The Third Season   

I vividly remember my first fly-fishing outing in April 2000. Who could forget a beautiful but cool April day spent mostly trying to extricate a fly from bushes after just about every attempt at casting. Even after a quick dip in the chilly waters of the Little Lehigh I gamely persisted in my attempts to get my fly on to the water. Fortunately for my angling future I discovered that for me, fishing is not merely about the catching, equally important is the watching. Within me I felt the first stirrings of what was to become a deep and abiding love for the trout I could see hanging opportunistically in the crystal waters. There was to be no fish for me that day, indeed, not for a long time thereafter would my inept, but earnest efforts be rewarded. 

There were precious few fish of any persuasion caught that first season, but despite my notable lack of success I persevered and was finally rewarded with a fine fat rainbow trout caught that fall on the club trip to Potter County. The catching part is not the only gratification I get from fishing. But, let's face it everyone need some positive reinforcement. The feel of that pulsing piscine life at the end of my line resonated within me in a way that I can't begin to explain. I thanked that beauty for granting me a brief intersection with an alien life form and gave it a kiss before releasing it back into it's own element to live what I hoped would be a long and productive life. I was in love.

I spent the autumn after that first season learning how to tie my own flies. When you lose as many flies as I did you should either have deep pockets or learn to tie your own. The winter was spent feverishly tying flies in anticipation of spring. No matter that they were as ugly as a dead rat's ass and had a tendency to fall apart. I happily tied away.

The second season began much as the first had. My casting was clumsy and inaccurate. I spent a lot of time retrieving my home tied and half-nude flies from trees and shrubs. I put down more fish than I care to think about. Still, I fished, sometimes two or three times a week. More importantly I watched. I watched the hatching of caddis and mayflies. I watched their mating dance as they sought to perpetuate their species. I stood transfixed in the center of a mating swarm and marveled as the small dun colored caddis laid their bright eggs on my damp waders. Especially entrancing was the graceful aerial ballet of the mayfly spinner. I watched the trout and their manner of feeding during a hatch and at spinner fall. I watched, and learned, and caught, mostly by accident I thought, an occasional fish.

Winter was again spent feverishly tying flies in anticipation of spring. The flies were beginning to look a little better. Except for the fact that my casting had slightly improved my third season started off pretty much the same as the second. My regular rounds of the local streams resulted in precious few trout. Oh, there was the occasional accidental catch, but things were slow. In May I went to Spruce Creek on one of Ann McIntosh's trips set up through Spruce Creek Outfitters. While the trip was pretty much rained out, I did get to spend half a day on Spruce with Skip Galbraith as my guide. The stream was high and getting muddier by the second, but dragging a big, bright streamer near the bottom did result in one nice fish that was no accident. According to Skip I would have done better to strike more often. The day after the rain I braved the Little Juanita which was high and muddy. I drifted a San Juan worm around a boulder and a nice little brown took my offering. I was beginning to think things through before casting. The catching part was definitely picking up.

I spent most of the summer fishing the Brandywine for pan fish. Boy did I have some spectacular results using Fishy's hopper and Mary's cricket. I felt like I was queen of the Brandywine. In addition to my solo outings, my husband, Tim (he who fishes only to accommodate me), and I enjoyed regular Wednesday evening fishing and dinner dates. By late summer I felt ready to try my true loves, the trout, again so in September I headed back to Spruce Creek with Ann. We had scheduled a guided day on Spruce with Skip and what a great day it turned out to be. Skip is a very good guide, and if you let him know that you want criticism and teaching that is what he will give you. Very early on Skip pointed to a narrow slot between tree branches and told me to place my fly near the shore between those branches. Imagine my surprise when I did exactly what he told me to do. Well, he had created a casting monster. 

There was the sweet moment when casting Mary's cricket into a spot overhung with shrubs resulted in a very large brown being hooked and landed. The next day Ann and I fished the Little J. I caught, she caught more. 

We found ourselves in the middle of a white fly hatch in the evening. I delighted in choosing what I thought was a fair emerger imitation from my fly box and was even more delighted when I caught a trout. The catching part was definitely improving.

I returned to Potter Count for the club trip in the fall. Even though I had been skunked the previous year, I returned because I enjoyed the camaraderie as well as the scenery. It's good watching territory. This fall turned out to be quite different from the previous. First there were the bears, lots of big bears putting on garbage can fat for the coming hibernation. Of course I am not one to put myself between a bear and its meal, so there were no problematic encounters. Then there were the fish. Nancy and Jake Jacobson, also in Potter County for the fishing, advised us of a spot where the wild brookies were plentiful. I walked down stream a bit and caught a couple of little beauties. They shone like gems in the sunlight. I spotted what looked to me like a prime lie. The casting was not too difficult, I placed my fly and bam the trout took it, but I struck too late and missed. I tried again, but that fish was down so I spent the rest of the day heading upstream catching one beautiful brookie after another. These were small fish of six to eight inches on a very small stream. I felt blessed to have caught them. It was a miracle, and I loved each and every one of them. But, by the end of the day I just had to go back to the trout in the prime lie. I positioned myself down and across from the lie and placed my cast from a kneeling position. Bam, the brookie hit the fly, I struck and this time I had him, the biggest, brightest, most beautiful brookie of the day. This was no accident. The catching was definitely good.

This winter I plan to tie a lot of flies in anticipation of the fourth season which I hope will be as good as the third. However, one of the many things that I have learned in three seasons is that there are no guarantees, so if the fishing isn't good you'll find me watching.

--Donna Trexler--