Remembering Where You Started

This past November I accepted an invite from an Instagram friend to visit a well known and thriving wild trout fishery in Western Maryland. However, the night before I was to make the trip the friend was forced to cancel due to a pressing obligation. Despite the last minute curveball, the hotel was already booked and paid for two nights so I was going anyway. The next morning I packed up and drove Southwest, uneventfully fishing a few Southern Pennsylvania streams along the way and extending the six-hour drive to arrive at the hotel in the evening. Before going to sleep I studied the detailed essay my friend had written for me in his stead containing tips on access points and fly selection, forming a loose plan of attack.

A half-hour before first light the following morning I pulled up to one of the recommended access points. While I prefer fishing early to prevent being handicapped by other anglers spooking out runs, it’s a tactic that can be challenging on a new stream on account of the limited visibility making reading water and gauging depth difficult. However, I still managed to hook a few fish in deep water on bigger stonefly imitations before getting in my vehicle and moving on to nymph a nearby stretch of pocket water.

Entering the water again shortly after sunrise, I worked my way upstream through what I would later learn was a notoriously difficult section to wade, information for which my shins and ankles would have been thankful. With the sun up, the stonefly was no longer getting it done so I switched to an olive thread Frenchie and had consistent action fishing thoroughly from pocket to pocket. This particular river is known more for numbers than size so I was happy netting beautiful wild browns in the 6-12” range all morning. Around noon I reached the end of the section and walked back along a nearby road to save time and spare my shins further agony. While walking I reflected on the morning, on the beauty of the river and the fall foliage, on the colors and overall health of the brown trout I had caught, and on my general gratitude at being where I was and doing what I was doing on that particular day.

A beautiful, robust Maryland wild brown trout.

When I reached my vehicle I spotted an angler, a man in his mid-to-late-twenties, indicator nymphing a nearby plunge pool while a woman who I assumed was his girlfriend was walking along the bank taking in the scenery. I had planned to revisit the section I’d fished at first light in hopes of getting a better look at it so I proceeded to load my rod into the rod vault and stow my pack, during which I noticed the angler exiting the river and coming towards me. We greeted one another and he asked how I had fared so far. After briefly telling him about my morning I asked the same and he confessed, “To be honest, I’m fairly new to fly fishing and I normally fish streamers, so this is my first day nymphing and I’m having a hard time. Do you have any advice?”

As both an angler and an educator, I was impressed and refreshed by his humility and willingness to ask for help. Even though I’m introverted by nature, I lit up at the opportunity to help this guy get into fish any way that I could, so I eagerly took a look at his setup: a standard 9-foot/5-weight rod, a 9-foot/5x leader, a single nymph rig, and an indicator sitting about three-feet above the fly. I suggested that he move the indicator up the leader a few more feet, change out the point fly, add a dropper, and add weight. I helped him choose patterns from his box and gave him some split shot while showing where to add it to his tippet. I then pulled my Euro rod from the rod vault and showed him my tandem rig and Euro leader, explained the similarities and differences between the two styles, and stressed the importance of adjusting his indicator based on varying depths while keeping it in the same seam in which the fly is drifting to prevent drag. He was very grateful for the help and as I got into my vehicle I wished him luck, sincerely hoping my advice would pay off for him but not at all expecting to learn whether or not it would.

Western Maryland in the fall.

Upon returning to the previous section I took a few moments after parking to warm up, drink some water, and have a snack. Even though warmth, water, and food are the three most essential needs for maintaining one’s existence, I almost always neglect them in my pursuit of trout. Feeling rejuvenated after the break, I entered the somewhat familiar water with a plan to cherry-pick the stretch so I would have time to visit a nearby brookie stream my friend had also recommended. At the first run I bypassed the slow water of a large tail section and began fishing the riffles near the head. A few drifts in I saw my new-to-nymphing comrade approach from the road and as he drew nearer he said, “Hey, man, I’ve fished this section a few times and never had any luck, so is it alright if I watch how you fish it with a nymphing rig? I also kinda want to see someone pull a fish out of here.”

