Wild trout in many parts of Appalachia, I am told, do not play by the same rules as trout elsewhere.
To catch them, it helps if luck is on your side.
Take the local freshwater variety, for instance.
The hatchery-raised food and game fishes readily become opportunists when it comes to feeding, eating just about anything they can find—aquatic insects, minnows, and terrestrials.
The weighted nymph will usually attract most of the strikes, but the dry fly will also take fish on sunny days.
Early in the season, when streams are running high, and water is dingy, weighted nymphs are a good choice.
However, many of the trout in our waters, after they have had an opportunity to wash the hatchery-induced dependency on pellet feed out of their system, tend to be the wariest critters on the planet.
Give them the slightest hint that you are around—a thud of boot rubber, a flash of belt buckle, a glimpse of movement or an incautious cast—and they will scuttle to the nearest slab of granite in total terror.
Worst of all, if you spook one trout in the tailwaters, he will scurry upstream and scare every one of his cousins.
That means that if you are not the first fishermen on the stream on any given day, your chances of catching more than a few fish are minimal at best.
In fact, you might have to pop out of bed before daylight to get to that secret spot no one else knows about.
Even if you must brave the cold currents to get there by the time that Dawn dons her purple robe.
Some die-hard anglers will not allow frigid weather or high water to keep them from their favorite trout streams, especially when they are the first on the water to avoid the crowds.
Before my brother-in-law was smitten by the kayaking bug, we used to hook up for some intense spring fly fishing.
The barely discernible streams on the fishing map seemed to suit him best: he would drive an extra 40 miles to reach a remote wilderness course that promised a glimpse of a native brook or hold-over brown.
His mantra: the wilder the trout, the heartier the strike.
Maybe he was right.
But after trekking into winding hills and hollows in search of the elusive wild variety, I began to wonder about the sanity of my guide and mentor.
And yet, his tenacity seemed to pay off in dividends, if only occasionally.
Like the time I was invited to accompany him to the Elk River country.
Fly fishing was new to me at the time.
I was not comfortable with the waders he had given me. They were about two sizes too large. Navigating along the slippery stream bed was like treading on greased bowling balls.
I realized I had my work cut out for me.
At length, I found a tranquil pool on the river, where an old railroad trestle shaded the emerald currents serenely as the songbirds piped their tunes from the sycamores and alders.
Sam launched his attack on the stream in a relentless pursuit of his freshwater prey, probing each log and boulder with masterful casts of his right arm, his eyes scanning the potential hiding places along the meandering currents; I remained behind, meanwhile, to practice my casting maneuvers and polish my skills with the unfamiliar tool.
After a few hours of solitude, I began to wonder about my partner.
I set out to see if he had fallen into a watery abyss and drowned.
Suddenly, a mile or so into the trek, I caught a glimpse of his sleek Neoprene waders, khaki vest and wide-brimmed felt hat as he traversed the stream bed a hundred yards downstream.
I sat down on a log and waited for his approach.
He strolled up casually, as if he had only been out of sight for a jiffy, and blurted out:
“Well, how’d you do—catch anything?”
He had me, all right.
But I took to the offensive, assailing him with one of those elitist remarks typical of beginning fly fishermen.
“No,” I stammered, plucking the fly line that I had tightly rewound to the rod base eyelet. “But then I’d rather fish with a fly rod, even if I don’t catch anything.”
He shrugged slightly, then reached in his vest and hauled out a pair of trout that measured a good 10, maybe 12, inches.
I stood up and took notice.
“Tell you what,” he said, slapping his hand on my shoulder. “It pays to know what fish are feeding on and when they’re apt to be in a feeding frame of mind.”
Then after a moment’s hesitation: “It helps if you can discern their nature, too, I reckon—And sometimes, you just get lucky.”
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Top’ the morning!