After a record-setting winter featuring Snowmageddon 2010, spring weather brings absolute bliss for the angler. This past weekend, I fully indulged in exploration of Venango, Forest, and Warren Counties. Thanks to friend Bill Grove, I had a base camp, some local knowledge and good company ahead. I also had a bag of groceries, a cooler of Bells Two Hearted Ale, and a list of nine streams ranging from Class A to Fly Fishing Only to Wild Brookie Enhancement to DHALO.
Little Sandy Creek
On the first day of spring, I was on the road by 8:00 AM, heading for Little Sandy Creek near the town of Polk, just outside of Franklin. A planned shortcut from I-79 via Rt. 62 led me to the first “Bridge Out” detour of the trip. After locating the bottom end of the Fly Fishing Only section, I drove to the top end to have a look. Despite two parked cars, it was so pretty I decided to start there. Walking downstream past one angler, I saw several trout cruising above dark cobbles. Hemlocks were everywhere. I worked my way down to a dam above a huge pool, with nary a bite on various stonefly patterns and other nymphs. Perhaps the three anglers I’d passed had already fished those spots.
I switched to a size 16 white sucker spawn freshly tied with red thread. A rainbow soon expressed its fondness for this pattern. After a quick photo, it was released and I managed to miss a couple others. Moving to the other side of the pool with a big, black conehead bugger, I had a brownie smack it but to no avail. By now the sun was high in the sky and more streams beckoned. On my way out, I passed two vernal pools set back from the stream that were full of chirping and barking salamanders of some sort. As soon as I approached, they scuttled into the submerged leaf litter. Spring had definitely sprung with temperatures soaring into the 60’s.
Cherry Run
Driving up through sun splashed Franklin, then past Oil City, it was tempting to beeline for Oil Creek, which I’d never fished. But I had Cherry Run in my sights, a class A stream with wild browns. I hadn’t caught a brown in PA yet this year. I found a bridge across this very small creek and I thought there might be something hanging out in the shady pool beneath.
I got down on a knee so my newly-shortened 6’6” 3-weight could sling a sculpin pattern beneath the bridge. One quick whack and that was it. The water was maybe two feet deep at the most, but just downstream it dropped to 3 or 4 feet. Nothing responded to the sculpin as I drifted it downstream ahead of me. But I wasn’t exactly moving stealthily at this point. The alders tightened into low hanging macramé, so I got out and walked downstream. There were a couple of promising pools and a bend, which I’d seen on the map. But even a variety of nymphs cast from one or both knees produced no strikes. I did see a couple stainless steel cooking pots in the stream bed and I spotted one trout hanging beneath a skein of willows, but it was impossible to reach. I also spied a bottom dwelling fish, perhaps a brookie or a large sculpin, which darted into the open for a better look at me. But with the first motion of my arm, the fish turned tail and Bonzaied over a small waterfall into the pool below. Spooky place this Cherry Run.
Entering the creek to fish back up to the bridge, I spooked a large trout showing lots of color…big brown! Backing away and climbing out, I circled around, creeping low to hopefully let the fish cool down. Literally sitting on the ground, I floated a variety of nymphs through the deeper water down to the vicinity of the trout. Nada.
So I headed upstream to see if there were some fishable holes along the way. It was all shallow and/or completely overhung. Walking back, I was thinking about that trout I’d seen. “Aren’t those big browns fish eaters?,” I may have uttered aloud. So I tied on a dark olive sculpin pattern and headed back downstream.
I was starting to get jazzed by this stalking process, targeting a single trout rather than combing lots of water for multiple fish. This is Class A water, the highest quality and most productive in PA (although it looks like a glorified ditch, maybe six feet across). I could really dig pulling out a wild trout from such environs.
Crouching at the water’s edge, I drifted and twitched the sculpin through broken water and under shrubbery to where I thought the fish was waiting. Eventually, I got it stuck on a metal box of some sort (someone’s live well?), so waded downstream a bit to unhook it. Flicked out the sculpin, drifted farther down toward some submerged lumber and Bam!, the surface was alive with the colorful thrashing of a large trout. With 4X tippet, I knew I could handle this fellow and I was in full predator mode…no quarter for the quarry. The fish was fierce, running downstream, upstream, bulldogging under the willows, thrashing, and shaking his head. But in a minute or two, he was in the net awaiting a photo op. It turned out to be a lovely rainbow 17 inches with a decidedly orange stripe and gill plate (see photo above).
