salvelinusfontinalis
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- Sep 9, 2006
- Messages
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"It is a little river hidden away under gray cliffs and hills black with ragged pines. It is full of mossy stones and rapid ripples. All its tributaries, dashing white-sheeted over ferny cliffs, wine-brown where the whirling pools suck the stain from the hemlock root, harbor the speckled trout. Wise in their generation, the black and red-spotted little beauties keep to their brooks; for, farther down, below the rush and fall, a newcomer is lord of the stream. He is an archenemy, a scorner of beauty and blood, the wolf-jawed, red-eyed, bronze-backed black bass."
-Zane Grey Lord of the Lackawaxen
The only way to truly describe the fishing on the Susquehanna River in the late 1980's is indescribably magnificent. You really had to be there doing it to really understand. I vividly remember, hot hazy days listening to the fading calls of summertime locusts while watching bass leap out from pollen covered slack waters, to then just crash down into a froth of tiny foam flecks. These days, for me, meant boat loads of bass and weeks of daydreaming in the anticipation of our return. In those years spent starring at a marbled maze of reflected cloud cover waters, I had an extreme misapprehension of the whole experience. It was more than just fishing, today I realize we were apart of something truly exceptional. Our inability to learn how to live intimately with nature has caused vast declines in ecosystems the world abroad. While the Susquehanna is seemingly a drop in a very large bucket, it is measureable to the size of an ecosystem 37.5 times the entire size of the Florida Everglades. During this time in the 1980's, the river was a world class fishery in all aspects and everything it isn't today. Back then I fished the river with an UglyStick, a double-jointed Rapala, a Jitterbug and a big black rubber worm. Fly rods were reserved for more "complex" quarry, like trout, and the concept of chasing black bass with a fly rod was foreign or I may even say, sacrilegious. It never occurred to me and I likely would have scoffed at the very notion.
There are numerous places to access the river and like most fisherman we had our favorites. One such spot was to access the river via Chickies Creek in Lancaster County and we would fish the short distance down to the rail bed, catching largemouth virtually every trip. Walking up river along the dingy Norfolk Southern rail bed was never a treat having to deal with the sun baked creosote vaporous emanations that surrounded that area. One day while walking for what seemed like an eternity, all the while stopping to fish our favorite areas, was the very first time we ever met a guy named Les.
There wading in the diamond clustered sun sparkles of our great river he stood, throwing out long casts with a very long rod. How strange? A fly-fisherman on the river seemed a novel idea and oh-so out of place. Fittingly enough, this was the least of what appeared to make Les not fit in along the river. Sporting a straw hat, suspenders holding up his patch work jeans that were rolled halfway up his leg, a corncob pipe in his mouth and a Black Sabbath t-shirt, he very likely could have crawled off a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post. Les took notice to us too, made his way back to shore and greeted us with that corncob adorning smile. An interesting character to say the least. A Columbia native (though I never learned his Columbia nickname) might just say all you need to know. Folk from the river towns, especially the dedicated fisherman, could be likened to something right out of a Mark Twain book. Bald, heavily tattooed, never short with of for words, mouth like a sailor and humor as dry as a Monty Python sketch are all good ways to describe him too. Although to think of it now, he reminds me of Les Claypool from Primus. Not because the shared the same first name but rather because he looked and acted like Claypool. Also clearly, Claypool could be envisioned being a River Steamboat Capitan, a cat fisherman or a fly-fisherman because he just seems eccentric like Les from the river.
Over the course of the next few years, we ran into Les at least two dozen times while along the river. My father being the straight laced, quiet and reserved person that he is quickly and obviously became annoyed by the man. I still believe to this day that our very first encounter with him prompted Les to engage us every chance he got, like a dog harassing and deer by chasing it around. Not because he enjoyed our company so but rather because it simply annoyed my father, which also likely did being Les to enjoy our company. If Les was halfway out into the river and saw us, he would yell, wave and power wade to the bank just to talk with us. I remember my father drawing his comparison to the likeness of "the idiots that ride around on Blue Marsh in powerboats in endless circles". The faster we walked, the faster his jet ski legs would churn, cutting us off on an angle like a linebacker after a halfback. Even still, I always enjoyed his company and got my first glimpse into the world of warm water fly-fishing through Les. He was a superb fly tier and I always asked to peer into his fly box with child like wonderment. He always obliged the request too because I now believe it simply delayed our departure. That fly box of his contained some of the most interesting fly patterns I have ever seen to that day, granted I was only 12 but unusual none-the-less. Six whiteflies tied laying crisscross and clumped on top of each other, spun deer hair bluegill and sunfish, chubs, hellgrammites, hex flies, crayfish and whiteflies that appeared to be emerging right from their shucks. All these seemed like academic abstractions to me at the time but now I see them as works of art from a true river fly-fisherman.
