The Ugly.

"If our father had had his say, nobody who did not know how to catch a fish would be allowed to disgrace a fish by catching him."

Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It

The Ugly.

"If our father had had his say, nobody who did not know how to catch a fish would be allowed to disgrace a fish by catching him."

Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It

Fall in New York.

The pull off just ahead, my head was still spinning from what we had just witnessed only an hour ago. With the water level on a popular tailwater dropping rapidly, dozens of anglers resorted to some of the most brutal and shocking fishing tactics I had ever witnessed. Appalled, we left to find greener pastures on the other side. The other side consisted of a steep decent into another world that seemed far away from the circus earlier. Approaching the stream a calm suddenly came upon me. I was in familiar territory. A small stream flowing through a wooded ravine transported me to my home water back in Pennsylvania. I looked up stream and saw a slate cliff leading to the water. The reflection of the fall foliage on the water created a mirage of oranges, yellows, and browns. No one was in sight. We had it all to ourselves.

A Great Lakes Stream=Slate Cliffs.

Eye Popping Fall Colors.

Adam Fishing The Bend.

The Poor Salmon.

The Mighty Brown.

Approaching the first few holes, the large lake run brown trout could be seen gliding in and out of current seems. Their colors closely resembling the scenery surrounding them. Some so orange and bright, there was no possible way for them to hide. The small water created some interesting scenarios sight fishing to these brutes. They all seemed to have lock jaw as every pattern in the box was put to the test. When a few did come to the back of Adam's net their colors were even more spectacular. Their hook jaws and large teeth menacing. These were survivors and it was an honor to behold their power.

Bucket-mouth Brown.

Blurry Goodness.

An Even Smaller Tributary.

Brown in the Fog.

Adam's Fall Bounty.

Fall in New York.

I Want To Bite Your Face.

Fall in New York.

The pull off just ahead, my head was still spinning from what we had just witnessed only an hour ago. With the water level on a popular tailwater dropping rapidly, dozens of anglers resorted to some of the most brutal and shocking fishing tactics I had ever witnessed. Appalled, we left to find greener pastures on the other side. The other side consisted of a steep decent into another world that seemed far away from the circus earlier. Approaching the stream a calm suddenly came upon me. I was in familiar territory. A small stream flowing through a wooded ravine transported me to my home water back in Pennsylvania. I looked up stream and saw a slate cliff leading to the water. The reflection of the fall foliage on the water created a mirage of oranges, yellows, and browns. No one was in sight. We had it all to ourselves.

A Great Lakes Stream=Slate Cliffs.

Eye Popping Fall Colors.

Adam Fishing The Bend.

The Poor Salmon.

The Mighty Brown.

Approaching the first few holes, the large lake run brown trout could be seen gliding in and out of current seems. Their colors closely resembling the scenery surrounding them. Some so orange and bright, there was no possible way for them to hide. The small water created some interesting scenarios sight fishing to these brutes. They all seemed to have lock jaw as every pattern in the box was put to the test. When a few did come to the back of Adam's net their colors were even more spectacular. Their hook jaws and large teeth menacing. These were survivors and it was an honor to behold their power.

Bucket-mouth Brown.

Blurry Goodness.

An Even Smaller Tributary.

Brown in the Fog.

Adam's Fall Bounty.

Fall in New York.

I Want To Bite Your Face.

A Taste of Chrome.

The sound of the windshield wipers moving back and forth was the only thing keeping me awake. The five hour energy and the two cans of Red Bull just couldn't do the trick. As I concentrated on that nice rhythmic sound, my mind kept drifting off to the current destination. I dreamt of slabs of brown, sides of crimson, and the sound of line screaming off my reel. The oncoming high beams of another car snapped me back to reality. I gazed at the clock and realized I still had four hours to go. Time for another swig of the juice. 

Finally arriving, the parking lot was nearing capacity. Combat fishing amongst dozens of other anglers can be quite the experience. Finding one of the only fishable pieces of real estate I know I am not welcomed. The sideways glances, the biting glares, and the smug smirks contemplate my every move. They eye my gear, my clothing, and my demeanor. They have no idea who I am but they are so quick to judge. This melting pot of characters represent different states, countries, and ideologies. You have spinners, liners, pinners, dead drifters, swingers, and snaggers all vying for a quick fix that only a fish could bring. The environment is one of envy, greed,  and lust surrounding a thin gauntlet of flowing water. I try to block out all the unnecessary distractions and concentrate on the task at hand. 