Success! It was a moment of elation, which I would enjoy on my way farther north toward Bill Grove’s camp. Interestingly, this same bridge would be removed on Monday, forcing a detour on my way home.
East Hickory Creek
I looked at the map, which showed some dirt roads leading to West Hickory. But I instead followed instructions uttered by the GPS unit, which took me from a rough dirt road to Rt. 36 and back into Tionesta. Oh well, I’d shoot up Rt. 62 to East Hickory Creek and fish that for an hour or so before dark.
I followed East Hickory Creek upstream from Endeavor to Queen, where across from the parking area was a spring apparently for drinking water. I eyed the hose propped above an iron grate, which looked like a place to fill jugs. I do like the taste of spring water, so maybe afterward I’d get some. Fished downstream from the fast deep pool under the bridge through a very deep pool by an upturned tree, through various runs and hemlock overhangs, all without a bite. Along the road, a truck stopped and a couple of guys asked whether I’d ever caught a fish in this Delayed Harvest Area. They’d had a camp in the area for a couple of years and had yet to catch anything. They vouched for skill via experience in Neshannock Creek by Volant. But of course, that gets heavily stocked. I asked if they’d fished down low in the DHALO section of East Hickory. Oh year, we fished down low…everywhere. Hmm, not encouraging.
The farther I went, the better looking the water, meandering through undercut tamarack and reminiscent of Laurel Hill State Park. But when it got almost too dark to fish, I walked out to the road and back up the car. Given the chance, I’d like to see the rest of the lower section. On my way out, I filled up a water bottle at the spring and the water tasted great.
I met Bill at the Hickory Nut Bar for some meatloaf and map ogling. But within an hour, I had stabbing pains in my belly. What the? Could it be the spring water? Seemed too quick, but nothing else seemed a likely candidate. Bill prescribed peppermint Tic Tacs and lots of burping. Combined with a handful of Tums, about 45 minutes later I finally stopped doubling over in pain every two minutes. Apparently, the demon was gaseous and it had been exorcised.
Porcupine Creek
Sunday morning, we headed straight for Class A Porcupine Creek, a stream whose lower mile of pools can make Meadow Run look ho-hum. Walking in, we talked with Paul, a creekside landowner and truck driver. Ominously, he said a couple of guys had cleaned the stream out, including the 20+ inchers he’d been feeding for years. Bill and I hiked up to the big bend and fished pool after pool, as well as runs and riffles, without a strike. We each had a single fleeting glimpse of a trout, but that was it. Probably not devoid of life, but not exactly thriving either. Plenty of little brown stoneflies were about, so the water quality is still good.
Hunter Run
Paul suggested we tried a brookie stream, Hunter Run, which no one fishes. We fished a section without many substantial holes because of minimal gradient, but I did land a fat brookie on a #18 Prince nymph. Its coloration was surprisingly light with red spots. I thought it was a brownie until I noted the white-edged fins. Perhaps because it was a bright area of open stream in that area with lots of light?
Minister Creek
From there, we scouted some other brookie streams, which were largely posted with No Trespassing signs. So we headed to Minister Creek, a Brook Trout Enhancement Project. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew it would be beautiful and healthy. Bill and I fished the bottom section, which is the only area accessible by road. We fished for about an hour down to the mouth at Tionesta Creek and up above the campground/recreation area. Neither of us had a bite, even in some very promising areas.
Hmm. Three streams, one fish. Tough day for catching, but absolutely spectacular in all other respects. Driving along the Allegheny River in the morning, a bald eagle had soared next to us only 50 feet away; a big red tailed hawk had taken flight right in front of us that afternoon; and a ruffed grouse had burst forth right in front of us that evening…unfortunately, its breast also burst against the windshield. Watching it land in my rearview mirror, the grouse was dead upon impact. (We backed up and harvested some feathers for Rob’s fly tying.) The scenery had been top notch, the water lovely and the weather fine, despite many gloomy forecasts. It was now steak-thirty and we had a fire to build and ales to drink. Life was good.