For the purpose of this article, one memory I have of Les was while fishing the warm water discharge on a mild winter day. The same usual sight of anglers tossing their lines to the strike zone of where the warm water edged against the cold water. *ZING!* Everyone was into fish, including us and then we heard that funny and yet unmistakable voice. Yep, it was Les with an entourage of other fly-fisherman. My father tried to edge us down and away but it was too late. His eyes fixated on us and like a night owl on a field mouse, he came swooping in for his kill. He approached us with his usual banter and rantings, but it wasn't before long one of his friends hooked into a gigantic black bass. His line was peeling and screaming while the bass did nothing but leap and run downstream with a good current. We watched as his buddy couldn't turn the fish and the onslaught continued to the point the fish was into the backing. He had no choice but to break the fish off.
"Pfffffffft!" Les exclaimed while pointing his thumb at him and elbow nudging me.
"5wt!" He yelled at his friend.
I asked Les, "What weight rod do you use?"
As the bright afternoon sunburst left a shadowy broken image of his likeness walking away, he said and I imagine with that patented *%$# grin, "Son I only ever fish with a 7wt."
That was the very last time we ever saw Les.
Nearly twenty-five years have passed since the last time I saw Les and the glory days of my experiences on the Susquehanna. Father time as changed my face and the face of the river. As I enter into the next chapter of my fly fishing I am reminded of J.R.R Tolkien,
"All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king."
After having awoken somewhere between a hillside lined with ferns in the deep Pennsylvania woods and a wild trout stream, I realize all the time I wasted not chasing after bronze-backs on our great river. While Pennsylvania trout fishing has so much to offer nothing compares to the big river scenery and the defiant, blood lusting, enraged pissed off anger that the smallmouth bass present in the Susquehanna.
Unfortunately the river is very sick and no one seems to understand exactly why. Fracking? Agriculture? Pesticides? pharmaceuticals? Combined Sewage Outflow? All of the Above? Answers need to be found and found now. We are very much on the verge of losing the perfect harmony of a great ecosystem that has contributed so much to the very core of our present "PA Society". Recently the Lower Susquehanna Riverkeeper was able to met with Gov. Tom Wolfe, whom admitted the river needs to be listed as impaired and said "We got to get this done." I urge you all as clean water conservationist to not allow this to just be "political talk." Write letters, sign petitions, sport a SOS sign in your front yard and hold them accountable for not listing the river as impaired.
The past week I had seven straight days to fish the river at all hours (mostly the AM & PM). I was able to boat and wade fish many sections of the river. From Harrisburg up seems the most "healthy" and I found it improved from the past many years accounts of many anglers. Still I believe this to be a temporary condition because of recent summer mild summers and record early summer rain holding columnaris at bay. This will likely not last, yet I was able to land well over 150 smallmouth and only half of those were "dinks" and none of them had disease. Still as I waded halfway out into the river hearing the summertime locusts call, I saw patchworks of clouds opening up in a time lapse speed to a vibrant sun and I cant help but be taken back and heartbroken. I observed many birds of all types fishing and I also observed huge bass systematically charge the duck grass making the baitfish look like shattering snow globe and it gave me hope. It is still the best place in PA to fish period.
And to catch a fish as big as your leg ;-)
Or an absolute monster
Or tons of wonderful smallmouth
The River today is being undone by fabrications of our own creations. Once a world class fishery, left now to be crucified to mediocrity and undone by our intrinsic, superfluous desire to acquire. My hope is one day we may assimilate that we can never attain that which was not meant for us, but that will likely be long after the river is dead unfortunately. I am just a client, returned, bent on a history of forgotten memories renewed, looking for a way to end the haunting memories of chasing after shimmering gold.
