Fishing in Paradise

Early Saturday I found a place to pull off the road along side of the Little ‘J. I haven’t fished this river for a few years and the place I pulled off I didn’t remember fishing at all. I knew I was upstream from Spruce Creek but didn’t exactly know how far up.

The morning was sunny but cold on the 11’th of April. I put on heavy attire, and being I was fishing the river, I decided to start off with my fast action 6wt. Winston rod. I was hoping to dry fly fish and I wanted to see how the Vapor rod would handle dry flies. With the sun shining and maybe warming things up, I was hoping for a hatch of some kind and some rising trout.

When I got down to the river it looked as if it was higher than normal. The water color was kind of tinted but should have had enough clarity to get some trout to the top if there is to be a hatch. I started off drifting different size nymphs mid stream. Adding weight I finally figured out the depth of the water before me. Without a hit I tried some wet flies but still nothing was interested. A few small duns of some kind were flying around now and then but nothing got close enough for me to grab and inspect.
The first rise came in a riffle of water ¾ ways across the stream. I knew BWO might be around this early so I tied a size 18 and cast upstream from the rise. It took a couple different flies and sizes but I eventually caught my first riser on a small gray body blue dun midge. A 9” brown took the imitation and fought respectively to my net. A couple other trout started to rise as more duns filled the air. The other risers weren’t much interested in my search for the right dry. After an hour or so I decided to start my way downstream.
In the faster shallower water I tied on a white bugger and seen one trout start after it but didn’t take. After the long stretch of fast water I wasn’t able to cross the river so I worked the bank without success. Heading upstream I decided to go to the van for a drink and set up my Scott 5wt. with wt. forward floating line.

Back down to the river, where I started, there were a few more trout rising. The duns flying were small and I tried the smallest flies I had without effect. The sun was shining above pretty bright by then so I thought maybe a darker color hackle, than what I was using for the BWO and dun imitations, would attract attention. I came across a #18 dark Cahill dry. With its gray body and brown hackling just might be the right fly! Besides possibly being more visible to the fish, it was more visible to me as I watched the brown hackle drift along the surface of the water. Well, sure enough it worked. Casting it out under the bright sunlight rewarded me with three more fighting browns. By 1:00pm I was ready to drive down to another section of the river.

I stopped at the Spruce Creek Shop and the owner was nice enough to give me directions to Barree.

When I crossed the little bridge, in Barree, it brought back some memories of when Jeff and I fished this section last. Before parking I got to talk to another fisherman and he informed me that the trout weren’t to cooperative. I switched to a double taper line on my Scott rod before heading down to the river because I new the banks would be a little more tree hazardous and the river wouldn’t be as wide.

Down at the river the water was running ‘fast’. I didn’t spot any activity in the air or on the water. I tied on a woolly bugger and swung it continuously as I waded and fished downstream. Getting to the bridge without a hit I went back to the van and decided to fish the upper part of the Little ‘J near Birmingham.

On the drive up I saw a few fishermen here and there but not many. I pulled off the side of the road in a big parking area. I seen the water at the river was moving slow in the wide section I’ve chosen to fish. At the bank I found the bottom to be soft from the silt. I found a harder part of the river bed a short way down and got myself away from the bank where I could cast my fly rod. With the slow water and the sun shining brightly I found the slimy green moss on the rocks were treacherous to wade across. Cautiously I made my way downstream, concentrating more on my wading ability than placement of my assortment of flies I was using. Reaching the end of the fast water I came across two gentlemen that weren’t having much luck either. Though the weather was nice and just being out fly fishing was relaxing, not catching any fish was somewhat disappointing. I gave up and headed to the van and figured on driving to Spring Creek and find a place to park for the night.

I arrived at a part of spring creek well before daylight. Vehicles were in the parking area when I pulled up but I only seen one fisherman out in the stream. I pulled in with my van facing the creek and I shut down the engine. I immediately noticed two fish rising at the end of the long stretch of fast water that led into the wide deep pool. Excitement started to rise in my disappointed brain. A smile came to my face as the two fish continued to rise under the evening sun. I hurriedly got out the Scott rod and vest and headed to the bank of the creek. I stripped line from the reel and false-cast enough line out until I got a good cast to get my BWO in front of a rising trout. It was hard seeing the fly when it started to drift on the wavy surface and I missed the first trout that came up after my fly. With a couple more tries I noticed, what looked like a caddis, flutter across the surface. I tied on a #14 caddis and drifted it out onto the wavy water. I noticed a splash and I twitched the rod back and set the hook. The fish fought shortly in the cold spring water before I netted him. I released a nice colorful brown trout that may have been about 12”.
Inconsistently fish would rise within the big pool of water. I tried a variety of mayflies and caddis dries without being able to hook any trout. Finally resorting back to my dark Cahill a fish leaped out of the water after it and I set the hook. Surprising to me I foul hooked the brown trout underneath near the tail fin. How that happened I’m not sure. After that the sun dropped behind the thick pined hill and shaded the area I was fishing. The coldness was felt immediately as the wind picked up some. With a few more fruitless casts I called it a day and went to the van.

After changing clothes I headed for a look over at Fisherman’s Paradise to see how many fishermen were out. I was also quite hungry and was going to look for somewhere to eat in Bellefonte. Arriving at the creek there were fishermen strewn out along the water. Quite a few cars in the two parking lots I passed told me the creek most likely got hit pretty hard today. I continued on into Bellefonte and found an Italian restaurant heading out of downtown. I enjoyed a draft beer while contemplating my meal. I settled for Eggplant Parmesan with a side order of spaghetti. After the enjoyable meal I headed down rte. 550 for a place to spend the night.

The early light, of Easter morning, finally found the gap between the dark curtains hanging against the big bay window of the van. It shined bright enough upon my eye lids to make my sleepy brain take notice. Rising to the coldness inside the van I peeped out the window to a bright morning.
’Maybe an early hatch?’ I thought.
I put the heating rod in my blue tin cup of water and started the engine. I quickly dressed in some warm under clothes and hopped into the drivers seat. I munched on a chocolate covered Krispie Kream doughnut, I had bought the day before, and headed for Fisherman's Paradise.

I was the first vehicle in the parking lot. I walked out to the creek bank and noticed the water running clear with enough water running across the stony bottom to make for a fine fishing day. I decided to rig up my 4wt. Powel rod with a weight forward line. I figured, with the clear water, long casts might be in order and with the slight breeze the weight forward line may throw enough weight to cut through the wind if it got stronger. I had intentions of dry fly fishing ASAP upon the first rise or at least within the first half hour.
I walked up the bank away from the road and parking lot. I took notice of the deeper holes and pocket waters as I walked upstream. I got to a point where the sunshine split the creek with the shade of the high pines upstream on the hillside. With the coldness in the air I figured that starting fishing in the sun might be the best way to start the day. With the sun penetrating the water may activate some lethargic trout into breakfast.
I started working a nymph in a good slow deep run. I noticed another fisherman enter the water downstream and began his morning luck. It wasn’t long, beneath the warming sun, a few Blue Winged Olive began to dot the air. My perceptive eyes caught a slight rise just out from an overhanging bare bush. I picked out a #20 BWO and knotted it on the #6x tippet. I graciously cast the fly just upstream from the rise. I arced my cast to make sure the fly landed downstream from the rest of my leader and fly line. I watched as the fly touched down softly. With the current the fly started to drift beneath the bare branch. The fly hesitated in a slower pool beneath the branch than continued beyond the overhang. Nothing on the first drift. Intently I tried my best to bring the fish up with an assortment of dry midges and duns but the fish wasn’t easily fooled. I worked the short stretch with nymphs and dries without a hit. Disappointed I continued changing flies and casting with faith.
Another fisherman made his way upstream towards me. We ended up having a nice chat about fly fishing before he moved on his way. I usually keep to myself on the stream but it must have been the Easter joy that got me loosened up enough not to shrug the guy off, even though I continued to fish for the almost half hour we talked!
Giving up on catching anything in the stretch I started working my way downstream. Knowing the creek probably got very busy the day before I tried to use a scientific approach with my fly selection and presentation but nothing seemed to be working.
About noon the wind kicked up a little harder and BWO’s and duns started to appear and drop to the water. In a fast riffle, below a row of rocks, to the slower backwater fish began to rise to the BWO’S and small duns.
I felt like I was in a bar on ladies night. It was ladies choice every time ’The Wind Band’ started to play. The ladies were enjoying themselves gallivanting around sipping and eating at random. I threw out every line of flies I had to try to get one to dance with me, but no takers. Now I know I’m not that handsome of a guy and I’m not a young buck either, but I would of thought at least one of those girls in the first hour or so would take advantage of one of my offerings. I tried small midges and duns. Winged and parachutes. Hackled and down-wings. Not a girl wanted to take a chance with me. They were rising at will and I was left doubtless.
Finally I noticed a rise under some of the tree branches overhanging the far bank. I knew it was April and cold but I was down on my luck and looked into my box of a temptation. A black foam beetle caught my eye. Why not, I thought. The wind’s blowing the tree branches and the girls are rising below. I tied on the black beauty and tossed it out under the branches. Walla, a fishy took the beetle and I ended up dancing with an 8” brookie. Maybe she picked me out of pity, but never the less she picked me and it put some confidence in me where as for the past hour or so diminished.