Monday’s first light brought heavy rains on the roof of Camp It’ll Do. Bill’s sleeping chambers consisted of bunks in an old MASH military bus, which had been incorporated into the camp's main building. Very comfortable and attractive with curved, white metal roof. The rivets really make it.
Bill was off to ply the truck shops of NW PA with his wares and I was planning to explore new water in Warren and Venango Counties. I worried everything would blow out in the heavy rains, but at least I’d locate some new streams and have a look.
Caldwell Creek
First up was Caldwell Creek and then the West Branch of Caldwell Creek, both which were said to have wild browns. I hadn’t caught a brown trout yet this trip, and that would round things out nicely…if I was able to fish. About 30 minutes zigzagging across the countryside brought me to the lower end of the Catch and Release Area of Caldwell Creek, at a bridge that was out. It looked quite good and the water was only a bit stained. I drove to the top, where I found a kiosk denoting regulations, thanks to the local Caldwell Creek TU chapter.
The rain that had petered out on the drive now started up again. I walked a dirt road downstream, noting the creek looked somewhat slow and shallow, but plenty wide for casting. After 5 or 10 minutes, I headed down to the water and fished my way through a variety of deep pools and nice runs. Very nice looking water. After 40 minutes or so, I came upon a small trib pouring yellow mud into the creek. Oh well, might as well head back upstream and fish to the bridge at the top.
With no luck on various nymphs, I put on “old faithful,” #16 white sucker spawn with red thread. Assuming this would be a fishless day, I was surprised and delighted when a 13” brown ignored the #18 stonefly and took the tasty white dropper. That would be it for Caldwell, but I thanked the sole trout for salvaging the day. Nothing like the pull of a fish to put things right.
West Branch
I drove up a rough dirt road to the bottom of the West Branch of Caldwell Creek and parked at yet another failed bridge. Relief: The creek was not an alder-swaddled ditch. Nice looking stream, 10-30 feet across. Shallow, but with nice meanders and deeper pools to 4-5 feet. I stayed with the little black stonefly & white SS tandem, removed some weight, and went with a micro Thingamabobber.
The stream was surprisingly clear as I worked my way upstream. Very few boot prints and the only other signs of human passage were a couple of small fire rings. For some reason, the campers had left bits of trash in the rings...lite beer cans, foil, melted plastic. Can't imagine why. (On the way out, I packed their stuff out to give something back to this wonderful stream.)
My first brown came below a small log dam, in a run 18” deep. It fought gamely, taking me downstream a ways before I netted it. It flopped out before I could get a photo, but was clearly a healthy, colorful fish. I walked up along the stream, noting a big log jam that might harvest a bigun, and eventually climbed down to fish a deeper run. My third drift turned a fish. Dang, it felt solid. Drift, drift, drift, bang! A nice brown slashed across the surface and jumped before bulldogging into the current. The reel screamed a couple times before I brought him to the net. Going 15”, he’d developed some shoulders in this lovely little stream.
One more healthy brownie took the white SS, going 12-13”. This one not only had the blue spot on his cheek, but most of the gill plate was blue. I bid adieu to these colorful fish and headed south.
Oil Creek
Oil Creek was on my to-do list, but surely would be too muddy. I checked out the upper parking lot at the Drake Well Museum. Wow, it was a big assed body of water, maybe 200 feet across. But it wasn’t muddy. I took the long and bumpy Dutch Hill Road down to the river crossing and parked. Walking down the bike trail to Miller Run, I hiked down to Oil Creek. With a big olive sculpin in search of a big ‘un, I crossed the rushing water in a shallow area and drifted through the fast current while I waded downstream. After 30 minutes or so with no strikes, I put ‘old faithful’ back on. Walking the dog downstream, my indicator went down and I was into a chunky 13” inch rainbow. I waded downstream to an apparently shallower area to cross, but found instead lots of wide, mossy rocks that laughed at my felt boots. I skitter-skattered across to the far shore without getting wet, scrambled up to the bike path, and finally enjoyed a relaxing walk back to the car. Next time, I’ll bring the wading staff.
Over three days, I fished nine new streams, and had success on six of them. In terms of numbers, I went 2 for 3 Saturday, 1 for 3 Sunday, and 3 for 3 Monday. In Dahlberg terms, that’s a 30-point weekend and puts me back on track for the 52 Club; 11 weeks into the year with 11 streams notched thus far. On all levels, educational, experiential and measurable, I was feeling pretty good. Cheers to the Dahlberg Cup for the focus and inspiration to Get Out and Do It!