But these days, I only fish with an 8wt.
Sorry Les......
-Zane Grey Lord of the Lackawaxen
The only way to truly describe the fishing on the Susquehanna River in the late 1980's is indescribably magnificent. You really had to be there doing it to really understand. I vividly remember, hot hazy days listening to the fading calls of summertime locusts while watching bass leap out from pollen covered slack waters, to then just crash down into a froth of tiny foam flecks. These days, for me, meant boat loads of bass and weeks of daydreaming in the anticipation of our return. In those years spent starring at a marbled maze of reflected cloud cover waters, I had an extreme misapprehension of the whole experience. It was more than just fishing, today I realize we were apart of something truly exceptional. Our inability to learn how to live intimately with nature has caused vast declines in ecosystems the world abroad. While the Susquehanna is seemingly a drop in a very large bucket, it is measureable to the size of an ecosystem 37.5 times the entire size of the Florida Everglades. During this time in the 1980's, the river was a world class fishery in all aspects and everything it isn't today. Back then I fished the river with an UglyStick, a double-jointed Rapala, a Jitterbug and a big black rubber worm. Fly rods were reserved for more "complex" quarry, like trout, and the concept of chasing black bass with a fly rod was foreign or I may even say, sacrilegious. It never occurred to me and I likely would have scoffed at the very notion.
There are numerous places to access the river and like most fisherman we had our favorites. One such spot was to access the river via Chickies Creek in Lancaster County and we would fish the short distance down to the rail bed, catching largemouth virtually every trip. Walking up river along the dingy Norfolk Southern rail bed was never a treat having to deal with the sun baked creosote vaporous emanations that surrounded that area. One day while walking for what seemed like an eternity, all the while stopping to fish our favorite areas, was the very first time we ever met a guy named Les.
There wading in the diamond clustered sun sparkles of our great river he stood, throwing out long casts with a very long rod. How strange? A fly-fisherman on the river seemed a novel idea and oh-so out of place. Fittingly enough, this was the least of what appeared to make Les not fit in along the river. Sporting a straw hat, suspenders holding up his patch work jeans that were rolled halfway up his leg, a corncob pipe in his mouth and a Black Sabbath t-shirt, he very likely could have crawled off a Norman Rockwell Saturday Evening Post. Les took notice to us too, made his way back to shore and greeted us with that corncob adorning smile. An interesting character to say the least. A Columbia native (though I never learned his Columbia nickname) might just say all you need to know. Folk from the river towns, especially the dedicated fisherman, could be likened to something right out of a Mark Twain book. Bald, heavily tattooed, never short with of for words, mouth like a sailor and humor as dry as a Monty Python sketch are all good ways to describe him too. Although to think of it now, he reminds me of Les Claypool from Primus. Not because the shared the same first name but rather because he looked and acted like Claypool. Also clearly, Claypool could be envisioned being a River Steamboat Capitan, a cat fisherman or a fly-fisherman because he just seems eccentric like Les from the river.
Over the course of the next few years, we ran into Les at least two dozen times while along the river. My father being the straight laced, quiet and reserved person that he is quickly and obviously became annoyed by the man. I still believe to this day that our very first encounter with him prompted Les to engage us every chance he got, like a dog harassing and deer by chasing it around. Not because he enjoyed our company so but rather because it simply annoyed my father, which also likely did being Les to enjoy our company. If Les was halfway out into the river and saw us, he would yell, wave and power wade to the bank just to talk with us. I remember my father drawing his comparison to the likeness of "the idiots that ride around on Blue Marsh in powerboats in endless circles". The faster we walked, the faster his jet ski legs would churn, cutting us off on an angle like a linebacker after a halfback. Even still, I always enjoyed his company and got my first glimpse into the world of warm water fly-fishing through Les. He was a superb fly tier and I always asked to peer into his fly box with child like wonderment. He always obliged the request too because I now believe it simply delayed our departure. That fly box of his contained some of the most interesting fly patterns I have ever seen to that day, granted I was only 12 but unusual none-the-less. Six whiteflies tied laying crisscross and clumped on top of each other, spun deer hair bluegill and sunfish, chubs, hellgrammites, hex flies, crayfish and whiteflies that appeared to be emerging right from their shucks. All these seemed like academic abstractions to me at the time but now I see them as works of art from a true river fly-fisherman.
