Words and Images from Ed Felker

Brook Trout

The Project Healing Waters 11th Annual 2-Fly

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The Project Healing Waters 2-Fly Tournament is held each spring at Rose River Farm, PHW’s Home Waters. It has always been a weekend punctuated with powerful moments, and the eleventh annual event was no exception, with temperatures and emotions both running a bit higher than forecasted. But, Project Healing Waters is a family of sorts. In fact it has never felt more so to me. And as always, everyone involved came together in mutual support and camaraderie. The 2-Fly is also a celebration, though, and friends old and new were issued generous doses of friendly ribbing at any and every opportunity. To sum up with a cliche: We laughed, we cried. Here are some highlights…

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Saturday evening’s program includes plenty of time to catch up with those we haven’t seen in far too long. Hopefully now that Eivind and Tara Forseth have moved to Virginia, I can see them more often! That’s Mark Eustis in the background hogging the oyster bar. Mark runs the PHW Stars and Stripers tournament in August on the Chesapeake Bay.

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Former Miss Virginia Tara Wheeler was the Master of Ceremonies for the Saturday evening program and did a wonderful job. Tara has been a friend to Project Healing Waters for many years, and I hope she makes a habit of making the yearly trip from Charlottesville where she anchors the evening news for CBS19.

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Judge Thomas Hogan has been a fixture at the annual 2-Fly since its inception, so it is as fitting as it is exciting that he agreed to be the evening’s Keynote Speaker. Hogan is a skilled and patient fly fisherman, a distinguished and highly respected federal judge, and one of the very nicest men you’ll ever meet. I have not read Hemingway’s Big Two-Hearted River, but it jumped to the top of my list when Judge Hogan spoke about its themes of the destruction of war, and the healing powers of nature. His words were pitch perfect for his audience, and kicked off a wonderful weekend of fun, fish, friendship and healing.

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Even Project Healing Waters’ highest honor, the Patriot Award, seems inadequate when it comes to the organization’s founder Ed Nicholson. Introduced wonderfully by Chairman of the Board Bob Fitch to a sustained, standing ovation, however, Nicholson had to feel the love and gratitude in the room. Through tireless devotion to the cause of healing our wounded servicemen and women, Ed has touched more lives than he can count, and saved more than he can imagine. I couldn’t be more proud to call him my friend.

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The last few 2-Fly weekends have been cold and rainy. But as anglers geared up early Sunday morning it was already warm, and an early fog burned off, leaving behind its humidity for the rest of the day. Here Eivind is looking for the right two flies to use for the day. If they don’t work (or if he loses them), his tournament is over, so these are important decisions.

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A permanent plaque remembering Brian Mancini, a big part of the Project Healing Waters family, was dedicated before the tournament began. The pool where Brian first fished with a fly rod, where he first felt the healing power of standing in flowing water and casting to a trout, will from this day forward be known as Brian’s Pool.

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Brian’s absence was palpable. And those feeling the weight of his loss found the comfort of an understanding shoulder to lean on.

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With the last of the morning mist burning off the Rose River, Chris Rowland was among the first to fish the pool newly named for his dear friend.

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Rick Warrington, guided by Gavin Robinson, smiled big after catching this stunning brook trout.

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Jason Baker must catch a lot of trout to ooze such nonchalance with a huge rainbow on the line!

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The prize for biggest fish of the day went to Rob McKennan for this gorgeous 22-inch monster. Rob and Jim Graham, guided by Jimmy Aliff and Ira Strouse, respectively, came in first place among the Pro/Vet teams.

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Robert Bartlett, like a lot of fly fishermen, enjoys being on the water whether he’s catching fish or not. This is a photo of him not.

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Rob Snowhite, who was guiding Lee Barbee on Sunday, tenderly releases a rainbow back into the river.

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Tom Stark and Joanne Hopkins have been fishing in the 2-Fly for many years. If you think they might be slowed down by a new baby, you’ve never met Tom and Joanne before.

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What do you get when you combine a great group of participants, tireless staff, dedicated hard working volunteers, generous donors and a little cooperative weather thrown in for good measure? You get a family reunion, and the best weekend of the year.

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Shenandoah Brookies: Cracking the Code

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Fly fishing for brook trout in the Shenandoah National Park is unlike any other type of fishing I have ever attempted. Throwing small flies at small fish in small water with a small rod can be frustrating. Casting is a challenge when the pool you’re fishing is so small you don’t have enough fly line out to adequately load the rod. And whipping a leader with a dry fly at the end of it back and forth trying to propel it forward is like pushing a rope. I’ve had a good day fishing SNP before, although really just the one. But I love the park, and wanted to figure out how to fish this water. I needed professional help.

