Ghost Crick

It was not hard to spot. The belly of the dead trout stood out like a neon sign on the bottom. The watercress and moss which normally covered the rocks were absent. The water was crystal clear, not being cluttered with bits of water plants and the critters living amongst their greenery floating down stream. So, the carcass of the large trout caught my eye from 30 yards up stream. It was heart breaking.

Dead Brown Trout.

I was in Pennsylvania to visit my daughter for Thanksgiving. Fishing was not my principle goal but she does live 30 minutes from some great water. I didn’t pack waders, just a rod and some flies. If time permitted I hoped to fish Letort Spring Run. I had spent the previous spring learning her secrets and was anxious to see if the runs wild browns missed me.

Family plans and weather aligned to allow me a morning on the steam. I arrived and immediately noticed that the mats of watercress I’d learned to appreciate were gone. I knew that a contractor installing a temporary sewer line had caused a fish kill in July by spilling chemicals. I didn’t think it had killed the plants too. If not the spill, something else had defoliated this little brook.

I still had hope. I rigged up and fished a number of holes that always produced. My hope wained with each drift. There was not a sign of life. No bugs hatching. No fish darting for cover. No ducks or muskrats. Then I saw the brown belly up on the bottom. It was two feet long with a big heavy head. Likely she came up to spawn but I have seen wild fish like her in other seasons, lurking in the deepest holes. It didn’t really matter where she came from. What matters is that she died where she should have thrived. What should be a fish factory teeming with life was a graveyard. It was heartbreaking.

Large brown trout found dead in the Letort.

I packed up my gear. Any desire to fish was snuffed out by the sight of that dead fish. One dead fish would normally not hit me so hard but this stream is special. The devistation of the whole eco system is what killed the joy that morning. A spring creek once filled with wild trout is now barren.

As with any heartbreak, this will heal. There is a strong advocacy from the Cumberland Valley Trout Unlimited Chapter and the Letort Stream Keepers. The upper reaches of the Letort have been preserved and efforts are ongoing for the rest of the run. The stretch I visited runs through Carlisle Barracks, a small Army post. Between the upper run and the base the stream flows through the town of Carlisle. The runoff from streets and lawns ends up in the cold spring water. Bottles, cans, shopping carts, trash bags and the like all end up in the stream.

Despite this abuse, the Letort produces wild brown trout. The aquatic plants are home to scuds while mayfly and caddis nymphs live amongst the rocks. Sucker fingerlings hide in cracks and crevices. All provide the protein diet trout need. The plants will come back as will the bugs and baitfish. Then the trout will return.

In town, just along the base fence I saw five trout. A big hen with three males and a smaller hen. She was about the same size or perhaps a tad larger than the dead fish. They where doing what brown trout everywhere do when the days shorten and leaves change: spawning. At first it did my heart good to see them starting life where it had been removed. Then I realized that those eggs would likely not survive whatever poison was in the water or if they did the fry would find nothing to eat. Still, they were demonstrating the resolve if wild things to adapt an overcome.

A hen and three males.

Above town, in the unaffected waters, trout were also spawning in the redds, laying eggs that may become the very trout that will again lay in the runs I love to fish. Perhaps I will find my way back and make new memories that will dim the scars on my heart caused by my visit to the Ghost Crick.

A wild Letort Brown from better times.

The Total Package

I am very fortunate to have ended up in an assignment that has a trout stream right outside of my quarters. My back porch over looks Letort Spring Run as it cuts through Carlisle Barracks. It is not the marshy spring creek that flows on either side of the base. Here, it is a disciplined and regimented waterway, hemmed into a man-made channel of stone and mortar. No undercut banks, no tree roots, nor any other structure to provide fish with security. It runs for about a half mile further from my house before it exits the base and joins the other branch after flowing under Post Road. In the stretch below my home there is a bit of cover, in the form of some deeper pools formed at bends in the flume. These are the places I have seen a few small trout, though one source assures me that in the fall there are bigger fish in there. Personally, I’ve not seen a fish over six inches long in this stretch. I’ve seen big fish above and below the base but not here. Still it is lovely water and nice to know that I can look out my window at a famous trout stream.

