“Never ever catch another trout?” I grumbled. Over the preceding five days, five rivers in three states dealt me a shutout. "Horse collar", I think, Norman McLean called it. I was in a slump like this once before. Northern Michigan browns refused to cooperate for weeks on end. We had an answer for their arrogance. Dad and I loaded up the speedboat with beer and chicken livers and set out after dark. With the Tigers on a West Coast trip, we listened to a few innings of Ernie Harwell, threw a few back, and pulled up a few bullheads. I guess that little outing jump started the mojo because I don’t recall that the drought lasted.
After a few successful outings on Michigan’s Boardman and Pigeon rivers, the slump seized me somewhere on a secluded stretch of the Platte River -- some sort of cosmic leveling of the bounty of five rivers in five days. Hitting the Platte early has always been key to finding the bigger browns, so I got there at dawn’s absolute crack. Disappointed that I hadn’t located any browns, slack-jawed doesn’t overstate my surprise that not even one of the Platte’s eager little steelies decided to play. With decent enough luck in Michigan, I returned to Washington without a notion of what lay ahead.
With a free weekend and my wife on a shopping spree in NYC, I mulled an overnight to the Shenandoah National Park, a jaunt out to western Maryland, or catching up with an old pal named Jackson in southern Virginia. I decided on a pilgrimage. Pennsylvania’s storied LeTort Spring Run. With full knowledge of its reputation as a “tough crick”, I remained oblivious to the impending slump. Doing a little checking, I learned that a combination of cress growth and rains had sent the Letort over its banks and into the adjacent meadow. That wouldn’t make things any easier.
Making great time from D.C., I found Marinaro’s Meadow early. I spent a few minutes studying the Marinaro and Fox plaques and a few more in reverential awe, hoping to appease the fish gods. Sauntering down to the stream I felt no intimidation, having prepped on the Boardman, which many claim has driven more than a few anglers back to golf. Flooded it was, and the blue bird sky wouldn’t be ideal for spring creek fishing. After devoting four hours to concentrated toil, I left the stream piscatorially empty, though a gorgeous day on such a beautiful stretch is difficult to count in the loss column. Bumping into a couple of locals cutting the grass and doing chores, they were not surprised at my report. After a pleasant chat, I went into Carlisle for lunch and to catch a score of the Penn State game.
While in Cumberland County, I thought why not swing by the no less legendary Yellow Breeches. Boiling Springs is the quaintest little spot and hosts a nice stretch, though I was a tad put off by the regiment of anglers, sited every 25 feet or so. Walking for 25 minutes from the car park downstream, I located only one empty slot and couldn’t convince myself to fish within whispering distance of another troutsman. So I turned around and walked back to the car, headed down to the Allenberry Playhouse access and found another throng. Though technically not shut out on the Breeches, not even getting the chance to be shut out might have been worse.
It being only mid-afternoon, I figured I’d begin heading home and make a stop at Big Hunting Creek in Maryland’s Catoctin Mountains. I had been to Big Hunting once before and had been shut out, but that was a quick stop on a cold February day, so I had every expectation that I’d do better on my return trip. While the water looked a tad high due to the same rains that had swollen the LeTort, spying several other anglers gave me hope without the claustrophobia of the Breeches. I began fishing a caddis with a dropper and got nothing. As the afternoon wore on, the combination of limited sleep, fishing all day, and disappointing results dulled my concentration. I broke my rig off and decided to head back to the car, but couldn’t make it down the mountain without discovering another promising stretch. I parked and had at it again. I went straight to the woolly bugger--a sure sign of the nascent desperation. Moving down the bank through the woods, I discovered a nice flat pool that contrasted pleasingly with the rest of this bouncing, swollen mountain creek, but stumbled on an unseen angler. Losing my last, best hope to an occupied pool was the final straw.
"Bach-ing" it on Saturday night, I had a couple of beers and decided that the open Sunday would give me an opportunity to fix things. I would get up early and head to the Gunpowder. I have been fishing the Gunpowder for 6 or 7 years now. Though it gets pressured and its browns are wily, I feel comfortable there and recently had some good outings fishing black streamers. In other words, I had a confidence that I’d lacked the day before. I got to the Gunpowder early and started banging the buggers without success—even in my lucky pool. Not a good sign.
What I had been missing and why I decided to do all this driving was to find some dry fly action. Amid summer’s languid denouement, it had been weeks since I had seen a fish rise. All the usual excuses applied—I had to fish in the morning; I couldn’t stay on the stream for long; when I did hang around ‘til dusk, it was an off night. Finally, I noticed a few subtle rises and was fired up. I reeled in, clipped off my bugger and tied on an 18 caddis to imitate what I had seen bouncing around. After a few decent though unsuccessful drifts, I lost confidence in the caddis.
This is midge water and midge weather so I reached in the inside pocket for my smalls box and came up empty. Two horrible thoughts split my brain. The immediate was that fish were rising and I hadn’t any darn midges. The second, more serious was that I’d lost my smalls box--a Wheatley given to me as a gift and filled completely with newly tied flies. All that dashed in and out of the car yesterday. I had only lost one other box—another Wheatley that I purchased at the House of Hardy on my first trip to London. I still recoil at the thought of that box slipping into a huge blow down on the Rapidan.
I tried the smallest ant that I could find and chopped some hackle off an 18 Adams to no avail. Then the thing stopped rising. Maybe the world’s most complete midge box couldn’t have kept that from happening, but it stung nevertheless. I tied on a parachute ant and fished uninterestedly for another hour then decided I’d better get home and tidy up the house. Though I found the smalls box under the backseat, I stewed on the drive home. When I got there, I drifted into a fitful sleep watching a football game and didn’t get to the cleaning.
I got a call on Tuesday from a fishing buddy, sore that I hadn’t invited him along on my weekend junket. Although his smug tone belied a certain pleasure in my failings, he offered to get me out the following Saturday to break the slump, but I declined. Playing a lot of golf and tennis over years has taught me about slumps. Sometimes by finding a weak opponent or an easy course you can play your way through a slump. This is not one of those. Heading down to Rock Creek to catch a few bluegills won’t fix it.
Enduring the desolation of time spent away is the only path to a cure.
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Price: $6.95 for each issue
The Premiere issue is ready for shipping & the Fall 2008 issue will be available September 1st.
