Home Waters When I first started fly-fishing, I had no car and little money. At college in Pennsylvania, I bummed rides to Ridley Creek; Summers in South Jersey, I was limited to waters within bicycle range, except for occasional rare days I could beg my dad's car. That meant I fished The Pits, an old quarry turned into a village park, and sometimes the local reservoir. I fished these waters at least once a week, all year round, for several years. Therefore I got to know them more thoroughly than any fishing spot since.There's something about knowing a piece of water this intimately. It's a love relationship like a long-standing marriage, soothingly predictable but always evolving. It's as comfortable and comforting as a well-worn pair of jeans. Nurturing, soul-soothing, a center of serenity, like an easy chair and a box of chocolates after a stressful day. Lacking the need to read new water, plan approaches, locate fish, or find access points, I found I'd reach my beloved fishing spot and just fall naturally into its rhythm, no conscious thought needed or wanted. Sheer familiarity with those favorite waters quelled my novice insecurity, and introduced me to the angler's Zen state. To me, that intimacy is a major part of fly-fishing's charm. That's also what makes those long-ago memories so golden. I knew every pool, rock, ledge, and deadfall along a mile of Ridley Creek. I fancied I even knew some of the trout on a first-name basis. I knew what hatches were important and when they occurred; I'd designed or discovered flies to match them, and knew just where to go in each season to use them to best effect. I knew the safest crossing points, the mud banks and bramble thickets to avoid and the paths through them, and the spots where wild strawberries hid among bankside shrubbery for a springtime treat. I could confidently fish well into darkness, knowing where the fish were and where the backcast lanes were, and knowing the way out of the water and back to the car as well by touch as by sight. The latter was equally true about The Pits. Wading was treacherous in the old quarry, steep-sided in some places, with unexpected submerged sandbars and peninsulas in others. Over time I learned them all. Little visible cover meant I had to discover where the fish were by fishing the water and noting where I caught things. But once I'd done this, I could go directly from one unmarked hotspot to another. I always fished this lake until well after sunset, enjoying the play of colors washing from the sky reflected in its deep waters, and the coming and going of waterfowl. When only stars were mirrored in the water, and the chugs and snaps of the evening rise had waned, I waded out, never once mis-stepping into the deeper water, clambered up one of my obscure paths up the quarry sides, and biked home amidst flickering fireflies and whirring cicadas. It didn't matter that these waters were not world-class fisheries. It didn't matter that the fish in The Pits were a bit on the small side, or that the trout in Ridley were nearly all stocked fish. When you know old friends that well, you tend to overlook their faults, and just love them for what they are. I always had the feeling that they were just as forgiving of my angling shortcomings. I belonged, the fish, the waters they lived in, and me: we were all part of the same ecosystem. We shared secrets no casual angler could guess, and delighted in the knowledge. These days, I have a car; Thousands of square miles of territory are accessible for me to explore. Conversely, I no longer have the time to fish two or three times a week. I spend less time on the water, and spread that time among a number of different streams, lakes, and rivers. There are a few that I know fairly well, fishing them twice a year, sometimes fishing them several days in succession before returning to home and job for another six months. I know certain pools, holes, drop-offs, cuts, and other holding water, and can make a good educated guess at what flies I'll need when I go fish them. But they are just acquaintances, ones I regret not having the time to get to know well enough to call them friends. They welcome me back each time I visit, but we part with no lasting regrets. I fondly talk about them and show photos of them, but it strikes me I never even took pictures of Ridley or The Pits. I didn't need to; It would have been a self-portrait. There are lots of advantages to this gypsy style of fishing: A wider variety of fish species and water types, opportunities for solitude in remote places, the chance of catching a lunker, or the elusive beauty of wild fish. Some waters are twenty minutes from home, some a five-hour drive; Some easy access, others requiring long drives down mazes of back roads or rigorous hiking to reach. If water conditions or other factors turn off the fish on one stream, I have other choices, not to mention finding the variety itself stimulating. Still, I find it ineffably sad that I no longer have a deep relationship with any given piece of water, and keep promising myself that this will change once I retire. Several streams I visit have an ambiance that tells me we could have an intimate friendship. My dream is to buy a retirement home near one of these, and spend my golden years
becoming one with my chosen home waters. Some people may think I'm a trifle warped to be looking for the Perfect Stream instead of Mr. Right. These people are obviously not fly fishers. |