My left foot either fell asleep or was cold enough it lifted like a lead weight without much feeling. I backed out of the creek and headed for the van to get a drink and circulate my blood flow to get my stiff joints moving again. At the van I lit up a thin cigar and changed my spool to a doubletaper line. I put away my bugger fly box and collected some more midges and duns and filled my fly patch. I drank down the last of the Coke and started back up to the dance.

The wind started blowing harder when it did kick up. Along with the BWO’s and duns I noticed a few blue quills flying in the breeze. Not as many trout were rising but enough here and there to keep me guessing. After another hour I gave up. I could have fished my way downstream hoping for some dumber trout but I had enough trout in front of me I couldn’t fool that I felt it was useless elsewhere.

At the van I put away the fishing gear. I Hung up my vest and put away the rod. Before leaving I took one more look at ‘Paradise’ and concluded on this Easter Sunday the trout were too smart for me!!
On the interstate I unwrapped a sun grown Rocky Patel cigar. Usually, as I light one up, I think of it as a reward for my fish catching abilities of the outing. Today I lit the cigar for the honest effort I put out. What can I say, I tried.

Back home I carried my satchel of clothes to the house. I pulled the cooler out of the van and carried it in also. I went back for my wet hip waders and wading shoes and noticed a bug on my inside doors blue curtain. This was no ordinary bug but a fly. A mayfly! There clung to my curtain was a honest to goodness Blue Wing Olive about a size #22 I’d guess. It’s dark blue wings stood straight up as its dark brownish-olive body arched slightly. Its two long strands of a tail raised somewhat. Wanting to smash the living daylights out of the darn thing I restrained myself and got out my camera. It was getting dark so I had to adjust everything possible on the camera to get enough light for my macro zoom to get a half decent picture. The color shade didn’t come out correctly but the little rascal was plain enough to see.
_____________________________~doubletaper

Dark Waters Of The Black Moshannan

“Being that I only had 2 white woolly buggers left I wanted to save those for Spring Creek on Sunday. Walking down to the creek I told myself that if the trout wanted buggers they are going to have to take my olive ones and that they did!!

_

Dark Waters

Of The Black Moshannan

The Black Moshannan is one of the most unique creeks I’ve ever fished. They say the water is ‘tea stained’ because of the bogs of sphagnum moss that the many inlet streams and springs flow through that make up the lake. This makes the water run dark throughout the year. I flat out call it ‘coffee black!’ Trying to sight fish is impossible even on a bright day. You might catch a flash if the sun is hitting the water just right but other than that you won’t see the fish until it’s about 4” from the surface.
The darker water makes it hard to figure out the depth when fishing deep. With a stony brook bottom, nymph fishing as well as streamer fishing is always questionable whether your fly is deep enough. Then there’s the low overhanging pines and laurel to contend with along the bank-side. Roll casting between the pine boughs sounds great but you better be accurate and know how to adjust for distance or you’ll be untangling more than fishing. Where there’s spots you ’think’ to be enough room to overhand cast, well sometimes you might have to think twice.
I found the fish mostly hide under the pine boughs not too far from the bank. The shaded water, beneath these boughs, look as if it's black ink and no telling what hazards lie submerged in its depth. If you want fish you’ll have to take your chances. Grant you, it’s not an easy creek to fish but the fish are there.
Being that the water is so dark I can only imagine predators are no visual threat to the trout. I always wondered, since I can’t see through the dark waters, if the fish can see me?

Let’s go fishing. (April 04, 05, 2009)

Off of rte. 504 I turn left into a parking area of the park. Through the parking area I enter a crushed limestone hard packed, one and a half vehicle width, lane they call a road. Slowly winding my way down the road I see the dark waters of the Black Moshannan that flows from below the dam. Low hanging pine boughs and scraggly laurel line the banks. The rest of the forest has the typical PA. spring time, early April appeal. A forest of bare oaks, maples and other hardwood trees along with a few pine trees scattered throughout. The pines are thickest along the creek banks. Then there is the PA. Laurel in groves among the rocky areas. These too are found crowding the banks of the creek.

I turn a bend and 4 turkeys cross the road in front. Maybe a sign, I stop along the road to see if there’s access to the water. Tom turkey if hesitant about flying across the stream but when I open the door he takes off to the other side. The hens wait a second or two longer and than follow.
Upon getting out of the van I feel the cold wind wipe across my face and penetrate through my sweatshirt. I walk down to the creek and it looks to be a good enough place to start. I return to the van and back into a space across the road.
I look up to the slate gray sky and it looks apparent that it isn’t going to let any sunshine penetrate its hold in the atmosphere today. Getting dressed I feel the cold chill of a breeze come down the mountain. Even when the wind isn’t felt I can hear the wind rustle and blow through the tree branches atop the mountain.

Knowing the stream well I select my 4wt. 7’6” Powell rod. It has enough grit to roll cast and swing bugger yet soft enough to delicately toss a nymph or dry if need be. I gather the rest of my gear and put on my shades. Though the glasses won’t be needed to fight off any glare or see through the dark water, they will help block the cold wind and keep my eyes from tearing up.
A lone pine overhangs the far bank. A smooth riffle flows beneath it and the water extends smoothly to the start of a rocky riffle. I tie on a nymph and roll cast upstream of the pine. Watching my dry fly line tip it continues on past the pine without a hesitation. I try a couple more nymphs with a few more passes and nothing excites me. I notice the wind isn’t as strong along the creek but the coldness isn’t shy.

I slowly fish my way downstream as I come to some fast water, spilling across rocks, towards the far bank under some pine boughs. Looking the situation over, I tie on a white woolly bugger and let it drift through. WHAM, mid-stream my line tightens faster than I can respond correctly. Instantly my line breaks. I sit on my haunches disgusted as I clip off the remaining 6x tippet left near the knot. I pull out a piece of 5x tippet and correctly tie this on to the tapered leader. To this I tie on a fast-snap and clip on a white bugger. Picking out a space between the low hanging boughs I roll cast the bugger towards the far bank. I watch the line as it swings under the pines, nothing. Again, with an accurate roll cast, the bugger plops just shy of the far bank. I let out more line to get the bugger to drop deeper and swing further down stream. I feel a bump and slightly twitch the rod tip to give the bugger more action. WHAM, I set the hook. Standing up, the fish fights briefly and I reel him in. I unhook the 9” brookie and my blood starts to perk up. Missing another trout I slowly wade, knee deep down stream. Casting the bugger under each overhang, while crossing the creek from time to time, has me able to work both sides of the creek.

Catching and missing is far and few as time passes by. By 11:30am I have only brought in 3 brook trout, missed about 6 or 7 and lost about 4 wooly buggers do to creek hazards. I am down to 2 white woolly buggers, out of cigars and my belly is hungry.

Back at the van I take out a peace of cold fried chicken and head to the park office to see about camping. At the office I’m told that the campground doesn’t open until the first day of trout season. Mm, I thought, my trout season started about four weeks ago.

Driving back down the gravel road I slowly check out the creek until I reach the bridge. I turn around and head up to a pull off I had passed along the way. This should be a good spot to start and fish towards the bridge.

Being that I only had 2 white woolly buggers left I wanted to save those for Spring Creek on Sunday. Walking down to the creek I told myself that if the trout wanted buggers they are going to have to take my olive ones and that they did!

I tie on an olive woolly bugger to the end of the tippet. The first cast, before the pines, my line tightens instantly. A quick hook set and the fish takes me under the pine boughs. I level the rod to put leverage to the side of the fish. He gives in and I catch and release apprx. an 11” brown trout. My second cast into the black ink stained water hooks me into a strong fighting fish. He moves up the water column as my 4 wt. flexes towards him. He holds in the far side of the stronger current as I let the rod pressure him to give up his side of the creek. He turns and heads downstream under the pines as I feel him swimming towards my side of the creek now. He fights with one more half heartily burst and I bring in and release the fat 12” brook trout.
Ya! Things are getting interesting and I’m gaining confidence and prepare myself to catch a fish with every cast. I slowly wade and fish downstream casting way out in front of me. Letting the bugger swing just aside a branchy laurel overhang I feel the first bump. I let the bugger drift but before it reaches mid stream I twitch it and let it fall back. My line tightens as if I have a snag. Pulling forward the line starts to take off towards the far bank and I tug on the line slightly to set the hook on the fleeing fish. #3 fights all the way towards my side of the bank. I release another brookie. Cautiously I start my stop and go ‘still fishing’. I begin to get a good feel of the water. By noticing different shades of the dark water I begin to know the depth, out in front of me, before I could see bottom. I’m one with the creek.
The sky starts to brighten some as I continue on.

