Fayette County Final Four

There I was, down on my knees in a foot of snow, perched over a frozen creek in the Laurel Highlands. This wasn’t a survival scenario where I had to build a fire to stave off frostbite, or crawl inside the carcass of my dog to live through the night. I was on vacation and I was fly fishing.

But why?, you might ask. The wind was howling in the trees above and I had only a four-foot slit in the ice where a trout might peck at something. I could be skiing or snowshoeing, which would make sense. I could be relaxing in front of the fire at home or enjoying a hot breakfast with my grandfather and Aunt Liz. But no, I’d chosen to get up at dawn and spend an entire day wearing neoprene chest waders, neoprene gloves, a down jacket and two hats in pursuit of trout in the Laurel Mountains. Just because it was my day off.

Well, a number of fortuitous events and wonderful people had provided me this opportunity to peer into the frigid waters of Chaney Run. First, my nonprofit employer, Riverlife, had deemed December 27th as a vacation day since Christmas fell on a Saturday. Second, my brother, Tim, and his wife, Allison, had driven a new-to-me Subaru Forester from Meadville to replace the one I’d totaled a couple weeks prior just a few miles from the snowy glen in which I now knelt. Finally, Auntie Liz had hosted a family dinner the night before, which served as a convenient launch point for the day’s adventure.

So, as I peered into the dark flowing water, I felt lucky to be there but perhaps also a bit fearful that all would be for naught. There was hardly enough room among the bare trees and shrubs to swing the 5' 9" LLBean fly rod to land my frozen leader on the ice below. The leader was beaded with ice globules, providing a bit of extra weight to reach the hole through the ice. Just the night before, Raz had said he was going ice fishing and so, apparently, was I.

I finally settled into the technique of holding the fly between my fingers and pulling it back like the string on a bow to fling it across the ice. Then I retrieved it through the snow until it plopped into the sliver of moving water. I’d already had a bite on a Prince nymph, but broke off on a rhododendron. I’d tried a tiny stonefly to no avail, so I now had on a salmon-colored egg imitation. As it disappeared below the ice, I felt a brief peck, but nothing stuck. Twang went another bow-and-arrow cast and plop went the little egg. Ah, weight on the line! A wriggling native brook trout swung out of the water at the end of my line and I chalked up waterway #97 for the year. After a brief admiration of its blue spots dotted with red centers, the trout was back in the water and I was staggering through the trees back toward my car. An earlier trip over a root had tweaked my back, so I may have seemed a bit zombie-like, groaning and moaning through the trees.

Three streams to go and it was 10 AM. I’d allotted approximately one hour per stream, plus travel time in between to stay on pace. Now to navigate the snowy mountain roads in the new car without mishap so as to stay in good graces with my dear wife, Robyn. At least the big truck I’d passed earlier had been plowing and spreading cinders.

I drove toward Ohiopyle, considering my options. There was Bear Run near Fallingwater, but that was just one stream. Instead, I veered off toward Dunbar, which not only had a fly fishing section, but also three tributaries, each of which allegedly held wild trout.

Dunbar Creek looked great, with plenty of open water albeit lined with ice shelves. I parked and strung up my 8’ 9” 5-weight Walton Powell, which had a bit more length, but plenty of finesse to keep me out of the trees and shrubs if I was careful. After drifting various nymphs toward the tail of the pool, I climbed out of the water and moved to the top of a waterfall. I tied on Dale’s “Polish worm,” which is heavily weighted and coated with a strip of shiny latex from a pink condom. Seriously. Segmented and glistening, it looked quite wormy, something to entice a cold, logy trout. After a few drifts around the waterfall, my float went down hard and I felt a sizable fish. The largest brook trout of my life surfaced, showing a big jaw and broad flanks. As it stripped out the slack and started taking drag, I navigated down along the icy bank to the tail of the pool where I could land it. As he came ashore, I mentally noted that #98 was in the books and got the camera ready. He’d ignored the hare’s ear nymph, opting instead for the big Polish worm. After a couple of photos, I released him and watched him swim slowly back up into the pool. With snow and ice covering my rod, reel and line, I walked back up to the car to regroup.

While my equipment thawed, I estimated the distance to be hiked by peering at the maps. Limestone Run looked to be a short walk upstream, but Glade Run was a good mile and a half through snow and ice. It was only noon and I figured the walk to be scenic and rewarding. Despite my cramping lower back, I was healthy enough to walk a few miles in the snow, so that’s just what I did.