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As luck would have it, I am friends with a lot of great professional fly fishing guides, among them Kiki Galvin of Ms. Guided Flyfishing. Kiki enjoys great success fishing the waters of SNP, so I asked her for help. I also ran into my friend Tom Sadler who guides with Mossy Creek Fly Fishing. Tom is extremely familiar with the streams I like to fish inside the park, and he echoed a lot of the things Kiki had shared. My good friend Harold Harsh of Spring Creek Outfitters advised me on fly selection too. But fly fishing instruction is a lot like any other type of learning — at some point you have to actually do it, and do it with some success, before it registers.

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For instance, Tom and I sat together at an outdoor writers event, at a round table that seats eight. He told me he throws flies in pools the size of that table. Now, people can tell you this till they’re blue in the face, but trust me: Until you start pulling fish out of table-sized pools, you simply can’t believe those pools are worth fishing. And once things start clicking, all of a sudden you look at a mile long stretch of the Rapidan, or the Upper Rose, or Cedar Run, and you realize there are literally hundreds of pools and pockets that can and do hold fish.

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I spent the weekend at Rose River Farm. The luxury rental cabins there are just minutes away from all three of the rivers I mentioned above. It is the perfect ‘home base’ to hit several streams in a weekend or even a single day. So, armed with new knowledge of reading water, fly selection and fishing techniques, I hit the park with high hopes. Kiki told me to throw a dry fly even if I don’t see them rising. It was early morning, the water was still cold, I saw no rises. I tied on a dry fly — a size 16 parachute adams — but still didn’t fully trust any of this, so I tied a pheasant tail nymph dropper below the adams. I assumed if there were any takers that morning, they would hit the nymph. But on my third cast, in a pool I swore I could see every inch of and seemed to hold no fish, out of nowhere a brilliant flash of gold and orange swirled on that adams. A gentle tug on my Scott 3-weight and the hook was set in the corner of his mouth. After briefly exchanging pleasantries he returned my fly and I slipped the fish back into the cool, clear water, where he promptly disappeared. How such a flamboyantly colored fish can be so well camouflaged, I do not know.

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And that’s how it went. Brook trout kept coming after my fly. Standing alongside a pool, high sticking and reaching to the far side of the current, keeping the fly line and even the leader out of the water to reduce drag, they ate that adams. Standing at the bottom of the pool and fishing up to tiny pockets alongside the water rushing in at the head of the pool, with a “drift” lasting only a second or two before the fly gets sucked under, they ate that adams. Fishing nymph droppers in bigger, deeper pools where I still didn’t trust that the little tykes would come all the way up from the bottom, they came all the way up to eat that adams.

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I mentioned I’ve had a good day before fishing the park. But this was different. I will have bad days again, that is certain. But as I hiked along these waters, tossing flies in pockets of water I would have walked right by a week ago, my trust in what I was doing grew with each catch. The formula for success with fly fishing is a moving target. The flies will change with the seasons, maybe terrestrials in the summer, stone flies in the winter. They may change day to day, or hour to hour. Maybe smaller flies, maybe larger, maybe 6X tippet instead of 5, maybe evening instead of morning. As I continued to catch fish, tending to find them in similar environments within the pool, I could readily recognize those conditions in the next pool, and the next. Every pool is unique, with different dynamics in the current, depth, shape and size. But I began fishing with something I had never fished with before on these mountain streams: Confidence. And that’s what made this weekend’s success more meaningful than a single, right place right time banner day at a single pool.

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That’s not to say I have it all figured out and that these fish are easy. They are equal parts finicky and aggressive. They are lightning fast and don’t like to sit still when they’re caught. They are slippery as hell and can spin around in a net so fast they’ll make a bird’s nest out of your leader in the time it takes you to wet your hands to handle them. And once the hook is free, they don’t much care for sticking around to have their picture taken. They will make you drive on roads so bad your fitbit will register a thousand steps just from having your hand on the steering wheel. They will make you hike for miles through thorns in waders and boots. They will make you buy a new fly rod just for them. But then one day you will find yourself in the woods. You will push through the curtain of trees and the muffled, distant sound of rushing water that has accompanied you on your hike will become suddenly crisp and loud. You will step into the water and know that you are sharing that space with one of the most beautiful creatures on earth. As your fly dances in the current, you will stare at it with all your might. And when that thing of beauty darts up from the bottom, breaks the surface and takes that fly — that fly you brought so far to place exactly there exactly then — thoughts of effort and past frustrations and the ones that got away will all be washed downstream.