Adding a little more weight I let the olive bugger drift mid-stream in some riffling fast water. I hold the rod out towards the middle and just let the bugger hang under the current a little before bringing it in. I feel a bump on my slow strip in. I cast out towards the open far bank and hold my rod even with the water. I let a little line out and watch my fly line skirt through the riffles. WHAM, a trout nearly clears water taking the bugger just below the surface. He rushes upstream than turns towards the far bank. I move the rod against his way of thinking and he turns towards me and moves with the current downstream. Another small burst and I bring in another brookie. Within 10 yards of my first caught fish I catch 3 more and lose one.
Slowly and consciously I work the stream. Back and forth I cast the bugger way out in front. This time I’m catching more and missing fewer, with all being brookies. I stop at the bridge and decide to call it a day.

Back at the van I drive up to where I started in the morn. It’s about 4:00pm. I walk back down to the stream and notice small duns flying around the water. I head up to the van to get a few small duns I have in another fly box. Returning I try some dry fly fishing without any results. With that, it is time to head into Philipsburg for some grub and a well deserved beer.
RJ’S Pub fulfills my needs with wings and draft beer. I catch the last period and overtime to see the Pen’s lose. Grrr.

Saturday morn I’m up bright and early heading towards Spring creek. Down the mountain you would have thought paper grew on trees. With bright yellow, faded yellow and sun bleached ‘posted’ signs stuck to every other road side tree. You know the ones. Posted, private property, no trespassing, no hunting, no fishing, don’t even look this ga da**ed way!!!!!
Spring Creek flow is high and on the gray cloudy side. I fish up and downstream for a good 3 hours without a hit. Other fishermen come and go. With the rise of the sun and warmer temperature, small duns start to appear and hover over the stream. Not a rise. Stripping streamers and drifting nymphs just keep coming up empty. The back of my mind keeps telling me ‘Black Moshannan.”

Back up over the mountain I return to the dark waters of the Black Moshannon, this time with warmer temps!!

Pulling off the side of the road I hesitate about taking my 3wt. Diamondglass rod. I already made up my mind to dry fly fish but the thought of the soft rod and knowing I haven’t mastered my casting ability, I felt would be more of a hazard with the close quarters. With the Powel rod I head down to the creek.
Duns are flying around but also light winged black stoneflies are fluttering across the surface. I look under the pine boughs as I sit on the heels of my feet. Downstream I catch a rise and my heart skips a beat. That’s all it takes! I tie on a parachute stonefly and cast it across stream to where I seen the rise. Nothing! A few more casts I then tie on another dry stone. Still nothing. Under the pines I catch a glimpse of a fish rise and take something on the surface. Stooping down I study the situation and see a brownish caddis flutter across the water. Caddis is a specialty for me. I swear I have every size, color hackle and body that flies in PA. in my two caddis dry fly boxes.
Up from the pine I tie on a dark shade dry caddis and drift it under its low hanging limb. It drifts by unnoticed. A couple of different shades and body colors produce nothing but now and again I catch a fish rise to the surface, I tie on a low profile parachute king river caddis and short cast it upstream behind the riffles. Holding the rod high, I watch the caddis drift before me. To my surprise a trout swims up and sucks it in. I’m quick on the draw and set the hook as I get to my feet. The trout stays deep and fights towards the far bank but my 4wt is too much rod and I easily bring in the 9” brown. With the caddis fly totally wet it doesn’t float well. There’s not enough room to false cast enough to dry out the fly so I tie on a regular king river caddis.
‘One more I think to myself and I’m going to get the 3wt.’
I side-arm a cast up under the pine boughs and keep the rod high. Sure enough a trout rises for it but I miss it. That’s it, time for the Diamondglass!

At the van I piece together the 7' rod and think 'why not?' I knot on a long strand of 7x tippet! I look and take out the finest looking king river caddis and tie this to the end of the tippet and return to the creek. Drifting the dry, mid-stream, under the pines a fish rises and sips in my fly. I set the hook as the rod bends deep towards the butt of the handle. The fish stays deep, crosses the creek than heads downstream. Standing, I try to hold leverage on the fully bent rod. The strong under current and fighting fish along with the soft fiberglass rod probably looked as if I had a whopper of a trout. The fish and I have our little tug of war with him losing out. I bring in a brownie that goes at least 16”. Its long slender body is dwarfed by it's large fins. Trying to dislodge the hook I find it is embedded in and around his lower jaw. Seeing I was getting nowhere I clip the line close to the mouth and put him back into the water. He takes a moment, than swims for freedom in haste. Two more brown trout and one more brookie on a dry caddis with a 7x tippet brings the glamour and fun I’ve been looking for in my 3wt. Diamondglass rod. After a while, with a long period of nothingness, I walk back to the van with a smile.
It is still daylight and I figure I’ll give myself one more try upstream from where I started Saturday morn. I drive up and park the van.

With my Diamondglass I head to the creek. Having to cast overhand to get to the far bank, where a few trout are feeding, I have to make some room by getting rid of a few annoying branches from behind me. Misguided, at times, getting the caddis out there with the unusual soft rod kept things interesting but frustrating. I do manage to catch three more brown trout before the whole ordeal gets more frustrating and I get more agitated with every new snag on the outreaching, fly grabbing, pine boughs and scraggly overbearing laurel branches.
Enough is enough. I had my fun and return to the van and change cloth.

With the sun setting just over the mountain top, I head on down the bumpy road and briefly stop at the parking area above the dam. A redhead duck swims alone, diving occasionally, for fresh fish. Duns still scour the air but I don’t notice any rises on the dark smooth water.

Turning west on route 504 I lite up an AyC Grenadier. The natural green candela wrapper is a refreshing choice from the dark tobacco I’ve been smoking for the past two days.
For a weekend that the rivers were running fast and muddy, streams were high and cloudy, I thought I did alright fishing the dark waters of the Black Moshannon!

_________________________~doubletaper

I Owe it to My Grandfather

Fishing all started with my grandfather. He’d take me down to old Millers Farm and we’d fish under the bridge in the small creek there. There weren’t any trout just bluegill, suckers and chubs. I read one time if you’re going to get a kid started fishing and to like it, take him somewhere where he’ll catch fish. My grandfather started me out this way. Once I got used to catching fish and confident that there is fish in the water, it kept me going back for more. Eventually trout was the mainstay of all our fishing trips.

Though my grandfather didn’t directly get me started fly-fishing, he did however connect me to it. You see my grandfather always fished with a fly rod though I never known him to use flies. We’d just go fishing and he’d always used worms. He started me with the old Zebco and then I gradually stepped up to an open face reel. That same old fly rod was with him every time we would go fishing just like his L.C. Smith 16 gauge double barrel was in his hands whenever we went small game hunting. His fly rod was old. I’m not sure how old but my grandfather was born in 1901 and ever since I could remember he had used it. The rod’s a no name. There’s not a name, weight size or length anywhere to be found on it. It’s just an old brown fly rod with chips of paint off of it here and there. The cork handle is stained brown from wear and I’m sure each crevice in that cork handle holds many a fishing stories. I actually measured it and it is 8’ 4” long. The rod flexes pretty much all the way down to the first eye. I’m not sure if it’s from being worn out or intentional. I do know when I hold a magnet to it the magnet sticks to the shaft. From the cork to the first small eye of the rod it is stepped down like each short section was brazed to each other to taper it towards the rest of the rod. From the first eye to the tip-top the metal rod tapers gradually. From use, the top quarter of the rod has a slight permanent arch. When I finally inherited the rod, when my grandfather died, among the old thread wraps on the double foot snake guides, is an old piece of duct-tape wrapped around one of the foot guides. The rod now rests in its old faded brown cloth bag that also has a wooden dowel in one of the pockets to keep it from breaking. I take it out of the bag now and then, reminisce and shake my head. Boy rods came a long way since that one.

Anyhow, I remember one evening when I was about 16. Grandpa and I were standing on the bridge that crossed over the Little Shenango River. The so-called river is more like a small mountain stream, narrow, not very deep but with more of a hard mud base. We were done fishing for the day but my grandfather met another old-timer and they started BS’n about the good old days. Downstream from us were these 5 guys casting bait to about 5 rainbows in the middle of the stream. The guys surrounded the trout like a bunch of Indians surrounding circled wagons, as the trout lay in the center of the small deep pool. I had perfect vision up on the bridge as these guys continued to cast worms, salmon eggs and what not at these poor fish. Every once in a while, though, one of them there trout would swim up, slurp some bug off the top of the water and hurriedly swim back down to be with his buddies. This just infuriated the fishermen until 4 of them gave up and headed to shore. The last one swung a spinner towards the trout a few times, in which they darted out of the way. The last guy finally gave up and all five took off. While grandpa and the old-timer were still gabbing on the bridge I noticed the trout started to perk up and began feeding again on the surface. Now I have never fly fished before but I had watched fly fishermen in the past fishing. I was always intrigued with the way they handled the rod, casting and bringing in fish. In fact, because my grandfather taught me how to fish, I always did hold the line with my left hand while my right was on the handle, just like fly fishermen do. I had bought some store bought flies quite some time before that and always carried them with me. Just couldn’t figure out how to get them out there with my spinning rod and reel. I set my rod up against the side of the bridge and gently took the fly rod out of my grandfather’s hand. Went down to the sandy bank on the stream and tied on, what I remembered, looked like a black gnat. I roll casted the rod like I watched my grandpa do a thousand times. I ended up catching three of those 5 trout in less than a half hour. That was the first time I ever casted a fly rod. It would take about 12 more years to actually buy fly fishing gear and start into the sport.

