First Snow.

An early wake up call has me up and out of bed. I have a date with some brown trout I have been meaning to catch. I slowly ease into several layers of fleece and head out into the kitchen, my dogs at my heels. My 83 year old grandmother is already busy cleaning the house. She resembles more of a 65 year old and moves more like a 50 year old. Her life based around hard work, always moving, always fixing, always cleaning. Non-stop. A work ethic honed on the home front during WWII. She takes one look at me and pops the question. "Are you going fishing?" I answer "yes," and she gives me a short lecture about how I shouldn't be going out in this kind of weather, especially alone, during hunting season. I mentally register her wisdom knowing full well that she is probably right. She usually is. I quickly grab some breakfast and get my gear together. Only the essentials. The date will be short and I need to be back in time for a wedding.

Tight Quarters.

Caddis Pupa.

First Brown of the Day.

The air outside is bitingly cold and feels of snow, the forecast saying several inches are on the way. It will be my first snow fall of the year. I hit the road and head up over the mountain taking note that it is December and the ski slopes are snow less. Not for long. I decided on taking the scenic route rather than the highway. I prefer a narrow windy road over the boredom of monotony. Along the way I take note of all the water I am passing over. The flows are high and slightly off color. Perfect for where I am heading. A tiny freestone stream home to beautiful wild brown trout. In the summer, they are almost impossible to catch, spooking well before you see them. This time I will have the advantage. Arriving the water is roaring and the stream has turned into a mini-Savage River. Heaven. I hit the stream just as the first snow is falling from the sky.

Mini-Savage.

Soft Hackle.

The Water Was Really Warm.

Spots.

A lot More Spots.

Short Unexciting Clip.

I ease into the fast water careful not to make too much of a disturbance. Casting room is tight. Evergreens hang over the water on the far bank and thorn bushes and other foliage on the other side. I almost regret bringing an 864 rod but it actually comes in handy managing my line in the current conditions. Soon, several nice browns come to hand working a slow seem under the evergreens. The fish are taking shelter in along the edges, away from the fast currents. They are eagerly picking off anything floating their way including a heavily weight soft hackled hares ear. The browns are gorgeous still sporting their fall colors. They fight extra hard in the fast currents. Some pulling as hard as a twenty inch stocky. I start to make my way upstream. The higher flows have created wading conditions similar to the Savage too. I am extra careful.

Elevation Change.

Snow, Cold, & Camera = Blurry Pictures.

Awesome Dark Spotted Brown.

Small Stream Love.

I approach a long deep hole that I know holds a very large brown trout for the stream. I have fooled him twice before and he has also schooled me twice before. I start working the long deep run and catch several fish. Puzzled I stand up out of my kneeling stance checking out the new seems created by the high flows. A new small back eddy had formed along the far side cliff. I moved upstream and drifted my nymph through the eddy high sticking to keep my line away from the current flowing downstream. The nymph follows the back eddy against the current and the big brown takes. He is pushing sixteen inches and I bring him slowly towards me as he does his best to pull into a slate overhang. He tires and I bring him into my feet. As I bend over, he makes one last move and shakes the barbless hook darting back to his lair. All I can do is smile. The snow is coming down hard now and all is peaceful.

Golds.

Deep Hole, Browns Hanging Out in the Slow Stuff.

Biggest Landed of the Day.

Gorgeous Fish.

Thanks, Little Guy.

As I return home, the ski slopes are covered in a nice layer and the mountain is obscured in an enveloping snow storm. Everything has a fresh coat of white and it adds to the overall experience. A little over an hour on a small stretch of wild water and my addiction is satiated for the day. Arriving home, my grandmother is still cleaning. She is surprised to see me back so soon. She thinks the weather scared me off the water and is happy to see me back home. So are the dogs and I head back out into the fray for some fun.

Mountain Top.

Riley Wants Hunting Season To End.

Salamanders & Brook Trout.

I slept in far too long a few Sunday's ago. I awoke worried that there would be someone in my favorite fishing spot but those worries subsided once I opened my front door. I stepped out into the cold autumn air that my lungs felt first. Taking it all in, I noticed the wind next. It was wrecking havoc on all the fall foliage. It seems, like every autumn once the leaves reach that perfect shade, a long night of wind, cold temps, and frost destroy one of nature's best events. There would not be anyone brave enough to fish my small stream in this weather. I gathered up my gear, hopped in the truck, and hit the long scenic road to my destination.

When I hit the trail about an hour later it was like stepping into another world. The wind was deflected away from the small ravine and the tall pines surrounding me seemed to block out the sound of rushing leaves. All I heard and focused on was the babbling brook crashing through this perfect scenery. I made my way down to the stream and began searching for some trout. The water was low for this time of year but gin clear. The stream was chocked full of leaves and in some areas it looked like there wasn't any water. The colorful oranges, yellows, and browns covered everything including the stream bottom. It just looked like one big continuation of color. This made finding a few trout quite the challenge.

The Trail to the Stream.

Looking Down & on the Lookout For Browns.