Little Sandy Creek
On the first day of spring, I was on the road by 8:00 AM, heading for Little Sandy Creek near the town of Polk, just outside of Franklin. A planned shortcut from I-79 via Rt. 62 led me to the first “Bridge Out” detour of the trip. After locating the bottom end of the Fly Fishing Only section, I drove to the top end to have a look. Despite two parked cars, it was so pretty I decided to start there. Walking downstream past one angler, I saw several trout cruising above dark cobbles. Hemlocks were everywhere. I worked my way down to a dam above a huge pool, with nary a bite on various stonefly patterns and other nymphs. Perhaps the three anglers I’d passed had already fished those spots.
I switched to a size 16 white sucker spawn freshly tied with red thread. A rainbow soon expressed its fondness for this pattern. After a quick photo, it was released and I managed to miss a couple others. Moving to the other side of the pool with a big, black conehead bugger, I had a brownie smack it but to no avail. By now the sun was high in the sky and more streams beckoned. On my way out, I passed two vernal pools set back from the stream that were full of chirping and barking salamanders of some sort. As soon as I approached, they scuttled into the submerged leaf litter. Spring had definitely sprung with temperatures soaring into the 60’s.
Cherry Run
Driving up through sun splashed Franklin, then past Oil City, it was tempting to beeline for Oil Creek, which I’d never fished. But I had Cherry Run in my sights, a class A stream with wild browns. I hadn’t caught a brown in PA yet this year. I found a bridge across this very small creek and I thought there might be something hanging out in the shady pool beneath.
I got down on a knee so my newly-shortened 6’6” 3-weight could sling a sculpin pattern beneath the bridge. One quick whack and that was it. The water was maybe two feet deep at the most, but just downstream it dropped to 3 or 4 feet. Nothing responded to the sculpin as I drifted it downstream ahead of me. But I wasn’t exactly moving stealthily at this point. The alders tightened into low hanging macramé, so I got out and walked downstream. There were a couple of promising pools and a bend, which I’d seen on the map. But even a variety of nymphs cast from one or both knees produced no strikes. I did see a couple stainless steel cooking pots in the stream bed and I spotted one trout hanging beneath a skein of willows, but it was impossible to reach. I also spied a bottom dwelling fish, perhaps a brookie or a large sculpin, which darted into the open for a better look at me. But with the first motion of my arm, the fish turned tail and Bonzaied over a small waterfall into the pool below. Spooky place this Cherry Run.
Entering the creek to fish back up to the bridge, I spooked a large trout showing lots of color…big brown! Backing away and climbing out, I circled around, creeping low to hopefully let the fish cool down. Literally sitting on the ground, I floated a variety of nymphs through the deeper water down to the vicinity of the trout. Nada.
So I headed upstream to see if there were some fishable holes along the way. It was all shallow and/or completely overhung. Walking back, I was thinking about that trout I’d seen. “Aren’t those big browns fish eaters?,” I may have uttered aloud. So I tied on a dark olive sculpin pattern and headed back downstream.
I was starting to get jazzed by this stalking process, targeting a single trout rather than combing lots of water for multiple fish. This is Class A water, the highest quality and most productive in PA (although it looks like a glorified ditch, maybe six feet across). I could really dig pulling out a wild trout from such environs.
Crouching at the water’s edge, I drifted and twitched the sculpin through broken water and under shrubbery to where I thought the fish was waiting. Eventually, I got it stuck on a metal box of some sort (someone’s live well?), so waded downstream a bit to unhook it. Flicked out the sculpin, drifted farther down toward some submerged lumber and Bam!, the surface was alive with the colorful thrashing of a large trout. With 4X tippet, I knew I could handle this fellow and I was in full predator mode…no quarter for the quarry. The fish was fierce, running downstream, upstream, bulldogging under the willows, thrashing, and shaking his head. But in a minute or two, he was in the net awaiting a photo op. It turned out to be a lovely rainbow 17 inches with a decidedly orange stripe and gill plate (see photo above).
