Post by golferjeff on Jun 10, 2014 9:50:53 GMT -6
If you care to indulge me for a short story, I will tell you about a trip to Pennsylvania that produced some small stream (Mostly) stocker fishing this past week.
My mother passed away June 3rd and her wishes were to be buried in her family church cemetary in Robinson, PA. After a lot of last minute travel arrangements, I had to decide to take either the fly rod or the golf clubs. Golf won out this time as I was putting people up at a small resort with 2 courses. I did manage to stow my little pocket fishing 'rod' in my golf bag. The little rod and reel works great for spincasting and retrieving. I managed to catch several black bass on one of the golf courses in a small pond, the largest of which was about 13". Always fun to fish new water, even while waiting to tee off.
One day, right before the funeral, I had some time to myself. I decided to take a scenic drive out to a small mountain stream that my grandfather and I had fished when I was between 3 and 12 years old. he passed away when I was 13 and I never went back. It is a little foothill stream, mostly about 30 feet wide, that is covered by various flora and fauna. Mountain Laurel dominates the stream edges and it would be really difficult to toss a 9' fly rod here. The upper reaches of the stream have some native Brook Trout, but I did not have time to hike in there. As I drove along the road that parallels the stream, I noticed a field with several cars, a few tents, and a booth of some sort. I knew the landowner of this particular area so I pulled in to investigate. Turns out, the local fishing club was having a Kids' Trout Derby. Kids 3-15 were welcome to fish with lures, bait, anything they wanted. The club had stocked over 700 fish in about a 1/2 mile stretch of water. It looked like mostly hatchery Brookies and Rainbows, but I did see a few nice Eastern Browns. The club had even cleared a small section of fly fishing only water, but no kids were present to enjoy it. I decided to ask around and survey the shindig and see what to do next.
I introduced myself to the man that was apparently running the gig. Turns out, he was a 3rd or 4th cousin of mine. He was the president of the Tubmill Creek Trout Club. Similar in purpose, but a lot smaller than our LMFRF. we chatted a bit and I decided to make a donation on behalf of my grandfather. He had fished the creek for over 60 years and thought it was a fitting tribute. I put my money in the can and walked over to talk to some of the kids that were anxious to get started. Apparently, my donation caused some surprise among the Trout Club. This big, goofy Texas guy had made the largest donation on record. Several members came over tyo speak with me and I told them my story - mom's death, funeral, growing up fishing the creek, my 'grandpap', etc. Several of them knew my grandfather or their parents knew my grandfather - its a small world back in SW PA. So I joined the Tubmill Trout Club, they gave me a membership card, and they invited me to fish once the kids derby was over. Unfortunately I had the funeral to get to, but I promised I would get back that evening.
Once the days' family obligations were over, I took my 15 year old daughter back to the creek. When I arrived, another member of the club offered me his hand built fly rod (circa 1950) to fish with. As if the day weren't emotional enough, the rod had been built by my grandfather's drinking buddy. After I gathered myself, I accepted the offer and rigged up a Brown Drake to match the hatch and headed to the fly-only water. My daughter tagged along, but she wasn't about to get her nice dress or shoes wet or muddy. She stayed on the bank
So.... picture this...... 6'2, 270lb Texan, in black slacks, shirt and tie, shoes off and slacks pulled up to the knee, wading out into a small stream with a 60 year old rod to toss a bug. To make a long story shorter, stocked trout don't care much for dry flies when so much powerbait is available 50 yards away. I did manage to land a nice rainbow and a small Brookie, but the larger fish eluded me. It was still a ton of fun. I was fishing this creek 30 years after I last walked along it, fishing the same water my grandfather had for 50+years, and had managed two trout, one for each of us! And on a borrowed hand built fly rod to boot.
I now hope to go back there someday with my own equipment. I will even hike in and hit the native Brookies. The creek is small, the fish are smaller, the people are simple and kind, and it is totally different than anything I had ever felt before. In a long week of sorrow and stress, I think i managed to make a long gone gentleman very happy. My grandfather died in 1985, his daughter (my mother) died in 2014. Using my accountant expertise, that means I need to fish it before 2043........ or maybe my daughter will fish it when I am gone.......
