket from my fishing informant and hit the beach.

Much to my surprise, I found myself fishing on the same beach I grew up on. A beach where I spent so many summers lounging and winters surfing over the years now had a whole new appeal. Now, with no knowledge and minimal information gathered on the characteristics of these fish, I did as I often do in these uncertain scenarios - start casting.

Right away, I was glad to have the stripping basket, which I had initially declined, thinking it would be a cumbersome bother. I now realize that the incessant crashing of waves and shifting tide would have been a nightmare line management scenario if not for the basket.

After casting in the beach break and trying to get some idea of where my fly was in the water, I started to doubt that anything could even see the fly amongst the frothy mess of kelp, sand, and whitewater churning around me. With every cast I threw, the waves instantly pushed my line back towards my body, making it near impossible to get any sort of controlled retrieval. Gradually accepting that I probably wouldn’t catch anything, I began to relax and let any frustration fade away, trying to think positive thoughts…beautiful day, beautiful beach, not too cold out… A sharp tug on the line abruptly interrupted these thoughts. Fish always seem to catch me off guard, or rather I catch them when I’m off guard… either way, I had a fish on the end of my line and began frantically stripping in slack. Sure enough, there was my first surfperch with fly squarely in its mouth.

It is wild how quickly fortunes can change. With confidence renewed, I kept casting, catching nine more fish until the sunset could no longer be ignored. Quite literally, the setting sun sucked me in like a moth to the flame. I became incapacitated with wonder.

There was not another person on the beach that day, only me, the sun, and its reflection off the wet sand. This was a December I will always remember.

Interesting fact: Surfperch give birth to live young