I have attempted to fish it several times, to no avail. I’ve stalked it’s banks looking for fish but have only seen just a few small fish. I have fished nymphs, streamers, and terrestrials and been rewarded with one strike. That strike came from swinging a streamer on a moonlit night. With so many other options within 30 minutes, I gave up on the Letort. Until recently.

I was returning from research at the library and walked along the creek to go home. I don’t normally take this route, but just felt like doing it on this chilly February afternoon. It was a bit above freezing but the wind was not blowing so despite the overcast it was not miserable. It was nice to be outside and listening to the babbling of the crick. I wasn’t really looking but I heard a splash and saw a ring. Trout, I wondered? In reply another rose further down the same run. I then knelt and looked closely at the water. There was a mayfly dun. About size 18. Blue winged olive to be more specific. As I looked, two more trout rose. I knew I did not have any BWOs in my fly box. I hadn’t really been tying anything but nymphs on a as needed basis. Now I needed dry flies, and fast. I had a research paper that was due the next day, but it was practically done. I just had to insert some foot notes and proof read it. I could certainly tie a couple flies and see if I could fool a fish…yeah, that sounds like a good plan.

I went home and into my basement lair. My bench was neither organized nor prepared for tying, but I found some hair, dubbing, yarn, and hackle. I have been using Firehole Stiks for my trout flies and I really like them. I also like that they are from a Montana company that is family owned. I used a Firehole 413 competition hook in size 18 to tie on a tail of 4 white moose hairs, a body of fine synthetic olive dubbing, counter wrapped with a loop of thread, a wing of grey poly yarn, and a Whiting dun neck hackle. I prefer a parachute style fly most of the time and that is what I turned out. I also tied a soft-hackle, spinner, and cripple with that same materials while I had them out.

I really only fish about five dry flies: a dubbed body mayfly, Adams style, in grey, olive, tan, brown, purple, and rainbow; a elk hair caddis in tan, brown, rust, white, and black; a foam Krazy Jimmy Hopper; a Humpy in red, yellow, and green; and a black ant with a white wing. Sure there are times I fish other flies, but 90% of the trout I catch are on one of these five flies. Now add in the colors and sizes and I still carry a lot of flies, but I believe presentation is more important than a perfect match. Flies are impressionistic. If fish were that picky, why do they ignore the hook that bends out of the flies body? I think color and basic shape are all you need, just present it well.

I put my freshly tied flies in a box, collected my lanyard and TFO Finesse 7’9″ 3wt with a BVK I reel, and headed out the door. It is not even a five minute walk from my quarters to the stretch where the trout were rising. I got there and they were still feeding. Some of the takes were subtle but most were sloppy and loud, indicating the fish were taking duns. I tied on a new leader, tied up by my buddy Chris Fave. Chris makes the best hand-tied leaders you can buy and he’d made me some spring creek specials that I was excited to try. My hands were shaking a bit as I tied on the fly. I picked the BWO parachute based on the aggressive feeding.

I decided to make a down stream drift, as the narrow channel would force me to keep part of my leader on the bank and reduce the distance I could drift a fly drag free. The water was crystal clear and I knew the fish were spooky, so I stayed well up stream and limbered up a cast. I laid it out, pulling up short to cause the line to puddle and give me the drift I wanted. It worked, but the fish missed the fly. I presented the same cast and this time the hook found purchase. It was a wild brown trout of maybe 5 inches. Not a trophy in size for some, but certainly in all respects a prize for me. I’d been looking at this creek for months and and fished it without success a dozen times. Now, on a dreary winter afternoon, I held my quarry. The barbless hook slipped out with ease and the fish darted off for cover. I no longer felt the chill in the air – that little fish had warmed me right up.

I continued to work my way down stream, casting and letting my fly drift over likely spots. Another small trout smashed my fly just as it started to drag at the end of a drift. He made a couple of jumps and spit the hook. Soon after that another sipped my offering and darted into the watercress. I worked him out and brought him to hand before giving him back to the water. One more small fish grabbed my fly and made two leaps before tossing the hook. Man this is fun, I thought!