It took so long I think because I was always conscience of money and didn’t want to spend it on something I might not use. This might have been because of my grandfather also. He grew up in the depression and lost a lot of money when the stock market crashed. Ever since then he kept me aware to make sure I spent my money wisely. For instance, on the way back from many bunny-hunting trips, he’d ask me how many times I shot the shotgun. He figured out what each shell would cost per box, multiply that by how many times we shot. He’d add in a little extra for the gas it took us to go hunting and back, divide that by how many rabbits we got and figured how much each rabbit cost us. He didn’t do this to discourage me but I believe this made me a better shot each time we went out!!

When I finally got the determination, I finally bought a fly rod and fly-fishing gear at a fishing expo. I didn’t know exactly what I needed for my kind of fishing but after explaining the situation to a custom rod maker he sold me a rod. I bought a fly line, backing, leader and tippet material. Bought a VCR tape on how to tie the knots needed and how to cast a fly rod. Amazing to me it came naturally. Casting really did, I don’t remember having any major trouble. I practiced a lot in the front yard and down on the lake. It was now time to figure out what fly to use and when.

I began buying those oversized hackle department store flies. I’d hear someone on the stream tell someone else what the fish were biting on and go buy them at the local sporting department. I’d get a local fly fishing paper magazine which told which fly on what creek should be coming off for the month and try to figure out where to get the flies. The guys at the nearest fly shop in those days kept their heads up too high and if you didn’t wear expensive fishing wear or talk their lingo they practically snubbed you off. That didn’t discourage me though, I’d go in, get what I wanted and be off. On the stream, I’d catch flies, check them out, tie on a look alike and catch fish. The only problem I had was when someone asked me what fly I was using I’d comment, a gray bodied fly with light gray wings, or maybe a small white fly. After those answers the guy wouldn’t ask me anymore about what flies I use. Heck, I started collecting flies and had so many by now in my fly box I couldn’t remember what the proper names were of most of the flies! This became a problem when word came down the creek that the fish are biting on lets say Hendrickson’s. I had no idea what a Hendrickson looked like, so it took me longer, if at all, to tie the right fly on my tippet. The flies were starting to get expensive and I was due for a new hobby anyhow, so I decided to tie my own flies. This in turn was the best thing I’ve done since starting to fly fish. After buying a VCR tape on how to tie flies, buying a vise and fly tying manual with actual colored pictures, I was on to my next phase of being totally committed. With the tying of patterns I learned and remembered what each fly was called. What size I was looking at along with what characteristics a so-called caddis fly had that differed from a mayfly to a stonefly when I held a real one in my hands.

My expense was low in buying material so this kept me happy. My best friend duck and goose hunted so I had lots of duck and goose feathers. The expensive wood duck feathers were no problem as long as they were in season. He also trapped muskrat and I hunted rabbits, squirrels and deer. I knew how to tan hides so I was in good shape with fur dubbing. A few pheasants, grouse and turkeys kept costs at a minimum. It took a while for me to break down to buy the expensive high quality hackle but once I got the first one and seen the difference in quality the money was well worth it.

After conquering the dry fly phase the nymph phase was next. I was able to tie nymphs but I needed to see just how trout took a nymph. About a half hour of where I lived was a fly-fishing only project area, a small clear creek with plenty of brook and brown trout. You’re only allowed to keep up to three trout from June 15th to Labor Day. Before or after these dates the creel limit is zero. The state stocks this usually early spring, late spring and for fall fishing. I had left my rod in the van and brought with me a cup of maggots. I found a small school of trout hugging the edge of a downed tree trunk. The water was slowly flowing and clear as glass. I tossed a few maggots up stream, they sunk, and I watched the current take them into the trout’s feeding lanes. I did this quite a few times and came up with these results. When the food drifted right to them they simply opened their mouths and stayed stationary. Many times they would spit the food out in front of them once or twice and finally munch them motionless. When they had to swim to the food they again would swim calmly to the food, suck it in and again spit it out one or two times in front of them, keeping it in and then swim back to their original lay. Very few times did the visible trout attack the food aggressively and dart away. On the other hand, every once in a while a trout would dart from under the log, or come up in a flash from down stream, suck in the food and dart quickly away. I was sure these aggressive trout would be well noticed taking a nymph on a fly rod. What about the calm unwary trout?
Not to spook the trout any farther I waited until two days later, again on a clear day, and this time brought my fishing rod and tied on a white latex caddis. The trout were relatively in the same area. I casted upstream and kept an eye on a trout taking my nymph and watching where my fly line and leader met. The second a trout took the nymph there was just a slight slow down on the drift of my line. No sharp jerk or pull, just a gentle slow down of the line. I waited until the fish finally let go of the nymph, which sometimes of course was longer than others were. I felt it only depended on when the trout felt the line in the crease of it’s mouth that it spit the nymph out, the current had already took the drag of the line beyond the fish and then took the nymph along with it. Very, very seldom did the trout follow the nymph after it had washed down stream from where the trout lay. It seamed the trout wanted it on his dinner table and wasn’t going to follow it once it rolled off. The hidden trout of course darted after the food, grabbed it and took it back to its hiding place. Every once in a while a trout would follow the nymph by back tailing, keeping the nymph in front of its nose until he would either take it and swim upstream or refuse it. This experiment taught me to closely watch my fly line where it actually started to sink in the water. The slightest hesitation in the drift in the line told me a trout had the nymph in its mouth. The line didn’t have to sink at all. Just a hesitation is all it took sometimes to disrupt the drift of my fly line that let me know a fish was mouthing the nymph.

My grandfather quit fishing a few years before he quit hunting. I think the cane was more of a problem trying to fish with then sitting and hunting. We were up camp the Sunday before the first day of antlerless deer season and decided to take a ride out to where we would be hunting the next morning. This was in December, the weather was chilly and only patches of snow were here or there on the forest floor. We drove down to a place called Ward’s Ranch. The huge house sits down a long lane behind a gaited fence. We had driven down from Vowinkle and parked just before the bridge that crosses over the small stream that leads into Ward’s Ranch Pond. A dam holds back the water to create the pond. Two small streams feed the pond and I’m sure by run off and maybe underground springs. The excess water from the pond simply flows over the dam wall. From below the dam the water creates Big Coon Creek in which it flows for some miles to the Golinza bridge. The pond is stocked with trout for the season and also stocked in the lower part of Coon. Below the dam native brook trout inhabit the water down to the mouth. Grandpa and I were standing on the bridge taking in the fantastic scenery and talking about hunting. It was mid afternoon, the sky was a hazy gray but with enough light that I could see minnows and a couple of chubs swimming below the bridge. I told grandpa to stay and I walked to my van and took out my old yellow spinning outfit, tied on a black Rooster tail and headed back to the bridge.

“You’re not going to catch anything in there” grandpa said
I casted the lure downstream into the middle of the creek from the bridge. I watched my spinner fall and methodically reeled in to keep the spinner just above the stony gravely bottom. My next cast was towards the left bank just beyond some dried brush and overhangs off the bank. I kept my rod facing straight down off the side of the bridge. With the water being only about ankle deep I retrieved the rooster tail fast enough to keep it from hitting bottom but slow enough for any lethargic trout. As the lure spun close to the brush a native trout darted out and grabbed the lure. I reeled him in, up the side of the bridge. Grandpa and I looked at the colorful native brookie and I let him go back into the creek.

Grandpa spat a wad of tobacco juice onto where the pavement met the bridge wall. Looked at me with that closed lip grin, with that little stain of tobacco in the crease of his mouth where his top and bottom lip met.
“You can catch a trout in a puddle in a parking lot!” he murmured with pride
“I owe it all to you grandpa!” I said
I put my hand on his shoulder and we walked back to the van.

_______________________doubletaper

Hat, A Fishermen's Best Friend

I consider a hat as a distinguishing attribute to the human attire. Clothes? Well, you just throw clothes on and change them the next day. Wash them later and sometime in the near or farther future you wear them again to maybe make an impression for the occasion. A hat is different, especially worn by a fishermen or hunter during there escapades of fishing or hunting. I’m not talking about the everyday common baseball style cap sportsmen wear while sighting their guns in or at some sports show or club meeting. These caps have logos, funny sayings and advertise the local sport shops. You can find these just about everywhere.
I’m talking about the unique, unusual but well fitted hat on a sportsmen head that just fits him. Makes him that unique character that distinguishes him from all others while a field or on the water. Some sportsmen wear such hats as lucky charms. Some as to show off while others don’t even think about it, they just wear the same old hat cause it’s been around for such a long hunting or fishing career and it fits just right. You know that one you just can’t get rid of, there’s a history about it. It’s almost like your best friend when you are going a field or hitting the streams. We all know some wear them to keep the sun off their eyes, straw hats for warmer weather and the insulated ones for warmth on a blizzard like condition during hunting season.