My mother passed away June 3rd and her wishes were to be buried in her family church cemetary in Robinson, PA. After a lot of last minute travel arrangements, I had to decide to take either the fly rod or the golf clubs. Golf won out this time as I was putting people up at a small resort with 2 courses. I did manage to stow my little pocket fishing 'rod' in my golf bag. The little rod and reel works great for spincasting and retrieving. I managed to catch several black bass on one of the golf courses in a small pond, the largest of which was about 13". Always fun to fish new water, even while waiting to tee off.
One day, right before the funeral, I had some time to myself. I decided to take a scenic drive out to a small mountain stream that my grandfather and I had fished when I was between 3 and 12 years old. he passed away when I was 13 and I never went back. It is a little foothill stream, mostly about 30 feet wide, that is covered by various flora and fauna. Mountain Laurel dominates the stream edges and it would be really difficult to toss a 9' fly rod here. The upper reaches of the stream have some native Brook Trout, but I did not have time to hike in there. As I drove along the road that parallels the stream, I noticed a field with several cars, a few tents, and a booth of some sort. I knew the landowner of this particular area so I pulled in to investigate. Turns out, the local fishing club was having a Kids' Trout Derby. Kids 3-15 were welcome to fish with lures, bait, anything they wanted. The club had stocked over 700 fish in about a 1/2 mile stretch of water. It looked like mostly hatchery Brookies and Rainbows, but I did see a few nice Eastern Browns. The club had even cleared a small section of fly fishing only water, but no kids were present to enjoy it. I decided to ask around and survey the shindig and see what to do next.
I introduced myself to the man that was apparently running the gig. Turns out, he was a 3rd or 4th cousin of mine. He was the president of the Tubmill Creek Trout Club. Similar in purpose, but a lot smaller than our LMFRF. we chatted a bit and I decided to make a donation on behalf of my grandfather. He had fished the creek for over 60 years and thought it was a fitting tribute. I put my money in the can and walked over to talk to some of the kids that were anxious to get started. Apparently, my donation caused some surprise among the Trout Club. This big, goofy Texas guy had made the largest donation on record. Several members came over tyo speak with me and I told them my story - mom's death, funeral, growing up fishing the creek, my 'grandpap', etc. Several of them knew my grandfather or their parents knew my grandfather - its a small world back in SW PA. So I joined the Tubmill Trout Club, they gave me a membership card, and they invited me to fish once the kids derby was over. Unfortunately I had the funeral to get to, but I promised I would get back that evening.
Once the days' family obligations were over, I took my 15 year old daughter back to the creek. When I arrived, another member of the club offered me his hand built fly rod (circa 1950) to fish with. As if the day weren't emotional enough, the rod had been built by my grandfather's drinking buddy. After I gathered myself, I accepted the offer and rigged up a Brown Drake to match the hatch and headed to the fly-only water. My daughter tagged along, but she wasn't about to get her nice dress or shoes wet or muddy. She stayed on the bank
So.... picture this...... 6'2, 270lb Texan, in black slacks, shirt and tie, shoes off and slacks pulled up to the knee, wading out into a small stream with a 60 year old rod to toss a bug. To make a long story shorter, stocked trout don't care much for dry flies when so much powerbait is available 50 yards away. I did manage to land a nice rainbow and a small Brookie, but the larger fish eluded me. It was still a ton of fun. I was fishing this creek 30 years after I last walked along it, fishing the same water my grandfather had for 50+years, and had managed two trout, one for each of us! And on a borrowed hand built fly rod to boot. I now hope to go back there someday with my own equipment. I will even hike in and hit the native Brookies. The creek is small, the fish are smaller, the people are simple and kind, and it is totally different than anything I had ever felt before. In a long week of sorrow and stress, I think i managed to make a long gone gentleman very happy. My grandfather died in 1985, his daughter (my mother) died in 2014. Using my accountant expertise, that means I need to fish it before 2043........ or maybe my daughter will fish it when I am gone.......