As I made my way upstream looking and hoping for a migratory brown running up to its birthplace, I nearly stepped upon a creature I have never seen before. Sure, they may be common place in many areas of the country, but for where I am from, they are a rare occurrence. I spent a large part of my life playing alongside streams and I have never seen a salamander like this before. The large Northern Spring Salamander laying upon the side of the stream peeked my curiosity. He was out in the open and upon closer inspection, it was likely due to his injured tail. It looked like a it had been chewed upon. The back of the the Northern Springer lacked any moisture. I took several pictures before placing him in a moist spot under some cover. I lapped some water on his back and hoped the little guy would survive the day.

Northern Spring Salamander.

Sweet Little Guy.

He Was Injured.

Fire Eyes.

Farther upstream alongside an old dam, I spotted my first trout. As usual it positioned itself near a very difficult lie. The water was still, deep and protected by a crumbling concrete wall and overhanging branches on the other side. I positioned myself upstream around a slight bend hidden behind the bank and overhanging trees. The brook trout slowly glided in and out of plodding current. I only noticed him because of his movement. Once he stopped I had a hard time seeing him from my position. I gathered up my line and my butch caddis and made sure all was ready to go.

The View From My Casting Position.

The Brook Trout.

I carefully crawled into the best position, my knees aching atop the small rocks. I let out some line by using the downstream current before arching my rod up for a roll cast. The seven foot rod barely fit between the bank I kneeled upon and the dam on the other side. I had to be careful to fit my roll cast between the calm water and the four feet of clearance under the branches without spooking the fish. The sideways roll cast arched my line downstream and my caddis plopped about a foot above the fish. The brook trout slowly rose from his bed of leaves extending his ten inch frame vertically towards my fly. With a small sip the brookie took the caddis down. I waited a split second longer before setting the hook with a sideways tug. I carefully played the brook trout to my knees and gently cradled him for two shots. I let him go and he waddled down into the depths slightly camouflaged by the bottom.

Gotcha.

Stocked Fish, But Sweet Nonetheless.

Underwater Release.

Back To His Lair.

Fishing a small stream for trout surely cannot produce the same knee shattering adrenaline rushes a hundred pound tarpon torquing a ten weight can. However, around every bend a different scenario and challenge awaits those willing to give it a try. Sighting a fish hidden in a labyrinth of colors and figuring out the right way to coax him into eating a dry fly is a challenge in itself that produces an entirely different form of satisfaction. Different species produce different moments and they always keep you coming back for more.

Salamanders & Brook Trout.

I slept in far too long a few Sunday's ago. I awoke worried that there would be someone in my favorite fishing spot but those worries subsided once I opened my front door. I stepped out into the cold autumn air that my lungs felt first. Taking it all in, I noticed the wind next. It was wrecking havoc on all the fall foliage. It seems, like every autumn once the leaves reach that perfect shade, a long night of wind, cold temps, and frost destroy one of nature's best events. There would not be anyone brave enough to fish my small stream in this weather. I gathered up my gear, hopped in the truck, and hit the long scenic road to my destination.

When I hit the trail about an hour later it was like stepping into another world. The wind was deflected away from the small ravine and the tall pines surrounding me seemed to block out the sound of rushing leaves. All I heard and focused on was the babbling brook crashing through this perfect scenery. I made my way down to the stream and began searching for some trout. The water was low for this time of year but gin clear. The stream was chocked full of leaves and in some areas it looked like there wasn't any water. The colorful oranges, yellows, and browns covered everything including the stream bottom. It just looked like one big continuation of color. This made finding a few trout quite the challenge.

The Trail to the Stream.

Looking Down & on the Lookout For Browns.

As I made my way upstream looking and hoping for a migratory brown running up to its birthplace, I nearly stepped upon a creature I have never seen before. Sure, they may be common place in many areas of the country, but for where I am from, they are a rare occurrence. I spent a large part of my life playing alongside streams and I have never seen a salamander like this before. The large Northern Spring Salamander laying upon the side of the stream peeked my curiosity. He was out in the open and upon closer inspection, it was likely due to his injured tail. It looked like a it had been chewed upon. The back of the the Northern Springer lacked any moisture. I took several pictures before placing him in a moist spot under some cover. I lapped some water on his back and hoped the little guy would survive the day.

Northern Spring Salamander.

Sweet Little Guy.

He Was Injured.

Fire Eyes.

Farther upstream alongside an old dam, I spotted my first trout. As usual it positioned itself near a very difficult lie. The water was still, deep and protected by a crumbling concrete wall and overhanging branches on the other side. I positioned myself upstream around a slight bend hidden behind the bank and overhanging trees. The brook trout slowly glided in and out of plodding current. I only noticed him because of his movement. Once he stopped I had a hard time seeing him from my position. I gathered up my line and my butch caddis and made sure all was ready to go.

The View From My Casting Position.

The Brook Trout.