Let’s take some examples.
When I was a teen my grandfather, on my mother’s side, wore those expensive, Italian made, gangster looking hats. My grandfather was pitching out some that didn’t fit just right anymore and my cousin and I decided they would be a big hit, or at least get us noticed, at the teen clubs we used to go to. I think my cousin lost his over the years but I sort of got attached to mine. It was warm, repelled water very well and fit my small 6 7/8 size head just right. It made me look distinguished! This in turn became my fishing hat. I actually hated wearing hats any other time.
With a little modification like pushing out the crease in the top to make it a round domed hat. This would keep rain from accumulating on the top if it, than if it had a crease. Straightening the brim flat to again keep rain run-off from dripping down my back while fishing. The fancy silk hatband had to go. I had a black bandana I haven’t worn for years. It is just about 2” wide tapered at each end to tie around your head. It has the Harley logo on it with wings spread on each side. I tied this around where the silk hatband was. On very windy days the hat still wanted to blow off my head as I remember. So I just cut the thread and removed the inside leather sweatband. Walla, my fishing hat. Water repellant to a certain extent, warm in cool weather, a small brim to keep some sun off my eyes but still keeping my vision at large. It fits just right and stays on my head tight enough I don’t have to worry chasing it down stream on a windy day. I just push it down further onto my skull. It’s also nice having the tall enough dome, so when I’m weaving my way through streamside brush and low hanging branches, the dome takes the brunt of the hits which warns me of overhead danger.


When I went bear hunting with a few guys back some years ago, one guy in particular named Harlan, had on an interesting hat. It was made of soft leather with a floppy brim. He kept the right side pinned up. He said that kept his bowstring from keeping in contact with his hat during archery season. The leather was a little darker brown on the inside than the outside. Maybe from fading from the sun like my favorite hat as it sits on my dashboard all year round. When we went out the first morning for bear he had tied 3 or 4 strands of orange ribbon to the leather hatband. The same orange ribbon you might find tied to trees for land markers. In Pennsylvania we must wear blaze orange on top of our head visible 360 degrees. The orange ribbons just hung there, Blowing in the wind but it was legal and that’s Harlan and his favorite hunting hat. You just have to make modifications. It fit him well and he commented to me when he hunts he doesn’t want to be bothered by other hunters. They see his pitch-black beard, beady eyes under that unusual floppy hat! Well, would you go and talk to some person you seen in the woods like that with a rifle in his hands?

Rusty, whom I actual taught the finer skills of trout fishing to, and I got into the cowboy hat thing when we were in our twenties. He wore a black cowboy hat. One of those you swore he was wearing the wrong way. You know the tallest part of the dome was in front. I think I’ve seen Garth Brooks wear one. I liked the old civil war style officer’s hat, complete with tassels. The tassels were too long when I got the hat but I just put another knot in between to shorten them so they wouldn’t hang over the brim. These hats were really great on sunny cool days. Maybe not so good on windy days and definitely not comfortable on hot days of fishing. It was great when we wanted to find out where the other might be on any certain creek. I’d ask anyone on the creek if they seen a blonde haired guy with a cowboy hat on. They usually knew whom I was talking about. Here in P.A. there aren’t too many fishermen that wear cowboy hats. Now a-days Rusty just wears a small, brown felt hat. Sort of in the style of what an Irishmen might wear. He even keeps a small feather sticking out of his hatband. I don’t know how the hat stays on his head though, but it just sort of sits there and doesn’t fall off. Now when I look for him on the creek I just ask someone if they’d seen a guy that looks like a young Kenny Rogers with a small brown hat on. They know whom I’m talking about.

For different weather on the streams we all wear different hats. I’ve tried the straw-hat thing but it just doesn’t work for me. My son Giddeon on the other hand looks distinguished in his. He had moved to Ashville North Carolina some years back. The weather is a lot hotter down there during the summer time. He then moved over to Wilmington, near the coast, just a year ago. He works outside most of the time on his job climbing telephone poles and such. He came up in June this year to fish Kettle Creek with me. He wore this straw hat I just called The Carolina Hat. The hat has that wide brim, I mean wide and the top was a little higher than most. It kind of reminded me of the hats the southern ladies would wear while they were planting flowers or working in their gardens under the hot southern sun. The brim had bowed downward with time all the way around, so when you look at him fishing there’s always a shadow on his face. The top is creased and peaked towards the front. With his dark complexion, from living down south, and his black goatee I can always find out where he is on the creek. “Hey, have any of you guys seen a young man with a goatee and a Carolina straw hat?”

My grandfather, on my dad’s side, which who got me interested in hunting and fishing, wore a rare looking cap. I wouldn’t say it distinguished him from anyone else; it just was rare in this day and age. The cap was yellow leather. Yes, that’s right. Completely covered in leather. Over the front bill and all. It was a baseball style cap only it had a flat top. It was lined with some kind of warm cloth and even had earflaps you could let down in colder weather. I have never seen another like it since. The yellow wasn’t a bright yellow, it was sort of soft tanning leather yellow. It was old I can guarantee you that. My grandfather always wore a hat or a beanie to keep his head warm anyhow. Except of course in church. When he went hunting or fishing though, he’d have that yellow cap on. Even if it was remotely involved with hunting or fishing, he wore that cap. Back a many of years when my grandpa was still alive The Pennsylvania Game Commission changed the law from not only wearing blaze orange on chest and back combined but on your head as well, being seen 360 degrees. Most hunters that didn’t have orange on their hats just bought new hats. Some modified them, as Harlan did. The Amish around here covered their hats with an elastic orange bag or something to that nature. Now my grandfather would come up to camp every year and at least hunt for a day, if it wasn’t too cold and he felt ok. He was in his late 70’s back then. He didn’t have too many hunting seasons left, because of his age and couldn’t get around all that well.

Grandpa now was colored blind. I found that out one day at his house when he asked me to get his orange hat off the dresser before we went hunting one morn. The only hat on his dresser was yellow.
“I don’t see it” I called back to him
“It’s right there on the dresser, the only hat there!”
I picked up the yellow hat and went to the kitchen door and handed it to him. He put it on without saying anything else.

At camp, the first year we all had to wear orange headgear, grandpa of course had worn his yellow cap on the way up. He kept it on until the camp warmed up enough that he felt he’d be more comfortable with out the warm cap. He hung his yellow cap on one of the elk tines that was mounted above the TV. Along with the other hunter’s hats in camp and put on his knitted beanie. Grandpa’s hat, of course, was the only yellow one. We’ve been deer hunting with the same group of guys for years. Monday morning came and with that the usual strategies began to take up most of the conversation. Before leaving camp we all made sure we had on our licenses, guns and ammo. We all put on our orange hats and headed to the vehicles for the drive to the hunting area. Except grandpa, he put on his yellow leather cap. Now, no one said anything about it. No one even showed any indication grandpa wasn’t wearing an orange cap. I really don’t think anyone, except me noticed. I wasn’t saying anything. Grandpa’s been hunting 3 times as many years as I have. He hasn’t once ever told a story that bullets whizzed by him within ear shot range, with blaze orange on or not. He thought his cap was orange anyhow and I wasn’t going to try to convince him otherwise after all these years.
I ended up getting my 5 point about 8:00 am. on that same morning. On the drag out I was about 50yrds from the van when I spotted grandpa headed toward the van himself. He didn’t see me or hear me. Gramps was about as tall as I, short was, he stooped a little in his stature when he walked. During hunting season he didn’t shave and I remember back he used to rub his unshaven face against us kids. It was worse than sand paper. He always seamed to be wearing a shirt underneath a button down shirt and a sweater over top of that so it was hard to ever tell how much he weighed. In his old Woolrich pants, hooded Woolrich coat he short stepped it back to the van. Gramps never ventured into the woods very far those days. He usually hunted within 50 to 100yrds of our vehicles, on a lane. He got cold quick and would be back at the van now and then to warm up. My van “has a good heater” as he might say.
“You got one?” “That’s a nice one”
“Yep, gramps, did you see anything?”
“No but the game warden stopped by”
Uh oh, I thought to myself, than I noticed grandpa still had his yellow leather cap on.
“What did he have to say?”
“Oh, he checked my 30-30 and we bullshitted a bit”
I thought this was strange. I conjured up in my mind later what may have occurred.
The game warden happened to be driving by and just so happened to see this hunter with a non-blaze-orange hat on. He most likely made a quick u-turn, kicking up roadside gravel. As he got out of his vehicle, he already had the fine book in one hand and had the ballpoint pen, already with the point projecting out of the bottom of the spring loaded body. He walked over to grandpa and from that point his obvious intensions were diverted. I’m sure seeing and talking to my grandfather and his way with words and conversation, the warden just couldn’t press the issue of ‘the orange hat law’. The warden most likely kept quiet and just listened to this old timer tell about some of his hunting experiences. Grandpa probably told the warden that he himself was a constable once. The warden now knowing a little bit more about this timeless hunter, he most likely started to feel respect for him. Seeing the old, scopeless, model 94 Winchester in my grandfather’s hands, still complete with the saddle horn ring, the warden couldn’t resist but to ask to see the rifle. The warden probably wished my grandfather good luck turned and walked away. By then, the warden’s fine book was in his back pocket and his thumb was still subconsciously pressing his pen.
I’m not sure where that hat is now. The last time I remember wearing it was back in ‘83, around bear camp. The guys I was hunting with would make fun of it, except for Harlan. There were actually three scratch marks on the top of that old hat. Almost like claw prints. I’m sure gramps would have known what they were from. I’m not even sure why I wore it that year. I only got one bear in my lifetime so far. That was back than in ’83.
I just wonder if that old yellow leather hat had something to do with it?