After a long day of fishing, I have little to show for my efforts. A few solid hookups and glimmers of hope fluttering away at the end of my line keep me going on my one hour of sleep. Finally, during the tenth hour of fishing, the set, fight, and land all come together and I get my first chrome of the season. I struggled getting my cold hands around the thick midsection of the small hen. She was round, mean, and entirely used. I admired her for a few seconds before she returned to her lair. In that moment, the long drive, sleep deprivation, empty stomach, sinus pressure, and parched lips did not matter. A smile came to my face, and I was content. 

I find myself thinking once again. Instead of dreaming of what could possibly be, my mind wonders to what could have been. That nice long rolling cast up into the current. The perfect mend and dead drift through the seam. The set and roar of a giant buck cart-wheeling out of the current in front of me. The blazing run downstream and that last head shake that shook my hook for good.

 The high beams distract me from my deep thoughts again. I look at the clock and realize I have much longer than four hours before getting another chance. For now, all I have is this singular thought to dwell upon, until the next time I get a shot, at a taste of chrome. 

A Taste of Chrome.

The sound of the windshield wipers moving back and forth was the only thing keeping me awake. The five hour energy and the two cans of Red Bull just couldn't do the trick. As I concentrated on that nice rhythmic sound, my mind kept drifting off to the current destination. I dreamt of slabs of brown, sides of crimson, and the sound of line screaming off my reel. The oncoming high beams of another car snapped me back to reality. I gazed at the clock and realized I still had four hours to go. Time for another swig of the juice. 

Finally arriving, the parking lot was nearing capacity. Combat fishing amongst dozens of other anglers can be quite the experience. Finding one of the only fishable pieces of real estate I know I am not welcomed. The sideways glances, the biting glares, and the smug smirks contemplate my every move. They eye my gear, my clothing, and my demeanor. They have no idea who I am but they are so quick to judge. This melting pot of characters represent different states, countries, and ideologies. You have spinners, liners, pinners, dead drifters, swingers, and snaggers all vying for a quick fix that only a fish could bring. The environment is one of envy, greed,  and lust surrounding a thin gauntlet of flowing water. I try to block out all the unnecessary distractions and concentrate on the task at hand. 

After a long day of fishing, I have little to show for my efforts. A few solid hookups and glimmers of hope fluttering away at the end of my line keep me going on my one hour of sleep. Finally, during the tenth hour of fishing, the set, fight, and land all come together and I get my first chrome of the season. I struggled getting my cold hands around the thick midsection of the small hen. She was round, mean, and entirely used. I admired her for a few seconds before she returned to her lair. In that moment, the long drive, sleep deprivation, empty stomach, sinus pressure, and parched lips did not matter. A smile came to my face, and I was content. 

I find myself thinking once again. Instead of dreaming of what could possibly be, my mind wonders to what could have been. That nice long rolling cast up into the current. The perfect mend and dead drift through the seam. The set and roar of a giant buck cart-wheeling out of the current in front of me. The blazing run downstream and that last head shake that shook my hook for good.

 The high beams distract me from my deep thoughts again. I look at the clock and realize I have much longer than four hours before getting another chance. For now, all I have is this singular thought to dwell upon, until the next time I get a shot, at a taste of chrome. 

One of These Days...

My cell phone alarm awakened me early Sunday morning urging me to get the hell out of bed and go fishing. After the initial shock, I opened my tired eyes and in the gloom of the backlit screen I saw my two Labradors looking at me in the dark. They shifted their gaze and looked at each other before collapsing sideways into me. Their combined weight nearly pushed me off the bed. They must have thought I was crazy to be waking up at such an hour to leave the warm confines of my bed and head out into the heart of one of the season's first noreasters. I got their message and stopped the alarm.

Fall on the Pohopoco.

The Fish Congregate Under the Rhododendron. 

I awoke several hours later and this time both dogs were off of my bed, eagerly gazing up at me. This time, they wanted me to get up. I obliged, and took them out for some early morning exercise. Tired and panting relentlessly, Riley and Sophie came back inside. They saw me head for my fishing gear and realized I was about to leave them. Normally, any movement towards a jacket or shoes results in several jumps or excited moans and groans. It's wierd when the dogs know when they are and are not welcomed. I always feel bad taking one and leaving the other, so they both get left behind. One day, when they are both mature enough to handle fishing and have some sort of stream etiquette, they will never be turned away.

A Shallow Poho Run.

The View From Below.

I arrived at the Pohopoco Creek tailwater emptying out of the Beltzville Dam around 9 a.m. The place was empty and I headed down to the stream. Looking downstream, a small layer of fog hovered precariously above the water. I rigged up my outfit and fumbled tying on my 7x on the dropper. For mid October, the weather felt more like late November. The cold air caused the joints in my hands to ache and the strongs winds traveled down any opening in my outer armor. The first cast produced a stocked rainbow who fell victim to a small, soft hackled flashback pheasant tail. I slowly made my way downstream and then back up. Heading upstream, I was casting directly into a strong wind that often caused my dry dropper combo to collapse in a heap of ruin. Every so often I got my long leader to unroll upstream and produce.