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2013, My Year in Photos

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From Maryland’s Chesapeake Bay to the hills of southwest Virginia, I logged a lot of miles in 2013, saw places I’ve never seen before and met many great people. I had my camera with me most of the time, and when I didn’t, my iPhone stepped in to capture the moment. Above is a shot of the sunrise over the Chesapeake aboard the Renegade. Below are the rest of my favorite shots of the year, starting with elk prints in Buchanan County, Virginia. Meeting the people involved in the elk reintroduction program in this part of the state was one of my highlights of the year.

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An eerie fog blocked the normally outstanding vistas on Sugarloaf Mountain, but the resulting mood was equally beautiful. Team Orange helped by posing cooperatively, as they usually do.

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One of several neat iPhone panoramas I took this year. This was at Rose River Farm, awash in golden morning sun. Team Orange, far left, enjoying a romp before a hike nearby.

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Speaking of iPhones, this may be my favorite iPhone photo I’ve ever taken. Hiking with a friend on the Loudoun Heights trail near Harpers Ferry, WV, the light gave us scenes like this all morning.

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We have a lot of deer around our property. But, common as they are, when they come close enough I can never resist getting the camera out and snapping a few photos. I liked the background in deep shadow here.

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A fun action shot of Finn chasing a chukar during a training session with my friend Anna.

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Petey is unlike any dog I’ve ever known, and is full of surprises. Here, when any of our other dogs would have run and barked and chased this young deer away, Petey decided to simply make friends.

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Friend and fishing guide Gary Burwell at Rose River Farm with the mist hanging heavy in the air.

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They do indeed. Old guys — and tractors — ruled at the antique tractor pull and show at Gladhill Tractor near Frederick, Maryland.

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The Wildlife Center of Virginia‘s Ed Clark released this stunning eagle along the banks of the Rappahannock River in front of a crowd of volunteers and spectators. It was a day I will not soon forget. I am holding back a special photo from this day for which I hope to find a print venue for publication. But I love this and many other shots from the event.

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A visit to our friends Mike and Carole Pivarnik of Tulip Hill Farm resulted in this heartwarming shot of two unlikely friends.

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Another shot from my trip to southwest Virginia, here Josie watches intently as her human partner, Conservation Police Officer Wes Billings, drives.

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Volunteer guide Kiki Galvin nets a nice trout caught by Aaron Greene Morse at the 7th Annual Project Healing Waters 2-Fly Tournament at Rose River Farm.

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It’s hard to grow tired of catching these hard fighting, colorful sunfish, even when you are targeting bigger and stronger smallmouth. You will never hear me complain about a day with no smallies, but with dozens of these enthusiastic little fish.

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I spent a lot of time on the Potomac this year. On this occasion we were towing an extra kayak to a takeout ramp downstream. We made it just in time as a big storm was closing in. This is another iPhone photo.

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This photo warms my hear because of how I felt when I took it. I love spending time with my dogs, but to hike in a beautiful park and fly fish for native brook trout in their company was a wonderful experience. I had to capture it with a rare if unconventional selfie.

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Team Orange loves the snow, and we had a couple good ones in late 2013. Here Finn sports a snout full, a result of chasing snowballs as they disappear under the surface.

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This is not our friend August’s first appearance in my Photos of the Year. Two years ago this pic made the cut. It’s fun to watch him grow up so fast, here he entertains a lady friend.

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My special girl Winnie absolutely loves riding in the kayak. Here we are taking a break because she does not do much paddling. Propped against a rock in the middle of the Potomac River, I shot this iPhone panorama upstream (left) and down. The Native Watercraft Slayer pictured was a new addition this year, of course in Team Orange orange.

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I’ll be honest, I wish this photo was more in focus. But I’m including it because, while technically flawed, it is likely to hold up as the best photo I will ever take of a baby wild turkey running full speed away from a pursuing moth.

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Another technically flawed, blurry and grainy image, there’s still a lot to like about this hawk image. I took this through my windshield after chasing this bird off a deer carcass nearby.

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The native brook trout is so beautiful, it’s just about as fun to see one as to catch one. On this day in the Shenandoah National Park, I saw plenty. But none would be fooled by my fly.

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I hope you have enjoyed Dispatches from the Potomac this year, and had fun looking through my favorite images of 2013. You can view my favorite photos of 2012 here, and of 2011 here. And if you haven’t already signed up to receive a notification of new posts, I’d love it if you added your email in the ‘Follow this blog’ link on the top right of this page. Thanks again for stopping by from time to time. I hope your 2014 is filled with fun encounters with nature and lots of opportunities to take your own favorite photos of the year!