At the first ford, I gingerly broke through the ice with each step, but it was thin ice and not a problem. At other stream crossings, I had to test the thickness of ice shelves before entrusting them with my weight. Each of a half dozen stream crossings was a bit hairy but the water was shallow and I maintained solid footing throughout. An ATV trail more or less paralleled the stream, allowing me to make steady progress.

I’d estimated 40 minutes and just when I was considering trying to find satellite access to confirm my position, I saw a notch in the hillside to the right. I reached the mouth of Glade Run right at 1 PM. Dale had told me that the Chestnut Ridge Chapter of Trout Unlimited had put a lot of work into restoring Glade Run, so I was optimistic that it would hold fish. After pausing next to a small cave to put my jacket back on, I went in search of open water. Before long, I had another brookie wriggling in the snow. It was lovely with light olive sides speckled with blue and red. There was also a bit of red in the snow where I’d nicked a gill inside his mouth as he’d really gobbled the egg pattern. So back he went quickly as possible. The water looked promising and I thought I spied additional trout, but I needed to focus on the task at hand of loggging my 100th waterway of the 2010 Dahlberg Cup.

Walking back downstream, I was feeling good having gone 3-for-3 thus far and poised to finish the quest. A number of setbacks this year had introduced additional challenges to the process. Foremost was the shattered collarbone incurred while mountain biking in south-central PA. I’d hoped to fish a number trout streams and also the Juniata River for smallmouth bass that weekend. But it would be weeks before I’d be able to cast a line again. Instead of a half-dozen, I came back with just the Susquehanna River in the log book. I’d also banged up my car, skidding around a snowy bend in the Quebec Run Wild Area. Again, I logged just one stream that day and lost my transportation for a couple of weeks. And, finally, this December had been one of the coldest on record. I’d planned to fish a number of Erie tributaries for steelhead, but logged only one, where Rob and I had caught a bunch of little browns in the fall.

But despite all that, the quest for 100 streams had continued to burn bright and I pored over online maps and wild trout stream listings from the PA Fish & Boat Commission and of course the Delorme Pennsylvania Gazetteer for driving directions. Friends had tipped me off to good fishing locations and I’d enjoyed trips with Rob, Raz, Ian, Ray, Robyn and Dale. I’d managed an out-of-state excursion where I fished with Mark in North Carolina and Paul in south Florida, where he pointed me to a gorgeous snook that took Rob's grey tarpon fly.

This year, I’d fished two streams from my childhood in New Mexico, explored new Pittsburgh suburban streams such as Piney Fork, Peters Creek and Turtle Crik. I’d caught big trout on tiny Class A streams, and I’d caught fish on 69 waterways new to me as fly fishing destinations. It had been a great adventure and I’d enjoyed it all.

Even getting skunked had its lessons, whether a better understanding of fish species’ temperature preferences, a greater sensitivity to stalking fish, or even a better appreciation of the need for a good night’s sleep and nourishment (i.e. Red Bull alone does not a good breakfast make). Always a key lesson is how fickle Mother Nature can be in raising or lowering water levels, heating or freezing streams. The bottom line is that when the conditions are right, it’s time to go fishing. Flexibility in one’s schedule and a network of friends can put you on the right water at the right time. But even then, it’s up to the angler to remain focused, have gear in order, flies on hand, and a calm determination in presenting the fly.

With one stream to go, I was nothing if not focused. As I approached Limestone Run, I replaced the chewed up egg with a tandem of flies received as a Christmas gift from my father. A bead head hare’s ear enticed the strike from my final little brook trout of 2010. I snapped a few doting pictures of the morsel before releasing it back to its native waters and then headed for mine.

Going Where the Water Doesn’t Freeze

December 16, 2010

The end of year push is on; not for holiday gifts, nor home decoration. I’m talking about the Dahlberg Cup. Thanks to some creative justification of the need to fly fish, a group of us have chosen to keep a yearly tally of where and when we catch fish on flies. In our second year of this contest, it can be reported that one can be pushed to the edge of obsession in the pursuit of new streams. I can’t speak for the others, but the Dahlberg Cup has triggered me on so many levels. This contest stimulates at once my yearning for knowledge, my lust for new experiences and my fascination with aquatic environments, not to mention my need for achievement.