The First Bow = Mangled Mouth.

Ahh, Much Prettier.

Soft Hackle PT Slays.

& Claims Another.

Soft Hackle Hares Ear Does The Job Too.

Underwater Release.

Taking time off from fishing, I played around with the river bottom, lifting and turning over large rocks accompanied by thick vegetation. The stream was alive with insect life. Olive and yellow caddis, black and golden stones, and a strong population of sow and cressbugs. I took my time trying to take some micro shots. I took even more time trying to find a large black stone. I only produced a small one around a size 12. I tied on one of the blackstones I tied for the Salmon River. It was a size 6 with a tungsten bead and rubber legs galore. I heaved it upstream behind a fallen log. In the 12 inch water, the tungsten hit bottom in less than a second. In around 2 seconds, I saw a flash and set the hook. A small wild brown could not resist the large meal and he came to my cold eager hands.

Large Caddis Dwarfing A Small Stone.

One of the Small Stones.

Cress Bug.

Green Caddis Larva.

Small Black Stone.

My Large Black Imitation.

Score.

The next time I head out, one or both of those labs are coming with me. They need more training and I guess the only way to find out if they can handle it, is to throw them into the fire. If they spook all the fish or runaway, so be it. I'll probably have as big a smile on my face as they will on theirs.

One of These Days...

My cell phone alarm awakened me early Sunday morning urging me to get the hell out of bed and go fishing. After the initial shock, I opened my tired eyes and in the gloom of the backlit screen I saw my two Labradors looking at me in the dark. They shifted their gaze and looked at each other before collapsing sideways into me. Their combined weight nearly pushed me off the bed. They must have thought I was crazy to be waking up at such an hour to leave the warm confines of my bed and head out into the heart of one of the season's first noreasters. I got their message and stopped the alarm.

Fall on the Pohopoco.

The Fish Congregate Under the Rhododendron. 

I awoke several hours later and this time both dogs were off of my bed, eagerly gazing up at me. This time, they wanted me to get up. I obliged, and took them out for some early morning exercise. Tired and panting relentlessly, Riley and Sophie came back inside. They saw me head for my fishing gear and realized I was about to leave them. Normally, any movement towards a jacket or shoes results in several jumps or excited moans and groans. It's wierd when the dogs know when they are and are not welcomed. I always feel bad taking one and leaving the other, so they both get left behind. One day, when they are both mature enough to handle fishing and have some sort of stream etiquette, they will never be turned away.

A Shallow Poho Run.

The View From Below.

I arrived at the Pohopoco Creek tailwater emptying out of the Beltzville Dam around 9 a.m. The place was empty and I headed down to the stream. Looking downstream, a small layer of fog hovered precariously above the water. I rigged up my outfit and fumbled tying on my 7x on the dropper. For mid October, the weather felt more like late November. The cold air caused the joints in my hands to ache and the strongs winds traveled down any opening in my outer armor. The first cast produced a stocked rainbow who fell victim to a small, soft hackled flashback pheasant tail. I slowly made my way downstream and then back up. Heading upstream, I was casting directly into a strong wind that often caused my dry dropper combo to collapse in a heap of ruin. Every so often I got my long leader to unroll upstream and produce.

The First Bow = Mangled Mouth.

Ahh, Much Prettier.

Soft Hackle PT Slays.

& Claims Another.

Soft Hackle Hares Ear Does The Job Too.

Underwater Release.

Taking time off from fishing, I played around with the river bottom, lifting and turning over large rocks accompanied by thick vegetation. The stream was alive with insect life. Olive and yellow caddis, black and golden stones, and a strong population of sow and cressbugs. I took my time trying to take some micro shots. I took even more time trying to find a large black stone. I only produced a small one around a size 12. I tied on one of the blackstones I tied for the Salmon River. It was a size 6 with a tungsten bead and rubber legs galore. I heaved it upstream behind a fallen log. In the 12 inch water, the tungsten hit bottom in less than a second. In around 2 seconds, I saw a flash and set the hook. A small wild brown could not resist the large meal and he came to my cold eager hands.

Large Caddis Dwarfing A Small Stone.

One of the Small Stones.

Cress Bug.

Green Caddis Larva.

Small Black Stone.

My Large Black Imitation.

Score.

The next time I head out, one or both of those labs are coming with me. They need more training and I guess the only way to find out if they can handle it, is to throw them into the fire. If they spook all the fish or runaway, so be it. I'll probably have as big a smile on my face as they will on theirs.