For the purpose of this article, one memory I have of Les was while fishing the warm water discharge on a mild winter day. The same usual sight of anglers tossing their lines to the strike zone of where the warm water edged against the cold water. *ZING!* Everyone was into fish, including us and then we heard that funny and yet unmistakable voice. Yep, it was Les with an entourage of other fly-fisherman. My father tried to edge us down and away but it was too late. His eyes fixated on us and like a night owl on a field mouse, he came swooping in for his kill. He approached us with his usual banter and rantings, but it wasn't before long one of his friends hooked into a gigantic black bass. His line was peeling and screaming while the bass did nothing but leap and run downstream with a good current. We watched as his buddy couldn't turn the fish and the onslaught continued to the point the fish was into the backing. He had no choice but to break the fish off.
"Pfffffffft!" Les exclaimed while pointing his thumb at him and elbow nudging me.
"5wt!" He yelled at his friend.
I asked Les, "What weight rod do you use?"
As the bright afternoon sunburst left a shadowy broken image of his likeness walking away, he said and I imagine with that patented *%$# grin, "Son I only ever fish with a 7wt."
That was the very last time we ever saw Les.
Nearly twenty-five years have passed since the last time I saw Les and the glory days of my experiences on the Susquehanna. Father time as changed my face and the face of the river. As I enter into the next chapter of my fly fishing I am reminded of J.R.R Tolkien,
"All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king."
After having awoken somewhere between a hillside lined with ferns in the deep Pennsylvania woods and a wild trout stream, I realize all the time I wasted not chasing after bronze-backs on our great river. While Pennsylvania trout fishing has so much to offer nothing compares to the big river scenery and the defiant, blood lusting, enraged pissed off anger that the smallmouth bass present in the Susquehanna.
Unfortunately the river is very sick and no one seems to understand exactly why. Fracking? Agriculture? Pesticides? pharmaceuticals? Combined Sewage Outflow? All of the Above? Answers need to be found and found now. We are very much on the verge of losing the perfect harmony of a great ecosystem that has contributed so much to the very core of our present "PA Society". Recently the Lower Susquehanna Riverkeeper was able to met with Gov. Tom Wolfe, whom admitted the river needs to be listed as impaired and said "We got to get this done." I urge you all as clean water conservationist to not allow this to just be "political talk." Write letters, sign petitions, sport a SOS sign in your front yard and hold them accountable for not listing the river as impaired.
The past week I had seven straight days to fish the river at all hours (mostly the AM & PM). I was able to boat and wade fish many sections of the river. From Harrisburg up seems the most "healthy" and I found it improved from the past many years accounts of many anglers. Still I believe this to be a temporary condition because of recent summer mild summers and record early summer rain holding columnaris at bay. This will likely not last, yet I was able to land well over 150 smallmouth and only half of those were "dinks" and none of them had disease. Still as I waded halfway out into the river hearing the summertime locusts call, I saw patchworks of clouds opening up in a time lapse speed to a vibrant sun and I cant help but be taken back and heartbroken. I observed many birds of all types fishing and I also observed huge bass systematically charge the duck grass making the baitfish look like shattering snow globe and it gave me hope. It is still the best place in PA to fish period.
And to catch a fish as big as your leg ;-)
Or an absolute monster
Or tons of wonderful smallmouth
The River today is being undone by fabrications of our own creations. Once a world class fishery, left now to be crucified to mediocrity and undone by our intrinsic, superfluous desire to acquire. My hope is one day we may assimilate that we can never attain that which was not meant for us, but that will likely be long after the river is dead unfortunately. I am just a client, returned, bent on a history of forgotten memories renewed, looking for a way to end the haunting memories of chasing after shimmering gold.
But these days, I only fish with an 8wt.
Sorry Les......
