I can't think of a better escape from the summer heat down here in the valleys than to hike up into the clouds and step into the sweet, cold bliss of a freestone trout stream. My buddy Mike called me a few weeks ago wanting to join me for a day of fly fishing and expressed the desire to catch some wild brown trout. After flipping through the rolodex of trout streams in my memory, I settled on a particularly special creek. It starts from a trickle at over 4000 feet and slowly descends, gaining volume and momentum over 4 miles down to the nearest parking. We left the truck before the sun was even warming the sky. It was a cool 50° as we rigged our rods with dry flies.
I first fished this stream about 15 years with my late father in law. It was probably his favorite stream and it was he who first showed me her secrets. This particular stream gets overshadowed by more widely known streams nearby and therefore gets less pressure. Most of the foot traffic is done by hikers on the Appalachian trail.
It had been a few years since I had hiked into this stream, and though I knew what it likely held, there's always the thought that something has happened since I last visited and the fishing will be lousy.
It wasn't.
We fished until the water got small and then we kept on fishing. Eventually, the stream got so small, I could literally stand with one foot on the south bank and one foot on the north, yet each tiny pocket held fish. I caught one last surprisingly large brown for such skinny water and decided to call it a day. We had worked hard and we're ready for nourishment. So we hiked the 3 or so miles back to the truck and broke out the grill.
I first fished this stream about 15 years with my late father in law. It was probably his favorite stream and it was he who first showed me her secrets. This particular stream gets overshadowed by more widely known streams nearby and therefore gets less pressure. Most of the foot traffic is done by hikers on the Appalachian trail.
It had been a few years since I had hiked into this stream, and though I knew what it likely held, there's always the thought that something has happened since I last visited and the fishing will be lousy.
It wasn't.
We fished until the water got small and then we kept on fishing. Eventually, the stream got so small, I could literally stand with one foot on the south bank and one foot on the north, yet each tiny pocket held fish. I caught one last surprisingly large brown for such skinny water and decided to call it a day. We had worked hard and we're ready for nourishment. So we hiked the 3 or so miles back to the truck and broke out the grill.