Performance, Art

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A friend asked me a while back why I liked fly fishing so much. He said it seemed more difficult and less productive than, say, spin fishing. And I have to admit there have been days when I have paddled a kayak and fought wind and current and tangles and snags and have wondered the same thing, why do I like fly fishing so much? The answer snuck up on me recently when I wasn’t even pondering the question.

I spent a day fishing at Rose River Farm with a very special rod, a 7’6″ 5-weight ‘Rose River Special’ made by master bamboo rodmaker and good friend Jerry Nonnemacher. I had treated myself to the rod this spring for my 50th birthday but haven’t had much opportunity to fish with it since. So I was looking forward to casting it again.

Just sliding the two finely crafted pieces out of the tube makes me think about the painstaking, skillful work that went into creating the rod. Jerry was kind enough to send photos of my rod at every stage of the building process. The rod is a thing of pure beauty when you first lay eyes on it. The fit and finish, the detail and quality of the craftsmanship are all immediately evident at a glance. But it’s not until the rod is in your hands that it truly leaps to life.

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Standing in a river on an unseasonably warm December morning, stripping line out in a puddle in front of me as I watch for the pattern of rising trout upstream, I am unhurried. Perhaps for the first time in weeks, I am unhurried. I have nothing to do but fish for trout, and I have all day to do it. I lift the rod tip up and immediately feel the perfect balance of rod and reel in my hand, and with the drag of the water on the fly line, the rod bends. It bends more as I accelerate the back cast, and fifteen feet of line silently slips behind me overhead. The feedback I get from this rod on the very first cast is loud and clear: Wait. I see a trout rise ahead as I feel the rod loading behind me. A gentle, firm forward stroke and the rod moves forward, bringing fly line with it. I let go of the line held snug against the rod with my finger and fifteen feet becomes twenty five. Drab olive line shoots easily, parallel with the water. The leader unfurls after that and my size 16 Parachute Adams delicately lands in the center of the rings now fading from the earlier rise. This trout has moved on, or has chosen another unseen meal, and the Adams drifts gently toward me. It matters not. After one cast I was already having a great day. And the answer to the question posed months earlier became as clear as the waters pushing my fly downstream.

There is something about the rhythm of fly fishing that causes a physical reaction. I feel like my blood pressure drops, and the water pushing on my legs eagerly washes my stress and worries downstream. This occurs whenever I fly fish, but the feeling is somehow more immediate, more acute with a finely crafted bamboo rod in my hand. It forces me to slow my body, and my mind simply follows. I lift the rod and repeat the cast, a foot to the left this time. And again, a foot left of that. On my fourth cast of the day, a trout breaks the surface, rolls in a red, purple, silver arc and my fly disappears beneath the surface. I tug upward and feel the firm resistance of a hook set into the mouth of the rainbow. As I strip in line, the delicate tip of the Rose River Special dances, sending vibrations from every turn of the fish’s head and beat of his tail down to my hand, and a good day got better.

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I brought that fish to hand, and several more throughout the day. But I didn’t count, and I didn’t care. I enjoyed standing in the water, casting. Sending line out through the guides, watching flies delicately land on the surface, and watching intently for the bubble and then waiting for that tug of life on the end of the line. The rod performs wonderfully even in my oft clumsy hands, and I feel like I’ve been fishing with it my entire life.

Jerry Nonnemacher’s custom cane fly rods are a masterful blend of performance and art. And this 5-weight will not be the last Nonnemacher rod I own. The small and stunning native brook trout of the equally beautiful Shenandoah National Park seem best suited for the delicate feel of a 2- or 3-weight cane rod. In time, a person could imagine owning one for every fishing occasion. Here is the rodmaker himself, Jerry Nonnemacher, enjoying fishing a little creek in Montana recently.

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So if you ever find yourself on the water and you’re having trouble recalling what it is you love — or used to love — about fly fishing, talk to Jerry. Find a way to make room in your budget, and your life, for a little performance art. It just might lower your blood pressure. Hell, that makes it practically a doctor’s order.

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(Photo by Steve Hasty)


Fall Foliage, Brook Trout and the Company of Dogs

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The sun was just peeking over the mountains, flooding Rose River Farm with golden morning light when Team Orange and I passed by on our way to the Shenandoah National Park, so I stopped to take some photos there. Fall in Madison County, Virginia is special, and I was looking forward to immersing myself in it for a day.

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But we had a lot of hiking ahead of us, up Cedar Run and down White Oak Canyon is almost a nine mile loop, so we didn’t linger too long. Winnie, taking advantage of the missing barrier that usually keeps them in the back of the car, indicates she’s ready to hit the trail by jumping in the back and up to the driver’s seat. And sitting backwards because she is odd.