I remember my second year out steelhead fishing. I was still learning how to catch them. I was by myself and didn’t feel confident yet. It was a cool cloudy morning. Looked like possible showers at any time. After gearing up I looked at the hat rack in my van. I always keep a T.U. hat inside at all times, Rain and ball caps don’t go well together. My new short brimmed felt Harley hat, with its leather hatband, sat on the Coleman stove.

I figured it was too new to take out on a day like today. I was by myself, and being the day was miserable looking, I opened the passenger door, reached on the dash and flopped my favorite, sun faded, fishing hat on my head. I felt I was just in that grubby mode, not wanting to talk to anyone and get serious about catching some steelhead. I ended up having a fun day with at least 12 hook ups. Landed four on my fly rod. The last being a 28 ½”male. What a beauty. A friend built a smoker that fall and wanted to try some recipes for smoked steelhead. The big male came with me. I took some pictures of the steely hanging over my 25” cooler for verification purposes.

I broke down my rod and put it away. I jumped in the side of the van to change my cloths when my favorite hat came into contact with the van ceiling. I sat back on the bench seat. Took off the hat and Frisbee threw it between the front bucket seats. It bumped against the windshield and came to rest in the middle on top of the dashboard, the Harley emblem and wings facing directly towards me. I finished changing cloth, grabbed my Flyshop cap and put it on. Jumped into the front seat and headed towards home. I looked at the hat and said out loud “we did it!!” I swear if the hat had eyes it would of winked at me. Than I realized I was the only human in the van and I was actually talking towards my hat.

After turning onto bear creak road, I lit an imported cigar that Jeff had given me. I turned my favorite hat around on the dash so the wings were facing out the front window as usual. Thought of all the steelhead I caught earlier. Luck my butt I thought, got be skill from here on out. I patted the old hat …
_________________________________-~doubletaper

Birthday Brook 2006

4/21/06
I sit here washing down the last remaining taste of the deer tenderloins I fried for dinner. There was enough room off the side of this dirt road to open up my side van doors and make an area for my Coleman stove and camp chair. The moon is bright enough to throw shadows from the branches above onto the dirt floor around me. Another sip of beer and I recollect the day’s adventure.

I fished Mill Creek, near Fisher, this morning until noon. With my Wonderod I caught brookies on latex caddis, r.a.m. caddis and a few on white silky buggers all morning. In the afternoon it was tougher up on the middle part of Millstone that empties into the Clarion River. The water was running a little fast and clear. I only caught 1 brook in about 2 hours, but than again the bottom of the creek bed is stony throughout and it’s hard to bounce the bottom with a good drift without hanging up constantly. I guess that’s why they call it Millstone!
This evening I fished the East Branch of Millstone up from Loleta Park. The little stream pockets brook trout throughout but because of its clear water and brushy banks it’s hard to locate trout without them seeing you first. I haven’t fished the stream in about 10 years but I felt this was a good spot to spend the night off of the main road before fishing it tomorrow

I took my ultra light Eagle Claw spinning rod and bait and headed down to the creek. This was more of a scouting excursion before it got dark so I wanted to cover as much of the stream as possible to get a good lay out for tomorrow’s fishing. After fishless on my way downstream I came across a lone pine overhanging the creek from the far bank. The big fir branches shadowed the water. Scanning the depth I spotted an oblong object suspended behind a submerged millstone 3/4th of the way across the creek. That oblong shape was a big trout for this small creek. I tossed every different bait I had without even a glance. I’m sure the trout seen me, being I was directly beside him about 20’ away. It didn’t spook though so I continued down stream figuring on returning later to catch my “birthday trout”.
About 50 feet downstream I came across 12 brookies hugging the near bank. I crossed the creek and started hooking up with them. It was kind of easy but I hadn’t caught anything for a while and was having fun. Down below the riffles I spotted a gray mass. To the average Joe, he might have thought the mass was a slab of slate. To the fishermen that have fished stocked brook trout waters, knows this was a school of brookies grouped together. There must have been about 2 buckets in the gray mass and surrounding area. It was like fishing in a bathtub for hungry piranhas. I thought about walking up to get my fly rod but it was going to get dark soon. They haven’t stocked this in-season yet so they had to be pre-season trout that swam up from the slower water above the dammed swimming pool area in the park. Just before nightfall I went back upstream and tried for the birthday trout, still no results.

Looks like the water is boiling in the iron skillet. Time to wash dishes and finish another beer before heading to bed.

Sometime during the early morning I remember hearing raindrops on the van roof, than an all out downpour. Being tired I don’t remember much else and fell back asleep.


4/22/06
I wake when the alarm goes off, I reach out, from under the sleeping bag, and push the snooze button. No cars have gone by so I'm not too anxious to ‘rise and shine.’ I crawl up to the front and start the van to take the chill off. I put the heating rod in my water-filled tin cup and plug the other end in the cigar lighter. I crawl back under the sleeping bag.
18 minutes later the alarm buzzes again. I shut it up and get up from under the sleeping bag. Putting a tea bag and a couple of packs of sugar in the warm water I then hang the heating rod over my rearview mirror. I rub the moisture from the inside of a window and I could see it is trying to lighten up outside. I turn on the inside mood lights. Knowing it would be cold out, on this early spring morn, I put on my polypropylenes and warm cloths while munching on yesterdays doughnuts and warm tea. The thought of my birthday trout comes to mind and I start to get antsy.

I open the side van doors and the musty wet moss smell engulfs my senses. There is a thin fog outside sprinkled with light trying to penetrate from above. As I sit on the van step putting my hip boots on the fine mist touches my skin as the mist from Niagara Falls did the times I was up to visit.

I look at my four fly rods lying under the side window. My 8 ½', and 9' were definitely out. I used my Wonderod yesterday so it looks like it will be my 4 pce. 8' grf-1000, Cortland. There’s nothing special or glamorous about it. It was my first multi-piece rod when I got my first Harley and I sort of just take it along.
I piece the rod together and nail-knot a 4x, 7 ½' tapered leader. I tie on a white silky bugger knowing brook trout love minnows.

I turn and shut the van door and that’s when I realize the stillness outside. Instead of the door echoing through the open forest it shut with a thud. The outside world is a dead calm. No wind, no sound of early birds. The low lying fog and sprinkles of misty rain silences everything around me. The only sound is drops of water that gather from moisture and run down tree limbs then fall upon the van’s metal roof.

The lone pine that was so distinctly noticeable yesterday now stands 100 yards away as a dark structure through the fog. I walk half way to the creek and catch movement to my left. A sloppy wet opossum tiptoes towards the road. I reach in my pocket and take out a quid of Red Man and stuff it in my left cheek before continuing on. As I get nearer the stream the water is higher and faster. The down pour, earlier, has taken its toll on the stream. Unlike agricultural farm areas, mountain streams rarely get muddy instead they turn a grayish color.

I position myself upstream from, the just visible, millstone rock where the big trout was the day before. I roll cast towards the far bank, mend the line upstream, and watch the silky bugger drift behind the millstone. I cast two more times and then put on a white woolly. The early morn starts to open up and light starts to penetrate the grayish water. I step closer and gaze through the water, my birthday trout is gone. Gone, but where?

I slowly walk down the bank searching for a dark oblong shape to no avail. I cautiously cross the creek and fish above the riffles where I caught a dozen trout yesterday. I only hook up with one on the woolly bugger. I take a few steps downstream and drift a latex caddis where the school of brookies should be. I catch a straggler but looking into the water, through my polarized glasses, the gray haze of the school of trout is gone also.

I’m disappointed but still have enough hope in thinking I may find him upstream. I walk back up to the lone pine. After stepping into the water I’m able to see a little deeper through the milky water. Nothing is behind the millstone that’s for sure! I slowly fish a latex caddis upstream and let it drift along the far bank. I fish about 20 feet upstream. I stand in the water deciding where to go next. The gray sky is giving way to the lazy sun. The air is still a bit nippy and the smell of wet moss still encompasses me. I look into the water and I consciously search for the big trout. I just can’t believe it would have gone too far.
Upstream, there, in the middle of the creek, I see the tail of the big fish moving side to side in the current. The oblong figure of the fish is apparent now. The water is still grayish but the fish is dark enough and big enough to distinguish.