Success! It was a moment of elation, which I would enjoy on my way farther north toward Bill Grove’s camp. Interestingly, this same bridge would be removed on Monday, forcing a detour on my way home.
East Hickory Creek
I looked at the map, which showed some dirt roads leading to West Hickory. But I instead followed instructions uttered by the GPS unit, which took me from a rough dirt road to Rt. 36 and back into Tionesta. Oh well, I’d shoot up Rt. 62 to East Hickory Creek and fish that for an hour or so before dark.
I followed East Hickory Creek upstream from Endeavor to Queen, where across from the parking area was a spring apparently for drinking water. I eyed the hose propped above an iron grate, which looked like a place to fill jugs. I do like the taste of spring water, so maybe afterward I’d get some. Fished downstream from the fast deep pool under the bridge through a very deep pool by an upturned tree, through various runs and hemlock overhangs, all without a bite. Along the road, a truck stopped and a couple of guys asked whether I’d ever caught a fish in this Delayed Harvest Area. They’d had a camp in the area for a couple of years and had yet to catch anything. They vouched for skill via experience in Neshannock Creek by Volant. But of course, that gets heavily stocked. I asked if they’d fished down low in the DHALO section of East Hickory. Oh year, we fished down low…everywhere. Hmm, not encouraging.
The farther I went, the better looking the water, meandering through undercut tamarack and reminiscent of Laurel Hill State Park. But when it got almost too dark to fish, I walked out to the road and back up the car. Given the chance, I’d like to see the rest of the lower section. On my way out, I filled up a water bottle at the spring and the water tasted great.
I met Bill at the Hickory Nut Bar for some meatloaf and map ogling. But within an hour, I had stabbing pains in my belly. What the? Could it be the spring water? Seemed too quick, but nothing else seemed a likely candidate. Bill prescribed peppermint Tic Tacs and lots of burping. Combined with a handful of Tums, about 45 minutes later I finally stopped doubling over in pain every two minutes. Apparently, the demon was gaseous and it had been exorcised.
Porcupine Creek
Sunday morning, we headed straight for Class A Porcupine Creek, a stream whose lower mile of pools can make Meadow Run look ho-hum. Walking in, we talked with Paul, a creekside landowner and truck driver. Ominously, he said a couple of guys had cleaned the stream out, including the 20+ inchers he’d been feeding for years. Bill and I hiked up to the big bend and fished pool after pool, as well as runs and riffles, without a strike. We each had a single fleeting glimpse of a trout, but that was it. Probably not devoid of life, but not exactly thriving either. Plenty of little brown stoneflies were about, so the water quality is still good.
Hunter Run
Paul suggested we tried a brookie stream, Hunter Run, which no one fishes. We fished a section without many substantial holes because of minimal gradient, but I did land a fat brookie on a #18 Prince nymph. Its coloration was surprisingly light with red spots. I thought it was a brownie until I noted the white-edged fins. Perhaps because it was a bright area of open stream in that area with lots of light?
Minister Creek
From there, we scouted some other brookie streams, which were largely posted with No Trespassing signs. So we headed to Minister Creek, a Brook Trout Enhancement Project. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew it would be beautiful and healthy. Bill and I fished the bottom section, which is the only area accessible by road. We fished for about an hour down to the mouth at Tionesta Creek and up above the campground/recreation area. Neither of us had a bite, even in some very promising areas.
Hmm. Three streams, one fish. Tough day for catching, but absolutely spectacular in all other respects. Driving along the Allegheny River in the morning, a bald eagle had soared next to us only 50 feet away; a big red tailed hawk had taken flight right in front of us that afternoon; and a ruffed grouse had burst forth right in front of us that evening…unfortunately, its breast also burst against the windshield. Watching it land in my rearview mirror, the grouse was dead upon impact. (We backed up and harvested some feathers for Rob’s fly tying.) The scenery had been top notch, the water lovely and the weather fine, despite many gloomy forecasts. It was now steak-thirty and we had a fire to build and ales to drink. Life was good.
Monday’s first light brought heavy rains on the roof of Camp It’ll Do. Bill’s sleeping chambers consisted of bunks in an old MASH military bus, which had been incorporated into the camp's main building. Very comfortable and attractive with curved, white metal roof. The rivets really make it.