I spotted a sloppy take in the corner of a deep hole. It required a long cast that would have to quarter across the current. The current had a number of seems so I used an “S” cast to place multiple mends in hopes of a good drift. The fly settled into the surface and swirled around in a small eddy. Just as it exited the swirl it disappeared with a splash. I set the hook and felt a fish a bit heavier than the other fish I’d hooked. It surged up against the pressure of my line and gave me a great acrobatic display in a shower of spray. Another leap showcased golden hues with black spots. Soon the gorgeous wild brown was in my hand. Not a huge fish but 11 inches is twice the size of the others I caught. More over it was the culmination of all that is fly fishing.

I’d seen activity, identified a food source, tied a representative imitation, presented it, and landed a fish. It was a most satisfying moment. All my skills developed over more than four decades allowed me to fool a creature with a brain the size of a pea. Still, I felt accomplished.

Christopher Fave Fly Fishing

SoCal Fly Anglers Gathering.

On Da Fly is on the ball!  The double hall ball is rolling… – http://wp.me/pDlsJ-zb

The Long Beach Casting Club is a wonderful venue and worth the trip up from San Diego.

New Year, new truck, new camera, same bay.

I have not been on my local water, San Diego Bay in some time.  I usually put out to sea on my pontoon (big step down from a 27,000 ton ship) once a month or so and catch some spotted bay bass.  San Diego Bay is a great fishery and can keep fly fishers up with a fish fix when they can’t make it up to trout waters.  However I sold my Jeep Cherokee last fall and did not have a vehicle big enough to get my ‘toon to the water.  That changed this past weekend when I picked up a Chevy Colorado.  My pontoon boat fits in like it was specifically designed for the truck, sliding right in over the wheel wells.

I am not a football fan, so I was missing none of the Superbowl festivities.  So, loaded up I headed to the bay on a beautiful Sunday morning with a 0600 high tide.  The weather was perfect, calm, 54F, with the water a pleasant 64.  The day was going to heat up into the upper 60s, so I dressed light and skipped the waders.  I thought of all my snow-bound friends working to keep the ice off their guides as I slipped into the bay and felt the cool water spill into my booties.  Not nearly the same shock as stepping into a snow-fed trout stream in July, but still it let me know I was alive.

I put in at Tidelands Park and immediately set out for the flats south of the bridge.  I got my first hook up as I kicked between pilings 3 and 4.  I felt this initial hit and strip set the hook.  I then felt a second hit as a bass took my other fly.  Soon both scrappy bass where in my lap, one hooked on a CrazyDad and the other on a small sparse chartreuse/white clouser.  I kept kicking for the flat, against the tide, and caught two more bass on the up slope, where the bottom rose from 21ft to 13ft. Up on the flat, I had steady action.  The bites where light and every fish I hooked was on the Crazydad, except for two more doubles.  I think the doubles occur when fish grabs the Crazydad and another fish gets excited and hits the nearest thing that looks good.  Every fish was a spottie, though I was expecting some mackerel and smelt.  I tried some underwater filming with my new GoPro Hero camera.  I need some practice, but I think I’ll get some pretty interesting shots as I bring fish up to the ‘toon.

I made my way back to the beach at a leisurely pace.  I did not get a single bump once I moved off the shallow water on the plateau.  I did try sticking my camera under the water as I moved along the edge of the eel grass just off the beach, but all my later review showed was murky water from the outgoing tide and a few small bait fish.  Still, it was fun to experiment with a new toy.

Screen shots from my GoPro. This was a double, the bottom fish came off just as they came into camera range.

 

The day was made smoother with the new truck.  Set up and breakdown go much faster when I don’t have to deflate the bladders and get all my gear stuffed into the Jeep.   It all fits nicely in the truck in just a few minutes.  It takes me longer to dry my feet and get my shoes back on than it does to get everything else loaded.  I’m gonna like this little Chevy.