For example, I learn tons about fish, habitats, and seasonal feeding patterns. I’ve learned that special regulations streams are great to hit in early spring before trout season officially opens. Then the stocked streams come into play with lots of options thru spring and early summer. Brook trout streams can be targeted any time of year and provide a striking contrast to fishing big waters when combined on a single trip. In 2009, I learned that you can not count on catching smallmouth bass in November, even in places teeming with them. This year, I corrected for that by targeting the shallower smallmouth waters all summer long, which also helped establish some new fishing friendships along the way.

Well, the lesson this very cold December of 2010 is that even coldwater species, such as steelhead, become difficult to access when streams freeze over. As I considered my goal of logging fish from 100 waterways this year, I pondered where I might find another 8 streams. I’d been counting on Erie for a handful, but a three-week cold streak had framed that as an exercise of more pain than pleasure. I could hardly fathom bashing open frozen streams to fly fish.

I had set aside a couple days of vacation to fish with Ray Schon and to get Mark Susany out for his virgin steelhead trip, but the conditions were not favorable. On Tuesday night, December 14, mentor Dale Kotowski called up out of the blue. He also was hankering to get out. Surprisingly, neither of us had fished Centre County this year, the land of milk, honey and spring-fed limestone streams. With nightly temperatures dipping below the teens and high temperatures failing to hit 20, the thought of fishing 50-degree water for active trout was appealing. So, the plan was made to leave early Thursday and make the drive to Bellefonte, PA home of Spring Creek.

Rob Walters, another key mentor in my fly fishing life, decided to join the excursion and it was a good thing because Dale had become stricken with a health issue and, I’m guessing, lovely Cyndi had coaxed him into the unfamiliar territory of caution. That meant no fishing for Dale this week, which I think we can all agree is a tragic circumstance.

So, Rob and I were on the road shortly after 7:00 AM beelining for Bellefonte, a 2 ½ hour trip. Upon arrival, we parked next to a local business and suited up. Two different guys stopped over to ask us what the hell we were doing. Not in a mean way, but more out of concern for our well being and soundness of mind. The wind had been howling for several days and, though not much snow had fallen, the mercury had taken a dive. The one fellow who had fly fished for many years mentioned sucker spawn could be extremely effective, just in time for me to select one of my microspawn patterns for the dropper rig.

It’s Alive!
We donned neoprene waders and gloves, substantial hats and the warmest socks money can buy. Not only was the creek in great condition, but within minutes, I’d landed a couple of small browns, which were taking white spawn tied with red thread and they were also hitting green caddis pupa. Rob came downstream just in time to first see me miss a very big fish and soon thereafter hook another heavyweight, which caught a second and a third wind and was wearing me out. After a 5-10 minute battle, the 19-inch rainbow was flopping in my net and getting its turn on camera. Life was good on Spring Creek! More beautifully colored browns followed and Rob landed a couple of nice 15-16 inchers, reported a monster sighting of a brown going two feet or better.

Buffalo Soldier
In the meantime, I’d waded up the class A tributary, Buffalo Run, crossed a road and navigated a giant log pile to locate a nice pod of fish. Several browns and one rainbow took the sucker spawn. Interestingly, this little stream looks like any of Pittsburgh’s shit cricks, with plastic bags, broken bits of pipe, bricks and other debris strewn around, with the occasional bank of poured concrete marking an industrial plant. But the difference is this stream holds wild trout in every spot more than 2-feet deep. The water quality and forage base were apparently quite healthy with a welcome lack of sewage input.

After a leisurely lunch with Tom Doman at the Governors Pub, we stopped at Logan Branch nearby so I could hopefully log that stream as well. After wading and drifting downstream a quarter mile, I hadn’t gotten a bite but spooked two fish. Apparently this was too small a stream to fish in such an indelicate manner…to be revisited in the future.

Bald Eagle
So we moved on to see some more of Spring Creek and to fish Bald Eagle Creek. The McCoy Dam impoundment was removed three years ago (not long after my bachelor party float trip, which included an epic portage) and the stream has been reshaped into a new mile of wonderful trout habitat. Father down, at the confluence with Bald Eagle Creek, the value of feeder springs was highly apparent. Bald Eagle was mostly frozen over, whereas Spring was wide open. The right descending bank of Bald Eagle below the confluence remained free of ice as well. We fished downstream of Milesburg and Rob nailed three rainbows quickly San Juans. I had to lengthen my rig to reach the bottom in deeper faster water, after which a brown took a prince nymph and I lost a nice rainbow that jumped several times. By then, the winter darkness was closing in.

