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.