I have a fresh change to report here at The Salted Fly – we’ve moved! Sorry to disappoint, but it’s not to a glamorous saltwater destination like Islamorada or Cape Cod or Harkers Island or Charleston. I’ve relocated to my hometown of Richmond, Virginia at the fall line of the James River. I can’t smell the marsh mud or hear the crab boats from my bedroom like I could in Mathews, but I did make a good career move. Bucktail, dumbbell eyes and 1/0 hooks won’t pay for themselves!
Being in Richmond means I have a great smallmouth fishery at my back door, and I’m an hour closer to the trout streams of the Blue Ridge Mountains. I will certainly miss being able to chase puppy drum before work, but if I’m being honest, this type of fishing much better suits me for the next few years of my life as my 7-month old daughter grows up. Prowling around for cobia in the hot July sun or casting to winter stripers with frostbitten fingers is not something that would probably suit her, but she’s already enjoyed accompanying my wife and I on a hike up to one of my favorite brook trout streams.
I haven’t written in awhile for two reasons. First, except for a quick trip to the James River floodwall for shad back in April, I haven’t fished since my visit Mossy Creek back in October. Second, even if I had, the pressure to write something really outstanding is real. Most of the lengthier works on this blog have gone through several rewrites, spaced out by several days. Although there’s past experiences I could write about, I haven’t had the time or emotional energy to put really put together a polished work while I juggle the demands of being a new parent.
All this is a roundabout way of saying that I’m going to try to revert to a simpler style here. Cut and dry fishing reports. Gear reviews. Tying instructions. Destination discussions. I’ll shelve the high prose until the muse speaks to me, and really get back to fishing for now.
My dear wife gave me a day off from dad duty this past weekend, and I went straight back to Mossy Creek. A few raindrops hit my window as I crested Afton Mountain, and the weather radar showed more on the way. Although I was looking forward to throwing dry flies, I was glad I had brought along the 7-weight streamer rod in case the rain really came down hard and the big browns came out of their holes to chase minnows swept along in the torrent. I smiled when I pulled in the parking lot at the stream and saw the small SUV that had passed me on the interstate, covered with trout bum and Grateful Dead stickers.
I started upstream along the left bank carrying two rods, a 4 weight with a small dry fly and a 5 weight with a black beetle. The skies were overcast and the temperature still hadn’t broken 70. I fished all the way to the end of the public access easement without a hint of action. On the way upstream, four separate anglers returned back downstream, having gotten there before me and already drifted their flies through the ideal lies.
I stuck with the beetle on the way back down, as I didn’t see any substantial hatch activity. It was refreshing to see the stream from the other side, and hit some holes that I couldn’t have reached earlier in the morning. I got to the cut bank where I’d scored back in October, threw a perfect cast, and then briefly daydreamed while a slimy shape came up and inhaled my fly. I brought myself back to reality too late to hook the fish. However, I quickly forgave myself for the lapse in attention, instead of the masochistic cursing I normally would unleash.
I was dialed in as I worked back closer to the parking lot. Casts were hitting the right spot, and mends were giving me good drifts. I came to a quick run sandwiched between a steep bank and a small island with lots of vegetation. Experience had taught me that those islands were hard to mend off of, so I walked way downstream to get a better angle. It was a long cast, almost directly upstream. I think I pounded that little run for half a dozen drifts before the beetle disappeared in a violent eruption. The swift current meant I had a lot of line on the water, and I threw a strong backcast followed by several long strips, and was pleasantly surprised to find myself still attached!
While the surprise was still in my favor, I pulled him downstream towards me, but once he realized he was hooked, he surged upstream, threatening to go right back up the run. Fearing he’d go behind the island and foul my line, I discarded everything but my net, foreceps, and camera, and waded out into the mucky shallows. From there I figured it would be a better spot to fight the fish, net it, and release it back into clean moving water instead of dragging it across the sediment bar. He ran a few more times up and down the slow water below the run, but I could see the fly firmly lodged in his jaw and the fight soon tilted in my favor. The fish ended up being an inch or so longer than my net opening, and was probably my biggest brown trout on this continent. (By the way, it feels really wild to be able to say that). The rest of the day was uneventful; although there was productive water still to hit, the high from that fish floated me back to the car.
This is only my fifth time fishing Mossy Creek, and I’m tickled to have struck gold so soon, but my sober reflection several days later realizes that I could easily go dozens of times to this stream before seeing such a quality fish again. That difficulty is part of the allure here on Mossy, and it’s what will be certainly drawing me back in the very near future. I can’t wait til my daughter is old enough to scamper along the bank with me, blowing dandelions while I search for that tug.