I carefully crawled into the best position, my knees aching atop the small rocks. I let out some line by using the downstream current before arching my rod up for a roll cast. The seven foot rod barely fit between the bank I kneeled upon and the dam on the other side. I had to be careful to fit my roll cast between the calm water and the four feet of clearance under the branches without spooking the fish. The sideways roll cast arched my line downstream and my caddis plopped about a foot above the fish. The brook trout slowly rose from his bed of leaves extending his ten inch frame vertically towards my fly. With a small sip the brookie took the caddis down. I waited a split second longer before setting the hook with a sideways tug. I carefully played the brook trout to my knees and gently cradled him for two shots. I let him go and he waddled down into the depths slightly camouflaged by the bottom.

Gotcha.

Stocked Fish, But Sweet Nonetheless.

Underwater Release.

Back To His Lair.

Fishing a small stream for trout surely cannot produce the same knee shattering adrenaline rushes a hundred pound tarpon torquing a ten weight can. However, around every bend a different scenario and challenge awaits those willing to give it a try. Sighting a fish hidden in a labyrinth of colors and figuring out the right way to coax him into eating a dry fly is a challenge in itself that produces an entirely different form of satisfaction. Different species produce different moments and they always keep you coming back for more.

Volume Three

In June of this year, This River is Wild took on the Maryland waters of the Gunpowder, Savage, Youghioheny and North Branch of the Potomac Rivers and the hallowed flows of Fishing Creek, Spruce Creek and the Little Juniata in Pennsylvania for the 3rd annual Taste of the Dream road trip.

We slept in tents or the truck for 9 days, woke with the sun and fished until after it had set, fished in the heat, the rain and the mist, ate shitty food and drank cheap beer, tied flies by headlamp or anywhere that was open 24-hours, developed a new respect for soft hackle, caught more than our fair share of fish, didn't bathe and survived the swine flu.

This vid represents but some of the awesomeness that ensued.

-dedicated to the brookies of the Savage. Still surviving amidst all of those beautiful browns.

Volume Three

In June of this year, This River is Wild took on the Maryland waters of the Gunpowder, Savage, Youghioheny and North Branch of the Potomac Rivers and the hallowed flows of Fishing Creek, Spruce Creek and the Little Juniata in Pennsylvania for the 3rd annual Taste of the Dream road trip.

We slept in tents or the truck for 9 days, woke with the sun and fished until after it had set, fished in the heat, the rain and the mist, ate shitty food and drank cheap beer, tied flies by headlamp or anywhere that was open 24-hours, developed a new respect for soft hackle, caught more than our fair share of fish, didn't bathe and survived the swine flu.

This vid represents but some of the awesomeness that ensued.

-dedicated to the brookies of the Savage. Still surviving amidst all of those beautiful browns.

Small Stream Love.

On another outing from labor day weekend, I hit up some of my favorite waters near my hometown. These waters are very small and contain numerous wild browns and the occasional brook trout. In the latter part of summer they can be difficult to fish because of low flows, spooky trout, and the overgrowth of the flora and fauna that seems to takeover the stream. Nevertheless, I love this challenge and look forward to it every year. 

Whatever You Do Frodo, Stay Off The Road.

Summer Tunnels On The Chutes.

The Toughest Hole To Fish, Also Holds The Biggest Fish.

Huge Undercut Under Massive Evergreen.

Brown From Undercut.

One of the first sizable holes I fished almost always contains a nice sized fish or two. But I was shocked when on my first cast, a large brook trout took my butch caddis at the head of the riffle. The size of the fish was unexpected and a weak hook-set resulted in a lost fish after one head shake. In these waters, strong hook sets are a no no, due to the overhanging branches and bushes. One missed set and your rig more than likely will be the start of a new bird nest. After this near miss, I took a break and waited for another shot at the big brook trout.

Darker Brown.

The Butch Caddis Scores Big.

Almost Stole My Chance At The Brookie.

After a little while, I took another cast and along the same seam, a nice sized brown took my caddis imitation. I quickly steered him in and landed the brown who blended perfectly with the bottom of the stream. I now realized that my chances of taking the brook trout were growing slim since I had pricked him & caught a fish right on top of him. I waited again, and tied on a small club sandwich, hoping for a different look. Nothing happened. I swallowed my pride and tied on a dropper. The fish was mine on the first drift. 

Black Mouth.

The Brookie In All His Glory.

After Swallowing My Pride, The Dropper Scored.

Further upstream, lies a meadow with some of the wariest trout I have ever fished for. They spook easily and disappear under grass-lined undercut banks on both sides of the thin corridor. I rarely even have a chance to see them before I spook them. Up to this point I had never caught one of these fish out of the meadow. I decided to give them another shot. I kept the club sandwich on, but lost the dropper. I false casted away from the water over the tall grass and arched a long one way upstream. The 12 foot leader unrolled and the club landed with a plop along a deep undercut. The brown exploded on the sandwich and I had to stand on my tip toes to get my 7ft rod over the grass and lead him down the 4ft wide section of stream to my feet. It was one of the prettiest browns I had seen in a long time.

The Meadow.

Meadow Brown, Really Red Spots.

The Undercut.