|
|
 |
|
Pennsylvania Fly Fishing Dunbar Creek 1999 The trip started uneventfully enough with Vita and I landing in Pittsburgh, Pa.- 7hrs late of course. We gathered our gear, rented a car and high tailed it out to my grandmother's. If you’ve never been, South Western Pa. is a beautiful place to visit. Green rolling hills with dense forests of maple, oak, birch and beech- not to mention fruit and nut tree’s planted by past generations. Among this beauty, coal mines and slate dumps litter the country side. The drive to grandma’s was a slight prologue to the excitement and enjoyment I’d experience on this trip. It was my first summer visit to this part of the country since my childhood. As we rolled into Washington, Pa., large bugs started to splatter against the windshield. As a child I would have had no interest in such things, as and adult flyfisher, my entomologist curiosity had me wondering what they could have been. We stopped the car, I had my first clue. I could hear them louder than I had in years- Locust! Navigating the dense humid air poorly, one almost hit me on the head. The mystery was solved- “17 Year Locust”. At least that’s what we call them in Pa. To the rest of the world they are Cicada. These bugs put the October Caddis to shame. Slightly bigger, the orange and black Cicada fly just as poorly. They were everywhere. For the first time in my life, after spending over a dozen summers in this area, I could actually see- not just hear them. They were amazing and they were everywhere. I could feel the excitement growing within me. I was glad to be home. I’d been sort of planning this trip for months. I say sort of because even though I had bought 1 book on fishing Virginia and 2 books on fishing Pa., I’d only really looked at the Va. Book. I’d extensively planned the Va. part: 1 day of trout fishing in the Shenandoah Valley, followed by one afternoon of smallmouth bass fishing with Scott B., followed by possible lake fishing at the family reunion. Fishing in Pa. was going to be a spur of the moment thing. I pinpointed a stream that looked fairly close- Dunbar Creek, not to far from an uncles house. I convinced another uncle, Lionel, to fish with me. He hadn’t fly fished in years but was eager to have a go. I awoke early Monday morning and drove to his hotel. We’d only have about and hour or so to fish the creek once we arrived. The drive to Dunbar was shorter than expected. It was 20 minutes from his hotel and another 20 from my grandmothers. We felt our way though Dunbar, looking for Dunbar creek. “Oh no, Jim” my uncle blurted out as we finally crossed the creek. “We’re NOT fishing that!” I smiled to myself. I knew the stream was small. I also knew of the near drought conditions this part of Pa was facing. “Maybe we should keep going up stream. The map shows a dirt road. I’d like to try there.” I would repeat this mantra every 500 meters or so as my Uncle would look at the water and shake his head. Finally we reached a small shallow pool. Uncle Lionel tossed in a couple of stones. Fish scattered. He became a believer. Further up the road we pulled off and geared up. Uncle Lionel scanned my fly box. “That’s it. That’s the only fly I need,” he said as he pulled the size 18 parachute Adams from my box. I’d been reading a lot about terrestrial fishing and figured this was the perfect place for an ant. It was a short distance though the dense brush to the creek. The water was low, low, low and crystal clear. We could easily see a half a dozen fish holding in a near by pool without the aid of polarized glasses. I tossed my fly to the closest fish. The flash of my chartreuse Cortland fly line sent the fish running for cover. Within 5 minutes every fish in the pool knew we were there. We made our way upstream. Somewhere along the way I tied on a Gulper Special and peaked the interest of one fish. Further upstream we marched. At some point Uncle Lionel and I split up. He chose to hunt for big fish water while I chose to carefully pick apart the stream. He eventually lost his fly and made his way down stream just as I was landing my first fish. He pulled me off my methodical trek upstream and lead me to big fish water. He showed me several large deep pools beneath man made stream breaks. The breaks were wooden planks laying flat in the water. Water built up slightly in front of this structure and then cascaded 16 inches to a wide pool below. Each break was set up similarly, each held fish. There were three of them. I crept through the brush to the base of the pool. As I peaked my head through the trees, 3 fish scattered . My cover was blown, or was it? Uncle Lionel watched from the head of the pool and assured me that plenty of fish where unfazed by their brethren's sudden bolt. I laid my E/C Caddis in the flat water as quietly as possible. Uncle Lionel provided the commentary as I fished. “He’s looking.” “No interest.” “A little to the right”. We had only about 5 minutes left to fish. I racked my brain for the fly fishing secret that would deliver a single fish in those 5 minutes. The pool was mostly flat. All except for a small patch on the far right side where water flowed over the break. It delivered little more than a bath tub faucet. I placed my fly at the base of the cascade. It danced on the water for a few seconds and disappeared in a splash. I quickly landed the 11 inch Brook Trout and shot out another cast. Again, a brookie attacked my fly. Uncle Lionel quickly dragged me off the water, lest I get to comfortable with the current situation. The next day I returned by myself, a little later than the day before and only for an hour and half. The fishing was just as good. Ironically, I caught more brown trout this time around. Perhaps it was the time of day or the extra water in the stream from the previous evening’s showers. I meet an “old timer” who told me how a week earlier Cicada imitations where the killing fly. Today he got nary a look. I thanked him and made my way along the shallow rocky runs that made up much of the river. Technically, this small stream was as difficult as many of our larger, over fished Western rivers. A perfect drift was necessary and the surrounding rocks and trees made line control a challenge. I experienced sheer delight each and every time a fish took my fly. I was so enchanted with this stream that I set aside my plans to fish Virginia’s fabled Shenandoah Valley and found myself visiting the creek for a third day. This was unpretentious fly fishing at it’s best. No crowds, no fancy flies or equipment, no fancy fisherman. Well, there was one …but he was filming a fishing video…that’s another story.
Next Eastern Mountain Stream Chronicle Chronicle Index
|