So we three had a beer and talked of shale and fish and other things before hitting the road for the Burgh. It was a good day and a wonderful respite in the dead of winter. And this trip got me to #95, within striking distance of the 100 Grail. Cheers to Dale for inspiring the trip, Rob for making it happen, and Tom for coaching us on where to fish. It’s good to have friends!

Quebec Run Doozy

I had myself a little adventure on Saturday, December 11. After hiking my ass back up out of Quebec Run (#92), and working up a hellvua sweat, the Subaru was navigating a very snowy, hilly, bendy dirt road coming out of Forbes State Forest. Going downhill around a bend, the car became unresponsive and slid sideways off the road and slammed into a tree. Watched the window vaporize on impact.

So, with the sun already below the hills and my car off the road with a tree embedded into the rear passenger door, it wasn’t looking good for the home team. Had to rock it back and forth and gun it farther *down* the hill to get off the tree. The good news was I was clear; the bad news was the car couldn't climb thru ruts & snow back to the road. The car was instead following a plow line of sorts angling away and down. Had to rock the car back and forth and gun it in reverse farther *down* the hill, to attain an angle where the spinning tires could actually gain purchase and finally launch back up onto the road. Whew, I was out!

Got a little drafty with that window open, so I donned hood and gloves. Saw a couple trucks spinning out on the way out, but stopped anyway for a few casts on Mill Run before getting back to pavement…looked promising, but no luck. Dropped the car off in Shaler Monday morning and biked in to work. Thanks to the good news at State Farm for taking care of me...might have a new fishing vehicle soon.

Paying for It

Okay, I did it: I paid to fish. That’s right, and it was a premeditated too. The setting was not a dark and stormy night, but rather a sunny, 70-degree day in late November; an opportunity not to be squandered at any cost.

Sunday night, Robyn broke the news temps would hit the upper 60’s on Monday. Just that morning I’d been casting on the Monongahela in search of waterway #87 for the year. But, despite throngs of shad and shiners throughout the shallows, I did not get a bite. I got so bored, that I walked up Nine Mile Run to see the restoration work and to peer into the gin-clear water. When I spied some creek chubs, on went a prince nymph and #87 was logged with a nice specimen of Semotilus atromaculatus, which Raz refers to as “natives” since they are indeed a species indigenous to PA.

With all the baitfish I'd seen at the mouth of 9MR, I could imagine predators moving in to feed around dusk. But that afternoon, I opted for some yard work and a walk in the park with Robyn. Despite a delicious pot roast reward, I was still hankering to find predatory critters on the Mon.

So, Monday morning, I loaded my fly gear and waders into the car and drove to work. No bike on this day, just a payment of eight smackeroos to park in the strip for an easy exit that evening. I got into the office early, wrapped up a grant proposal, hit a few other projects and was out by 4:15PM. With sunset coming at 4:58 and a trip up the Parkway East ahead, I worried about losing daylight. But the weather was so fine, there was hardly enough breeze to ruffle a Clouser minnow flying through in the air.

Reminiscing about my dad’s former habit of bee-lining from Alcoa to the river in business attire, I pulled my waders over the dress clothes, tied on a white half-and-half streamer below sink tip and waded out into the mighty Monongahela River. Another fellow was already there with cast net and bait bucket. No signs of fish yet, so I moved down a hundred feet and stripped out line.

I saw the fellow miss a hit and before long I was hooked into a decent saugeye about 15”. Thought about keeping it, but was leery of the water quality, plus I’ve gotten lazy about cleaning fish in recent years. After several more casts, I missed another hit, then broke off on a snag. I tied on a weighted olive and white pattern and hooked a bigger fish, which was both heavy and strong. I gradually worked her to shore and this time I put the fish on the stringer…a fat, 18” walleye is hard to resist. Plus, Robyn does appreciate fresh fish.

My final fish was an incredibly fat hybrid striped bass, which I picked up right in the creek in the gathering gloom. No headlamp, but just enough ambient light to see by. After the action slowed, I headed for home in time for dinner.

I did look inside the walleye’s belly after done with the fillets. The female was full of eggs, so I realized that my meal would deprive the river of many replenishing offspring. I’d need to offer up some extra thanks. Next thing I found was a belly full of shad, which were incredibly abundant this fall. All of Pittsburgh’s fish would be healthy for the coming winter.