From here I don’t feel I have a good chance of drifting anything in front of it without it feeling the line. I back-step out of the water and sneak my way upstream from the fish. Stooped down along side the bank I tie on the silky bugger and twist on a matchstick lead weight about 6” above the bugger. I cast it softly across the creek and mend the slack line upstream. I drift the bugger and take in line so the fly will pass right before the fish. I watch as the fish watches it drift by, nothing. I try a bead-head bugger and a latex caddis without success. I am determined to catch the fish but don’t want to spook it by showing it my complete wet fly, nymph and streamer assortment. I feel i have to come up with something else before giving up.

I think back of some of the big brook trout I had caught in the Millstone and what I had used. I remember I caught a 15” breeder up at the West Branch of Millstone on corn back in my bait days with a spinning rod. I also remember watching a guy and his son catching fish on corn. Than I recalled when I camped out at Loleta an elderly couple said they catch quite a few trout out of this creek with yellow and orange power bait.
I pull out my streamer fly box. I see 3 steelhead egg patterns that I must have put in there while steelhead fishing the Erie tribs. A red one with a green dot, a white one made with sparkle and, low and behold, a yellow one.
I tie the yellow egg pattern on the tippet and tug on it to be sure my knot is tight. I add another piece of weight a little closer to the un-weighted fly to make sure it gets deep enough and stays there through the drift. I cast the fly across to the far bank and mend my line upstream. The fly sinks and I tighten the line enough to send the fly down first and than slowly move my rod to follow the drift of the fly.
Before the yellow egg pattern even gets near the fish, the fish swims up and takes it. I set the hook but the big trout doesn’t budge. I look on in disbelief. After I yank a little harder the big fish finally realizes something is wrong. With a quick flip of its tail and arc of its body the fish powers downstream. My fly rod flexes to the middle. Now standing I feed the fish more taught line. It swirls from the far bank, downstream, to the nearer bank below me. The fish holds tight. I stiffen up the rod and the fish gives in. That's it, the big fight is over in a matter of seconds though I'm sure my heart will continue to pound for another minute or two. I lower my net into the water and sluggishly the big brookie follows my line to the net.

I lay the net on the bank and my birthday trout straightens out upon the ground. The beautiful brook trout is a color I’ve never seen before in a fish. The fish’s sides are a silver bluish cast. The yellow speckles are well pronounced along the entire body and tail. The fins aren’t that distinct bright orange, as on male brook trout, but an aqua blue.
I unhook the fly from the fish and walk back to the van to get pictures before the colors fade. I still have the rest of the day and tomorrow to fish and I need the photo’s to give to the taxidermist. I have a goal to get one of each species of trout, from Pennsylvania, mounted on my wall. Pictures are fine but you just don’t get the full features of the fish like you do with a mount. I want to be able to show my grandchildren the real thing. It’s more of something they can see and feel, get an image in their mind of the differences of trout.

I measure the female brook trout to be 19” and take pictures. I wrap the fish and lay it in the cooler. After putting my fly rod in the back I take off the rain jacket and climb in the driver’s seat.

I drive down the dirt road back toward the hard paved road. There are a few people fishing in the swimming hole, hands in their heavy coat pockets and rods leaning over the wall resting against a bait bucket or tackle box. I pull up to the stop sign and look at my radio clock. It is only 9am. I look between the bucket seats, on the van floor, at the big birthday cigar. I turn onto the hardtop road and reach down between the seats, pull out a licorice stick and stick it in my mouth. Heck, it’s only 9:00am and there’s still a lot of fishing to do.


___________________________________________~doubletaper

The Woolly Bugger Memoirs

It’s that time of year again, February. The trout streams are either frozen over, running so cold the trout are in a lethargic state or it’s just too cold for me to go out fishing. It’s time to concentrate at the tying desk and start tying. I have to remember what flies worked for me last year. I have a lot of different patterns for the same fly. I see a new pattern for a fly in a magazine article and I feel I have to try it if it looks enticing (to me) and it is a fly that seams to match a hatch here in Pennsylvania. When I started tying flies I got a general fly tying manual with pictures and pattern ingredients. From those first flies I tied I would add or substitute different material and shades to match Pennsylvania hatches as time went on. Usually according to some article or another pattern I seen tied by another Pennsylvanian fly tier. This has been going on a few years now. Some of them worked better some didn’t work at all. I’m at the point now I’m not sure what the original pattern called for that worked the best. This is in my dry fly collections though and I’ll have to revert back to my fly boxes.

At my fly tying table, it usually gets disarrayed during the season. By winter I usually get things organized but being I did some steelhead fishing this winter and tying steelhead flies I see my table is in disarray again. Let me clean it up a bit.

There, now I’m ready to tie. I’m going to get into the streamers I know I use and the material I use to create them. I’ve tried some of the different bucktail streamers through out the past years and none of them produced for me, just not enough action. I have a hard time tying the muddler’s, with all the deer hair spinning and the mess of the trimming. It just seems to take to long time with all the steps. I know a lot of guys’ use them and they work and all, but I wanted something easier to tie and work. I settled on the wooly buggers.

Let me clamp on a #10 9672 hook. I had bought some olive marabou out of a discount box of a fly tying store back quite a few years ago before the olive woolly buggers seam to be famous. I whipped up a few, gave some to my son Giddeon while I kept some. I also gave a couple to an older fly-guy I worked with. I remember back then, he said he never seen woolly buggers tied in that olive color I tied mine in. Besides black, this was the only other color I tied woolly buggers in. I didn’t use them much because I wasn’t sure how to fish them. I would try the olive and black buggers but not for very long because I just didn’t have faith in them. My son Giddeon is who got me believing in them.

Giddeon was out camping with his friends in the Allegheny National Forest out off of Spring Creek. I was camping in a campground not too far away. One night he and his friends stopped by and he told me I had to tie him more of the olive woolly buggers. He said they were fishing in Spring Creek and when the other guys started catching a few trout on minnows, he switched to the olive woolly buggers and started hammering the trout. He ended up catching more trout on the olive buggers than the guys using minnows. From then on I’ve used the olive woolly bugger with confidence and have caught more trout in more different streams and waters than any other color bugger.

I used to palmer the olive woolly buggers with dark dun hackle but last spring I bought a barred olive saddle. This seems and I feel more confident with this shading.

Now let’s make sure I got all the material. Olive thread and .020 wire lead. Olive chenille and my barred olive saddle hackle for the ribbing, Olive marabou and four strands of #045 blending filament. The blending filament I get at a crafts store. I tried using crystal flash but it is too stiff where as the filament thread, I feel, moves with the marabou tail. It is a combination of olive and gold strands of filament. I unbraid the strands and tie in four of these strands mixed in with the marabou tail only. I don’t tie them across the chenille body like a crystal bugger and I don’t use any more than four strands on any of my woolly buggers. I don’t want to scare the fish or make my bugger look like a piece of jewelry floating down in the stream. The lead-wire I start winding just atop the hook point on the shaft and wind it just far enough behind the hook eye so I have room to tie a nice tapered thread head. I never tried a bead head on my olive woolly buggers. They work great without one so I don’t feel the need to use one. Now let me tie about a dozen of these.
The two best times I had on these buggers were both on Kettle Creek in Potter County. Actually two years apart in the fly-fishing only area. One year I went up there in early June the water was running high and fast. I was fishing towards a good hole I’ve fished many times. The slow riffles that run into the slow deep pool were now running with quite a bit of force. The riffles were choppy so I added more weight to get my bugger down. My first cast was where the choppy water let up some into the deep pool. Something grabbed that bugger so hard it broke my tippet before I could react. I tied on another. Casted out and this time I hooked on to another trout but the force of the fish and water again broke my 5x-tapered leader. 2nd time’s a lesson; third time’s a charm. I tied on a 4x tippet another olive bugger and loosened my drag. Cast after cast I landed some of the heaviest trout to that date.

The second best time, using the barred olive saddle hackle, came in May. The water was at normal height and I came to a down tree in the water with branches, up out or the water, overhanging a good size pool of slower running water. I casted across and down stream towards the overhang and let the olive woolly bugger sink and flow with the current. I watched as at least three rainbows came out and attacked the bugger. The lucky one that grabbed it, or should I say the unlucky one, ended up in my net. I continued casting out in that same area and continued to catch these fat aggressive trout for no less than about an hour. I was having a field day. When the action slowed down I let the bugger float down stream, towards the sunken trunk of the tree, and again began to catch aggressive trout. Now that was olive woolly bugger reality.

Since I got the olive thread out the next bugger I’ll tie is one I developed called the silky bugger. Let me clamp on 3906B #10. The marabou tail is not as long as the original and the body is wrapped with olive floss instead of chenille. I’ll wrap over the floss about three times. I use grizzly saddle hackle for this one to palmer. When wet the shiny floss deepens in color. Everything else is tied the same. I use this bugger in slower, medium to shallower water. Maybe I’ll tie about a half dozen of them.