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When we arrived at the park, the lot was more full than I’ve ever seen it in the morning. There was a large group of hikers gathering at the trail head, so I flashed my annual park pass to the ranger and slipped ahead of the group. The lower elevation parts of the park are at peak fall foliage. In fact the most spectacular colors I’ve seen this year are along the road that leads to the park entrance near Syria. But on the trail you don’t spend much time at the lower elevations, climbing starts right away and continues for almost four miles.

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Sometimes I’ll rig a fly rod and carry it with me, trying different pools along the way for the beautiful native brook trout that live here. But it’s a rugged trail at times, and managing both dogs and the fly rod seemed problematic, so I packed in a rod, assembling it once we arrived at my favorite spot. Here, isolated from the busy trail, we set up for a few hours of fishing, playing and relaxing. Winnie approves. (Note to self: Why do I always pack in drinking water for the dogs when I hike along fresh, clean water?)

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I have a 3-Weight Scott fly rod that is perfect for this kind of fishing, but being a 2-piece rod it comes in a very long tube that’s hard to hike with. So I brought my 5-weight Hardy rod which packs more comfortably. I sat on a fallen tree, dogs by my side, putting the Hardy together and watching the pool. Brook trout were rising. I couldn’t see what they were eating, but I’m actually not much of a ‘match-the-hatch’ fisherman. My fly progression for brook trout goes like this: Parachute Adams > smaller Parachute Adams > Stimulator > Stimulator with a dropper > Wooly Bugger > End. But none of those worked, and the fish kept rising. I finally caught a natural with my hat, looks like a pale yellow stone fly (I have included a grey hair in the hat for scale). I had a few variations of a Yellow Sally in my fly box, tried them all. I got a few strikes but no hook sets. I wondered later if the softer set of the 3-weight rod would have made a difference on these fish, some of which were pretty small. Maybe even a subtle set with the 5-weight was just pulling the hook right out of their mouths.

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But here’s the thing. I went through many, many fly changes, even going back to some I had already tried. I’d give the fish a rest while I changed flies or had a snack of futzed with the camera, then go back and cast some more. I watched a hundred rises, including a quite large brookie come out from beneath a boulder and roll on a surface fly in the same spot a dozen times. I got strikes, maybe ten or so (none from the big fella), but no hook ups. At one point I was changing flies and I looked up to find Finn swimming around in the pool. But moments later the trout were feeding again.

It occurred to me that I don’t think I have ever been as patient as I was at this pool. I had every reason to be frustrated and discouraged, but there was a tranquility surrounding me, and I honestly think it was the dogs. I loved having them there, and it’s fun to watch their different personalities at work. Finn mostly watches me. He wants to be near me but quickly got bored of the fishing and found a spot with a good vantage point to just lie down. Winnie, on the other hand, was fascinated. She followed the fly as I cast it, and then followed it on the water. When fish would rise she would perk her head up and focus on that spot. After a while she started whimpering every time the big one rolled on the surface. It seems she sensed there was a connection between what I was trying to do and what those rising fish were doing. She didn’t know what was gonna happen, but it was going to be fun!

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But alas, nothing happened. I eventually put the rod away, with fish rising all around and swimming right up to the shallows, and decided to try to get some photos. I took probably forty pictures of these wild brook trout in their natural habitat, which is a pretty special experience. It’s okay that I wasn’t able to catch any, at least I captured a few.

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I found a can of Virginia-brewed Full Nelson in the bottom of my backpack while I was looking for a second fly box. Since it is against the law to have alcohol in the park, to be in full compliance I disposed of the beer. But before I did, I let the cool waters of Cedar Run chill it to optimal disposal temperature.

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After that most enjoyable few hours fishing and enjoying the company of my two best friends, it was time to hit the trail again. We could have gone back the way we came and shorten the hike by several miles, but I decided to push myself and continue up to do the originally planned loop. This morning my back, my right hip, left knee and both feet are questioning my judgment, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. It’s a beautiful hike, though, and Team Orange had a blast. Here they spot a squirrel along the trail.

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I was relieved to get to the top of White Oak falls and began our descent. Even though every step of the descent is a foot-pounding, bone-jarring reminder that I am old and I’m carrying too much weight around. This panorama shows the lower falls at White Oak. Trout don’t live in ugly places. (I encourage readers to click on the panoramas in this post for a better view.)

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It was a very long day, and these great dogs deserve the sleep they fell into about a minute after getting in the car. I hope they aren’t nearly as sore as I am today.

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