I'm Back!

On September 17, I was flying high…heading to central PA for a delicious gumbo of mountain bike festival topped with fly fishing. On the way, I fished the Susquehanna north of Harrisburg and landed a 16-17” smallmouth who approved of my big-claw crayfish pattern. I had a list of wild trout streams, plus the Juniata River for the trip home.

This bliss was to be short lived. Saturday morning, we rode out of camp and climbed to the hang glider launch point in Weiser State Forest. As we descended grassy-double-track to the technical stuff, I decided to use the speed to catch air off a good sized rock. Alas, the rock slid out and my bike took a strange trajectory, coming down on the front wheel and somehow peeling the tire off the rim, which catapulted me over the handle bars and straight down onto my right shoulder. And, unfortunately, it was not the 3-weight fly rod on my back that I heard snap. The Rattling Creek brook trout would have to wait until next year.

Good friends helped me hike the 1.5 miles out of the woods and slinged me up nicely with bandanas (thanks Jen and Caryn) and inner tubes (thanks Jody). So I relaxed back at camp and indulged in the Rattling Creek Single Trackers’ supply of Troegs beer. On Monday, I got an x-ray and by Wednesday I was having a titanium plate and eight screws installed on the collarbone. Well, at least I’d nailed down the Susquie River as #72, keeping me on track to break triple digits by the end of the year. (A bit of irony: The smallmouth depicted also christened my new Lefty Kreh rod. Little did I know that I would soon be a "lefty" as well.)

Ten days into recovery, I took a rod down to the Ohio River to see if a) I could cast left handed and b) whether I could do it without pain, which worked out reasonably well. On this sunny afternoon, with the river low and slow, there wasn’t any action, but Ian Brown showed me how to tie the Clouser Suspender fly that day and it felt good just to be outside.

A few days later, Ian and I took a canoe out on the Ohio River in search of stripers. Despite a plentitude of shad…I’m talking a school hundreds of yards long…we saw no feeding activity and had nary a bite. But this was a time when I could care less…it was great just to be out fishing.

This past weekend, my fishless period ended at 22 days. Saturday morning, Mark Susany and I caught bass from his canoe on Star Lake (no Dahlberg points on private water, but no matter). Fishing lefty, I did miss a number of hits on Rob Walters' dynamite shad pattern, which doubles nicely as a bluegill, but managed to land a few largemouths as well.

On Sunday, my dear wife Robyn and I got our brookie on. After a stirring sermon at Hebron Presbyterian Church, we bee-lined for Linn Run State Park. This was to be Robyn’s first brookie experience and I felt nice and relaxed in my lame state. We hiked up Grove Run and found some nice fish that were amazingly wary. But I did eventually land a couple of darling little brookies and Robyn got some action as well. It was great fun watching their blazing fast strikes and and subsequent spits.

We then headed over to Linn Run, where Dale and Cyndi had reported a good brook trout population. I’d also heard tell of a lingering acid problems, but I’m happy to report Linn Run is the best brookie stream I’ve ever seen…both in numbers and size. The beauty shown above took a caddis dry, but they were also happy to take various bead head nymphs. By this time, I was starting to cast righty a bit and feeling great. But that also put me into a fishing frenzy and I instantly lost my touch as fishing guide. Robyn, you're on your own!

The day finished up at the Three Forks property of Steve Robinson, who was hosting an event for fellow Venture Outdoors donors. Along with Rob Walters, we caught wild browns in Mill Creek below the confluence of several wild trout streams. After catching two wild browns, Robyn picked up a book and relaxed while Rob added a bunch of brookies to the mix.

On the way out, I logged a public section of Mill Creek by catching a a couple of lovely browns. That raised my total waterways for the year to 75 and, more importantly, boosted the spirit by knowing that just 2 ½ weeks post-op I was enjoying fly fishing (and catching) once again.

Labor Day Weekend Escape

Canoe camping remains one of my favorite forms of outdoor recreation, combining the best of car camping (fresh food, comforts of home, malted beverages) with the best of back packing (wilderness, remote scenery and good fishing). The added bonus is that you don't have carry your stuff! And if you're canoeing on moving water, you glide along as on a magic carpet. Of course, that makes fishing along the way even easier.