The best memory is when I was using this bugger down on Spring Creek, in Forest County, in October. The water was a little lower than usual. I casted down in the riffles, letting line out and then letting the bugger sweep the bottom of the riffles. Surprisingly, I pulled out a 17-½ inch eager palomino trout.

I’ll clamp on a 9672 #10 hook and grab my black thread and material for a black woolly bugger. I tie this like the olive woolly bugger only using all black with a gold or brass bead head. I use #032 silver-white metallic filament in this marabou tail. I’ve read stories how the black buggers are great for big browns. I don’t catch nearly the trout I have on my other colors but it seams, when big stoneflies are about, this is when I do the best. Also at the end of riffles I’ll catch a few trout, maybe they think this is a hellgrammite. I’m not sure but if the fish like black that day this will work. I’ll tie a half dozen of these.

Now I’ll tie my second favorite color woolly bugger. Jeff turned me on to this one. I’ll go all the way to the opposite side of the color spectrum and gather my white material. Clamp on a 9672 #10 and thread the white thread through the bobbin. I use the same .020 lead and use a gold bead for the head. White marabou along with #032 silver-metallic filament and the softest white saddle hackle I can come up with. I found the white woolly bugger works best in the spring or I fish it when I see minnows jumping out of the water because trout are feeding on them.

Like I said, Jeff turned me on to using this bugger. He told me he has great success down on the Youghiogheny River and used this in other streams and does well. I began using this bugger in early spring more often with a better success rate than other buggers. I moved up here to Clarion County a couple of years ago and was looking for the closest fly-fishing only stream. I found a delayed harvest artificial lures only project just about 20 minutes from my home. Through the small village of Limestone, this spring fed creek flows. The project area is only 1.2 miles long. The creek is a narrow brook of a stream with some deep holes and sunken logs and treetops. A good canopy of evergreen trees and the lower part sports a good outcropping of rocks and boulders. I was fishing the lower part of the creek in the spring.
I was slowly working my way upstream when I spotted a huge rainbow sitting in the tail end of a deep pool. I circled way around the pool as to not let the rainbow see me. The main body of water met up with a feeder stream on the opposite side of the bank. This formed the deeper part of the pool on my side with a back eddy of a pool on the other side against the bank. I crouched down and got myself situated just where both creeks met. I casted into the far back eddy pool and held my rod up high. My fly line slacked in the faster water before me and the white woolly bugger skated across, in the water, too fast and ended on my side of the bank. A different tactic was needed. I stooped and walked backwards and entered the creek just above where the two bodies of water met nearer the far bank. I kept in a stooped position and roll casted the bugger again in the slow back eddy. Let my fly line touch enough of the current in front of me to swim the bugger near the huge rainbow. Before the bugger even got to the rainbow something grabbed the bugger. I missed him, mended line in and roll casted again near the same spot. A drift and a hard hit I knew I connected with another big trout as my 4-piece, 5wt almost bent in half. Fighting the fish I got out of the water and walked around the faster current. I could see the huge rainbow now still sitting in the tail end of the pool. I fought the fish on my line and ended up landing a heavy, stocked, brook trout that had to be at least 17”. I figured the rainbow seen me by now. I went back above the faster water and casted again into the back eddy like before. I took out three more trout before I continued on my journey discovering more of the creek. Sometimes a fish will only grab the marabou tail of these buggers. Another fishing buddy, Al, told me he ties on a small size trailer hook on a few of the buggers. I better tie a baker dozen of these and a few with trailer hooks.

While I got the white thread out I’ll tie a few shallow water white woolly buggers. Clamp on a 3906 #10 hook. I tie this bugger with both white chenille and white floss. I eliminate winding lead on the hook but put a gold bead on for weight. The marabou tail is shortened with the #032 filament and soft white saddle palmered. This is a killer low water looking minnow when the fish are feeding.
I was on Salmon Creek last fall in Forest County, fishing in the evening slowly wading down stream as I went. On a long stretch of about ankle deep rocky water, I spotted a deep pool below. As I casted a latex caddis and let it drift through the shallows I started to near the end of the shallow water where it empties into the larger pool. Before I even got close I noticed activity from the middle of the creek to the far bank to my right. Trout were darting here and there. I figured they were either feeding on minnows or chasing each other. Which ever it was I tied on one of these shallow water white woolly buggers. Without adding any additional weight I casted across and down stream letting the bugger drift into sight of the fish. The bugger stayed above the creek bed without touching down and stayed just below the surface. Bingo, I watched fish after fish follow the bugger, nipping at it, until my line straightened down stream in which then they grabbed it whole. I was having a blast sight fishing with this small woolly bugger in shallow water. I’m not sure what even got me to tie such a fly but it worked in this situation and I’ve been carrying it since for these situations.

Last but not least this woolly bugger I tie is not fished as a minnow or streamer as it is drifted down to look like a drowned night crawler for trout. Clamping on a 9672 #10 hook and getting out my brown thread, weight, copper bead, brown marabou and brown barred saddle hackle for the palmered rib. I tie this as I do my other 9672 buggers only using a copper bead. This brown woolly bugger is also great for smallmouth bass during the warmer weather in which I fish this like a normal streamer.

Al and I met down on the fly-fishing area only project, on Buffalo Creek, quite a few years ago. Al knows this creek pretty well and fished it often. It had rained a couple of days before but when we met up the water was still on the murky muddy side. The creek flows through farmland and agricultural land therefore in many places the creek bottom is mud I’ll just put it that way. This is what takes the creek so long to clear off after a rainstorm. We met up at the stream and decided to fish anyway. I got a saying, “when you get to the place you plan on fishing, fish!!”
Al said the water wasn’t that higher than normal just cloudy. I noticed as I drove down to where we met, the shallower straight runs weren’t too cloudy. Al went up stream from where we decided to park and I entered the stream right there. With the clear sky above only about the top 6 inches of water was visible, below that it became opaque and deeper downright brown and cloudy. I was fishing some nice slow water that was about chest high, I figured, along the weedy far bank. I fished this stream before and know there are large rocks strewn along the bottom through out the stream. I was knee-deep casting nymphs and woolly buggers without any hook ups. The longer we fished the more the water seamed to be clearing but it still had a long way to go. I slowly worked my way down stream to the shallower water but still nothing. Al came up behind me and asked how I’ve been doing. He did the same as I was doing, nothing. While we were talking he mentioned about this would be a good day to float down night crawlers if we weren’t in the fly-fishing project. But we were and we were fishing fly rods. We would fish until noon and see if the water clears up enough to see if we get some strikes. He headed up stream again and I headed back up to where I started.
Standing in the water I thought of what he said, “Night crawlers”. The only thing I had that might be a look-a-like was these brown woolly buggers I was carrying. I tied one on and weighted it accordingly, casted across the stream and down from where I stood letting it drift like I would a streamer. I thought I had a bump but I may have touch bottom. After a few casts the same way, across and down I decided to cast upstream, leave a lot of slack in my line, and let it drift and tumble before me. My line stopped for a second and I set the hook. That was the trick. The brown bugger evidently had enough action with a slack line to look like a night crawler drifting down. After I caught another trout I walked upstream until I found Al. I gave him a brown woolly bugger and explained to him how I was fishing it. I returned to where I caught the first two rainbows and continued catching more trout. This brown woolly bugger saved the day for both of us. Sometimes it’s how you fish a bugger that catches the fish!

How can I forget coming in second place at a ‘one fly event’ in Erie during steelhead season. The brown bugger came through unexpectedly!!

I’ll tie a dozen of these and a few with a longer marabou tail than usual so there’s more wiggle in the marabou. I don’t tie the longer marabou tails on a longer hook, this tends the marabou to get caught up in the hook more often and doesn’t fish correctly.
Another time on the Clarion River I was float tubing during warmer weather. I had a good day with the brown and olive woolly buggers hooking up smallmouth along with some heavy hold over trout.

On all my woolly buggers, except the long brown ones or the shallow water buggers, my marabou tails are as long as the hook, from eye to hook bends. I use a lot of marabou for the tail. In the water the marabou straightens out so I want a good amount of marabou to keep the bugger in proportion of the rest of the body.
These work great in Pennsylvania streams but I have no doubt they’d work elsewhere.
_____________________________________~doubletaper

Dad's Presence

“Watch this dad”
I thought out loud
almost loud enough for my own ears to hear
“There dad
beneath that branch”
another subtle rise appear
I strip off line
estimate distance
for I didn’t want to come up short
I wanted to again
impress my dad
he never did share my sport
Sure he taught me
and coached me ball
i have trophies on the wall
We vacationed lots
cities and beaches
hotels we stayed in all
But the wilderness
is what I longed
hunting, fishing and camp
My dad didn’t
share this interest
i learned this from my gramp
Don’t get me wrong
for I loved him
yes, loved him all the same
Though he never saw my shot
kill a deer
i shared with him my game
My dad
was busy working
his time was shared by five
I, well i
was the different one
still I never felt deprived
Back in ‘03’
the grace of God
finally touched his feeble lip
Since that time
he’s shared my passion
for he’s now with me on every trip
-------------------~doubletaper