I tend to perform at my worst with an audience, but I wanted to help so I replied, “Sure thing. Watch what I’m doing for as long as you want, but this is a big run so feel free to drift that indicator rig through the tailout, especially through that slower, deeper stuff by the opposite bank.”

He settled in and watched me for about five drifts, saw me miss a fish, and then dropped back to the tail while asking where he should place his cast. I directed him and he hit the mark on his second attempt. Just as his rig settled into the drift I saw movement in my sighter, set the hook, and was on with a 10-inch brown. While I was stripping in the fish and telling him that his wish was granted, we both saw his indicator disappear; when he set, his rod was significantly bent. Knowing that he was into a decent fish, I quickly netted and released my brown and made myself ready to assist if needed.

What struck me immediately and still brings me genuine joy today was the overwhelming elation and panic this angler was simultaneously experiencing upon hooking this particular brown trout. While I’m no expert, for years I’ve been at a point where muscle memory, adrenaline, and experience all kick in after the hookset and tend to block out everything else. Unless the fish absolutely smashes a dry up top or something bizarre happens during the fight, I usually don’t retain much memory of the experience and I consciously fight every urge to get excited until the fish is in the net; granted, once it’s secured I’ll grin and shake like a lunatic, but rarely before. Therefore, while watching him raise his rod hand to the sky while backing up in an attempt to maintain pressure (instead of simply stripping in line), then reach behind to prematurely grab his net, and then clumsily attempt to strip in line while holding the net, the whole time fruitlessly shouting, “Babe! Hey, babe!” for his girlfriend who was exploring out of earshot, I was acutely reminded of what it was like to be in his shoes. Well, aside from the part about repeatedly shouting, “Hey, babe!”

Since it wasn’t my fish I was able to consciously calculate a number of things in a matter of seconds and quickly decided I was only going to intervene if I truly felt he was going to lose the fish. I had helped him up to the point of hooking it and I wanted the rest of the moment to be entirely his. I also figured that if he brought the brown to the net, he wouldn’t even remember the mistakes he had made and all that would matter was that he had landed it; he could correct those flaws over time through experience and landing this trout would provide significant motivation to continue on his fly fishing journey. I also didn’t want to be a backseat driver barking orders and sullying the memory, so the only time I said anything outside of cheering him on was when I saw him struggling to strip in line while holding his net. I simply unhooked my net and told him, “Just throw your net to the bank behind you and I’ll net it if you need me to.”

After he ditched the net he had a much easier time bringing in the fish and even maintained enough control to grab the net again and scoop up what was a healthy, beautifully colored 16-inch Western Maryland wild brown trout. Thankfully he was adept at proper handling, so I didn’t have to say a word as he kept the fish underwater in the net and quickly popped the fly out with two fingers. Just as he held the trout up for me to snap a few quick photos, his girlfriend returned and was able to share in his success, watching with us as the brown swam off following a perfect release.

Soon after releasing that trout we parted ways. I wished him luck going forward and he thanked me again for my advice and assistance. When I got back to the hotel that night I thought about what had happened and was overjoyed at being able to play a part in that angler’s special moment, but I had mixed feelings as far as it related to my own journey. While watching him fight that fish, I felt a little like the calloused Macbeth upon hearing shrieking in the distance and remembering the feeling of fear after having not experienced it for so many years; I wondered if I had lost that excitement or if it was still there but just more reserved because of experience and the nature of my character. After much reflection, I concluded that in life there are so many things that can’t be recaptured just as they were before and while nostalgia frequently tempts us to undertake the impossible, it just isn’t going to happen. Watching the scene play out with that brown allowed me in a sense to glimpse my own past, helping me realize that just because I no longer lose my mind when I hook into a nice trout doesn’t mean my love for fly fishing has diminished, but perhaps the way I process and express that love has simply changed. Though my experiences on the water may never be the same as they were in the early days, they’re no less poignant or meaningful and the excitement I felt watching a complete stranger land a trout on that beautiful Maryland stream is a strong testament to that, one for which I’m very thankful.