Robyn and I had pencilled in the Clarion River, but the 2010 drought had left it way too bony for my taste. Our party of seven was rounded out by Mark and Carla, in from Miami, Roy and Mary, and Allison and her Dutch oven. My brother, Tim, and his son, Nicholas, also joined us in kayaks for a day trip.

After paying the outfitter in Franklin to drive our cars to the take-out in Kennerdell, we were getting ready to launch when a bald eagle swooped by, apparently looking for fish. But that was just the prelude to one of the most stunning wildlife displays I have witnessed.

The eagle remained visible downstream as we drifted toward an old bridge abutment. Tim called out that there was a second eagle, a mottled brown juvenile as well. The adult's brilliant white head and tail were clearly apparent as it dropped down to plunge its talons into the water. "It's teaching its young how to fish!" I exclaimed in delight. Sure enough, mama or papa swooped down again, this time lifting a fish into the air. Flying part way across the river, it headed back toward the juvie and released the fish back into the water. (And it's not even desingated a Catch & Release area...) The youngster dropped down and tried clawing the water, but to no avail. Dutifully, it turned and swooped down again, this time its talons locking onto flesh and hauling it into the air with heavy wingbeats. Success! The young eagle beelined for a tree in the woods, apparently not interested in sharing with the instructor.

What a joy to witness this scene only a 90-minute drive from Pittsburgh! I had not even picked up a fishing rod and my angling urges felt fulfilled.

I did eventually pick up a rod (14 minutes after launch, clocked by Mark, who apparently had taken the long shot in the pool) and casted out a Clouser suspender. Another couple of local fly anglers were launching when we were at the ramp and they also had suspenders and crayfish patterns, so I was on the right track.

Drifting with kayakers, Tim & Nicholas, I hooked a nice smallmouth, maybe 14-inches, which jumped and tossed my fly within seconds. Mark soon also called, "Fish on!," reeling in a sub-legal bass on an artificial green sinking worm.

At 4.5 miles, we pulled over for lunch at the Belmar Bridge, where the Sandy Creek Trail crosses above the Allegehny River Trail. This was to be my point of departure from the party, as I wanted to explore up East Sandy Creek to a tributary that supports wild trout. I'd printed maps of the river and a photo of the islands on which we'd be camping so they could secure a site while I did some other exploring.

Taking what shelter we could from the wind, we secured the boats (except mine, which frequently seems to go drifting off) and gobbled some nourishment. These stops along the way are nice for stretching the legs. We were 30 degrees colder than just a few days ago and had been experiencing intermittent sun and sprinkles. Overall, good canoeing weather, but a bit chilly for sitting still.

At this point, I split off in the kayak, while Allison teamed up with Robyn in the canoe. Mary and Roy were manning the monster aluminum Grumman, which had see a lot of whitewater action over the year, often times with Mary or Roy upright using a pole to guide the boat. Mary amazed me by claiming she'd been the national whitewater poling champion for several years. Balance apparently is a strong suit.

I paddled upstream until the water became too shallow, then stowed the boat in the weeds. Boneset and other riarian wildflowers were springled throughout the dry parts of the creek, which remained ankle to shin-deep. About a quarter mile up, pools up to four feet deep appeared. In these I caught horny head chubs up to 8" on a small Clouser crayfish. I hooked one small bass before reaching a big swimming hole. Passing a couple of college girls conversing on the rocks, and then another party circling a campfire, I spied a notch in the hill signifying my brook trout stream, Burford Run. Say what you will about the effectiveness of our PA Fish & Boat Commission, but their data on trout is very helpful and accessible online.

It was difficult to see where the brook joined East Sandy Creek, as there was little water for 100 yards upstream. After another couple hundred yards, there were pools up to 6" deep, which I fished but found nothing more than minnow-sized fish. I reminded myself that a lot of brookie fishing requires walking past skinny water in search of a larger hole.

After several hundred yards of scrambling around jumbles of rocks and logs, I found that hole...15 feeet across, deeply shaded and fed by a small waterfall. I made a short cast with my standard brookie rig of dry caddis above a bead head Prince nymph, hoping not to spook the whole pool. A trout quickly pulled the caddis under and I had a PA gem writhing in my hand. Making another cast to the waterfall, another grabbed the nymph, pulling the dry fly underwater. As this fish fought back and forth across the pool, I saw a larger trout in pursuit. After releasing this 6-incher, I threw out to the middle and saw the bigger trout attack the nymph. I was soon honored to be holding a native trout in its prime, going nine inches with a big jaw starting to form a hook, carving out a life deep in the hemlocks.