Bill was off to ply the truck shops of NW PA with his wares and I was planning to explore new water in Warren and Venango Counties. I worried everything would blow out in the heavy rains, but at least I’d locate some new streams and have a look.
Caldwell Creek
First up was Caldwell Creek and then the West Branch of Caldwell Creek, both which were said to have wild browns. I hadn’t caught a brown trout yet this trip, and that would round things out nicely…if I was able to fish. About 30 minutes zigzagging across the countryside brought me to the lower end of the Catch and Release Area of Caldwell Creek, at a bridge that was out. It looked quite good and the water was only a bit stained. I drove to the top, where I found a kiosk denoting regulations, thanks to the local Caldwell Creek TU chapter.
The rain that had petered out on the drive now started up again. I walked a dirt road downstream, noting the creek looked somewhat slow and shallow, but plenty wide for casting. After 5 or 10 minutes, I headed down to the water and fished my way through a variety of deep pools and nice runs. Very nice looking water. After 40 minutes or so, I came upon a small trib pouring yellow mud into the creek. Oh well, might as well head back upstream and fish to the bridge at the top.
With no luck on various nymphs, I put on “old faithful,” #16 white sucker spawn with red thread. Assuming this would be a fishless day, I was surprised and delighted when a 13” brown ignored the #18 stonefly and took the tasty white dropper. That would be it for Caldwell, but I thanked the sole trout for salvaging the day. Nothing like the pull of a fish to put things right.
West Branch
I drove up a rough dirt road to the bottom of the West Branch of Caldwell Creek and parked at yet another failed bridge. Relief: The creek was not an alder-swaddled ditch. Nice looking stream, 10-30 feet across. Shallow, but with nice meanders and deeper pools to 4-5 feet. I stayed with the little black stonefly & white SS tandem, removed some weight, and went with a micro Thingamabobber.
The stream was surprisingly clear as I worked my way upstream. Very few boot prints and the only other signs of human passage were a couple of small fire rings. For some reason, the campers had left bits of trash in the rings...lite beer cans, foil, melted plastic. Can't imagine why. (On the way out, I packed their stuff out to give something back to this wonderful stream.)
My first brown came below a small log dam, in a run 18” deep. It fought gamely, taking me downstream a ways before I netted it. It flopped out before I could get a photo, but was clearly a healthy, colorful fish. I walked up along the stream, noting a big log jam that might harvest a bigun, and eventually climbed down to fish a deeper run. My third drift turned a fish. Dang, it felt solid. Drift, drift, drift, bang! A nice brown slashed across the surface and jumped before bulldogging into the current. The reel screamed a couple times before I brought him to the net. Going 15”, he’d developed some shoulders in this lovely little stream.
One more healthy brownie took the white SS, going 12-13”. This one not only had the blue spot on his cheek, but most of the gill plate was blue. I bid adieu to these colorful fish and headed south.
Oil Creek
Oil Creek was on my to-do list, but surely would be too muddy. I checked out the upper parking lot at the Drake Well Museum. Wow, it was a big assed body of water, maybe 200 feet across. But it wasn’t muddy. I took the long and bumpy Dutch Hill Road down to the river crossing and parked. Walking down the bike trail to Miller Run, I hiked down to Oil Creek. With a big olive sculpin in search of a big ‘un, I crossed the rushing water in a shallow area and drifted through the fast current while I waded downstream. After 30 minutes or so with no strikes, I put ‘old faithful’ back on. Walking the dog downstream, my indicator went down and I was into a chunky 13” inch rainbow. I waded downstream to an apparently shallower area to cross, but found instead lots of wide, mossy rocks that laughed at my felt boots. I skitter-skattered across to the far shore without getting wet, scrambled up to the bike path, and finally enjoyed a relaxing walk back to the car. Next time, I’ll bring the wading staff.
Over three days, I fished nine new streams, and had success on six of them. In terms of numbers, I went 2 for 3 Saturday, 1 for 3 Sunday, and 3 for 3 Monday. In Dahlberg terms, that’s a 30-point weekend and puts me back on track for the 52 Club; 11 weeks into the year with 11 streams notched thus far. On all levels, educational, experiential and measurable, I was feeling pretty good. Cheers to the Dahlberg Cup for the focus and inspiration to Get Out and Do It!
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