The 3rd weekend of July brought temps in the 90’s and strings of thunderstorms across the Pittsburgh region. Saturday night, Ian Brown and I got chased off of Lake Arthur by a ferocious lighting storm. That left Slippery Rock and Connoquenissing blown out for the anticipated trip with Chris Raz and his crew. So, I shifted my Sunday sights to the Laurel Highlands, where USGS.gov said the water levels were fine.
Not an early morning, but by 9:30 AM I was on the road. My prime target was the mouth of the Casselman River, where it combines with Laurel hill Creek before pouring into the Yough. Rumors of pike in this area, plus some tasty Dahlberg points had my antennae twitching.
As I considered where else I could fish (these days, it’s never just one stream), there arose two tidbits I hadn’t yet succeeded in enticing my compatriots to explore…little Camp Run and Kooser Run. Both hold trout in the summer and Camp Run is a special PA brook trout project, whatever that means. It occurred to me that brook trout and pike would be a cool double…kind of a Canadian Shield special. In chatting with my dad on the phone, he shared a story from Canada when he did just that, popping brookies into his raincoat pockets for dinner.
So, I bee-lined for Camp Run, which was on the way from the Donegal exit anyway. I followed a trail from the parking lot, but it seemed to be avoiding the creek. Bushwhacking in the desired direction, I found a smaller trail next to Camp Run. Still chatting with my dad by cell, I had to abort the conversation when I spied a lovely pool with undercut tree and a blessedly clear section downstream for back casting. I approached in the usual crouch from downstream. After a couple casts with my caddis-Prince dropper rig, I had a lovely brookie of about 6 inches writhing in my hand. Their dark bodies specked with color always hold my gaze a bit longer than other fish before I let them wriggle back into the stream.
I fished my way up through some impossible thickets and tangles of dead trees, turning some fish and spooking others. The stream was clearly healthy and I was starting to notice the skies darkening and could hear distant rumbling. Sweating through my hat in the oppressive humidity, I stumbled away from the stream on a deer trail, then realized it was not going my way. Doubled back and tried again a couple times, with thunder growing louder and closer. I finally realized that following the stream back down was my best bet. I popped out onto the road just as the skies poured out their true feelings that I needed a bath. Despite a spritely 200 meter jog, I was soaked thru before reaching the car. But on an 85-degree day, who really cares? I’ll dry and so will my flies.
I munched a turkey burger, some Ossau Iraty cheese and a nectarine, then headed for the next challenge of Kooser Run. This little stream flows through the Hidden Valley tubing area, into and out of a small pond that holds pickerel, before entering the hemlock shade of Kooser State Park. The water had stayed cool even in this record-breaking hot-as-hell summer of 2010. However, by the time the rain stopped, Kooser was quickly becoming the color of peanut butter. That surprised me, but who knows what goes on at Hidden Valley?
I managed to land a small rainbow of six inches or so, which made me wonder if they were breeding here. They’d pecked at my Prince nymph and ignored a San Juan, but the rainbow smacked a collared green weenie at the head of a pool. As I swung the little feller through the air, I also noticed how different its thrashings were from a brookie. Its body remained mostly straight, with the head and tail going a mile a minute at either end. A brookie bends nose to tail in a more serpentine fashion, probably built for slithering through Pennsylvania rocks, rather than making extended spawning runs from the Pacific.
Stuck in the Middle with dolemieu
So, next up was the main course: the slippery-boned Casselman River. The rain gradually stopped and the sun came out for a bit. Driving around Confluence can be confusing because of the namesake trio of waters that join there. Laurel Hill is relatively wide and shallow, beautifully lined with aquatic plants. The Casselman seems to have been forced into some sort of huge concrete trough, 50 yards across, where it trickles through scattered stones. The Yough is about the same width, but flows quickly with several feet of depth, even in the heat of summer.
I parked on the peninsula between the rivers and debated wearing waders. It’s so pleasant to wet wade in sandals, but the Yough’s tailwater is bone-chilling cold. I compromised with neoprene socks and wading boots handed down from Rob. And I donned a dry fleece-banded hat for warmth.
The Casselman was crystal clear, but Laurel was murking up a bit, perhaps related to a Tractor Pull going on in Confluence that day. I chose to start up toward the mouth of Laurel before working down to the Yough convergence. I put on a big red and white Suspender fly tied by Ian. He grew up in Calgary and paid for school by guiding on the Bow River. But after 14 years in the Burgh, Ian has become a smallmouth aficionado. Suspenders, Floating Minnows, and other Bob Clouser patterns abound in his box. The suspender’s white woolen head and trailing hunk of tinsel provide great fodder for the smallie’s rapacious appetite.
I noticed a disturbance next to shore and then farther upstream by a boulder. In fact, I could see the tail of a feeding fish. Landing the gaudy fly behind the rock and stripping it downstream on the surface elicited a swirl and a gobble. Fresh off of yesterday’s lake fishing, I aptly strip-set before lifting the rod and was rewarded with the solid pulsing of a smallmouth heading across the river. Before long, this chunky 14-incher went onto the stringer as a peace offering to my wife, who would return from a Dragon Boat tournament later on that evening. Robyn does appreciate fresh caught fish.
I got a couple tykes to hit the streamer, knowing full well I’d do better with a Clouser crayfish. But I was in search of pike, and the long white and generous blood red combination seemed a perfect rainbow fingerling mimic. But after 30 minutes working through productive water without much action, I switched over to a big size 6, heavily-weighted crawdad. Drifting it down between a two boulders immediately produced a big hit. Even on the 7-weight Sage with 1X/12 lb. tippet, my good friend, Micropterus dolemieu, streaked across the Casselman, leaping and bulldogging for the safety of cover. Upon winning the battle of wills, I netted the 16-incher and snapped a photo for my ever-skeptical compatriots in the Dahlberg Cup. While filleting the fish later, I noticed the remnants of a large crayfish protruding, which had clearly primed the fish for my offering.
I worked my way down to the chilly confluence and put the big Suspender back on, but found only a couple more small bass. The rain was getting heavy again and there was a distant rumble, so I headed for home. The Casselman would be logged as stream #56 for the year, keeping me on pace for an average of 8/month or roughly two per week. I’d hit my last year’s total of 52 by mid-July. Funny how just last year, one new body of water per week had seemed like such a lofty goal for the fly rod.
This Dahlberg Cup has struck a note within me….a great desire to explore and comprehend as many waters as possible, while also learning the intricacies of casting, rigging, and fly selection. I’d fished three new areas today, greatly expanding my knowledge and managing to land dinner as well. You gotta like a game with such nice perks!
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