I hiked back down to East Sandy, then upstream to a bike trestle which some folks said had a deep hole. After switching back to the crayfish pattern, I hooked a 13-incher, which bulldogged for the undercut bridge abutment, succeeding in dislodging my fly. Dang! Fishing my way back downstream, I took river-left around an island in the stream. In a glassy pool overhung by a tree, I finally landed a smallmouth around 10"...one for four hookups is a more likely stat for steelhead .

Back on the river, I paddled down to the islands. Surprisingly, the team had nabbed the first campsite available, a beauty sheltered by big silver maples and overlooking the back channel. As is typical, it looked like someone had come out and mowed the grass for us and planted native wingstem sunflowers, but that's just Mother Nature's way on the Allegheny islands.

Roy had a fire going and everyone had their tents up, so Robyn was ready for some fishing. We walked toward the tail of the island and tried to fish across an eddy without success, so we moved farther down. Robyn felt some bites, but no luck so headed back to camp. Mark came out and fished a nice run with me. It had been sunny and warm, but when the clouds reappeared, we agreed it was time to hang it up. I had just put on more weight and got a nice long drift down to some deeper water, where a smallmouth grabbed the crawdad and I was into a good fight. It jumped a couple times and put his weight into the current. Mark snapped a couple photos and we hauled the 13-14 incher back to camp for everyone to sample as appetizer. Amazingly, I caught fish by fly on 70 streams prior to the Allegheny River this year. Quite unusual, considering it's normally my home water.

Allison whipped up spaghetti with Italian sausage, and Mary & Roy had set up a salad bar on their upturned Grumman. We ate well and enjoyed a variety of wines and microbrews that evening. Around dusk, a few of us went in search of fish. Robyn got some hits, but none were landed. We rounded out the day with rousing game of Great Dalmuti cards, where Mark asserted his union roots in honor of Labor Day and Mary called a revolution. With the coals banked for a morning fire, we all drifted off to the tents.

Sunday dawned clear with a thick layer of mist on the warm river water. We had sausages and hash browns seasoned with native new Mexico peppers, juice, coffee and Mark & Carla's Greek pastries straight from the Northside Greek Food Festival.

It was a lovely day on the water, mostly sunny, with a regular but not overwhelming headwind. We stopped for lunch on Withrop's Island, not far above Danner's Rest/Clear Creek State Forest. This was the site of the Walnut Palace's 2-keg canoe trip, circa 2000...26 people from several states and a couple countries. Much more serene on this particular occasion.

We took out at Marlow's Campground at Little Scrubgrass Creek. Nice & peaceful, a pleasant weekend in the wilds of NW PA.

North Central PA

I had an interesting weekend fishing all new water north and east. Was mountain biking at Bob Bannon's camp past DuBois, near SB Elliot & Parker’s Dam State Park. Not known for good fishing in that area due to acid, mining, etc. So took some work, but I found some fish.

On Saturday morning, tried to reach the outlet of DuBois Reservoir, where they stock trout, but must have to hike it. All I caught were chubs & fallfish near Rt. 322. Got a tip that there were brookies in SB Elliot S.P., so 4-wheeled down a treacherous road to Lick Run and caught gorgeous brookies at a beaver dam. Later on, fished Laurel Run (where Clearfield County well blowout occurred), above the lake at Parker Dam, but was just a chub factory. Other than signs posted on trails that an "Industrial Incident" had occured and not to use the stream water for any purpose, I didn't see any signs of damage.

Sunday, I went to the ugliest Delayed Harvest area on earth…Sandy Lick Creek in DuBois. Bright orange…can’t believe they even put trout in there. Actually casted a bit, but not for long. Drove up to Mountain Lick Run, Class A water, and caught one of the fattest brookies I’ve seen. Only 7 inches, but thick. Also caught a brookie on another mt. stream nearby, then more chubs down in Mountain Creek.

On my way home Sunday evening, stopped at the FFOnly/Catch & Release section of North Fork Redbank Creek in Brookville. Three nice riffles/waterfalls with big pools beneath. Loaded with browns feeding on midges of some kind. Took some work, but I caught a few on caddis dry and soft hackle nymph. It’s a bit of a drive from the Burgh, but if you’re heading up to 80, this is a heckuva stream.