nd1001
Member
(First time making a thread.. hopefully mods can help me out if this is the wrong spot for this type of post)
I've been obsessed with fly fishing for the last few years, and have been trying to get my original fishing buddy (my dad) to catch the bug as well. We have mostly been surf fishing together the last couple years, but I invited him to join me on a camping/fishing trip this past weekend in the northern tier of the state to chase some trout on the fly in the Pine and Kettle drainages. We had a great time and I wanted to share a writeup and some pictures here.
At the onset of the trip, the weather was looking iffy. In fact, we debated calling it off altogether. But given our busy schedules and the challenge of finding a replacement date, I decided to push on. When my dad arrived at my house on Thursday night, we got our gear staged and spent some time studying the map and weather forecasts to confirm our plan of attack. It looked like we would be able to stop in the Poconos and fish until noon on Friday, then finish the drive up to Pine Creek as some storms blew through.
Friday morning I was up before my alarm and we were quickly on the road. After an uneventful drive we arrived at our first fishing spot, a small mountain freestone stream. Chasing natives is my favorite type of fishing, and I was determined to get my dad on his first brook trout. This particular stream held some notoriously gullible stocked trout as well, so I was confident that he would beat the skunk despite his limited experience. Stepping out of the car, we were greeted with the worst mosquito swarm I have ever experienced. In the time it took me to walk from the driver's side to open the trunk, I had amassed a cloud of skeeters around me. Luckily I brought bug spray and neck buffs... but our exposed hands took a beating all day.
Starting out, fishing was slow. The fish were not highly active in the chill morning hours. I was working with Dad on his casting stroke, line management, reading the water, etc. He was doing his best to stay out of the trees. He had several strikes on a small foam hopper, but couldn't quite get the hook set and keep tension. We approached a small plunge where a rock created a soft pocket at the lip of the upper pool. I directed him to make a short cast to this slower water and get ready to set the hook. He placed the fly on target and a small trout immediately crushed it. This time, he kept tension and I was quick with the net. Success! Just a small one, but the first wild brook trout was in the books.
Moving ahead, we fished a couple large waterfall pools where stocked fish congregate. I tied on a streamer for him and we worked that through the deeper water. Strikes were plentiful and he brought a couple stocked brook trout to the net. He remarked that the bigger stocked fish were fun to catch but they could not match the little wild ones in their color and appearance -- I have to agree. As the rain began to fall, we decided to wrap up fishing one more pool. Dad asked if we would stick with the streamer here or go back to a dry fly. I wanted to show him something a little different. I tied on a mouse pattern and cast it into a mat of foam. After a few slow strips, my mouse vanished in a violent boil. I missed the hook set and recast. I cast to the same position and saw the wake of a different trout cut across the foam. This time I stuck the fish and landed it. One more cast across the pool prompted a take from a big fish (judging from its tail which breached the surface) but this fish wised up quickly and disappeared. I handed the rod off to pops and let him go to work. He was getting the hang of loading the rod on the backcast and managed some nice casts, convincing a couple fish to nip at the mouse. Nothing beats the anticipation of a big topwater blowup, and I thought this style of fishing would remind him of casting whopper ploppers for smallies back home. As the rain came down more heavily, we beat it back to the car, counting the mosquito bites on the way back. Between the bugs and the mouse action, I joked that this was a poor man's Labrador trip.
We finished the drive up to our campsite on Pine, stopping at the Waterville Hotel for a hearty meal. We got the tent set up just in time, as some heavy rain started coming down. Dad brought his fancy pop-up tent with cots and bedrolls. The "Cadillac of tents" he called it. He bought it several years back in anticipation of some river rodeos with my grandpa, but it hadn't been used yet. I was grateful for the deluxe accomodations -- waiting out storms for hours in my backpacking tent would have been a bit claustrophobic.
Morning came and we decided to head over the mountain to Potter county so I could show him "God's Country" for the first time. We headed south on 144 and I stopped at a vacant pull-off. Our entry point to the stream was fairly shallow and featureless, so we started hiking downstream to scout some deeper pools and fish our way back. The first deep run held a large golden rainbow trout in plain sight, which drew my dad in like a moth to a flame. I was fairly certain our downstream approach had alerted this trout to our presence, but we gave it the old college try. After several fly changes, it became apparent that this fish wasn't going to eat. As another fisherman we talked to later in the day quipped, "those fish don't have digestive systems." I picked up a rainbow on a pheasant tail under an indicator. My dad got a few strikes on an elk hair caddis. Before moving on, I took off my float and made a few drifts to the skinny water at the head of the run. My line twitched and I set the hook. A flash of bright blue appeared in the water, and I was confused by what I hooked into. My dad thought it was a piece of trash at first, but I felt a head shake and knew it was a fish. I brought it in and we took a quick photo before releasing it. The photo really doesn't do justice to how bright of a blue this fish looked in the water. I'm guessing it is just a color variation of a rainbow trout, but I've never seen one like it. Curious to hear if others more familiar with this area can share more. We fished one more pool, where Dad caught some chubs and a brown trout on a nymph. He was happy to have finally got on board with the "target species." I picked up some fish on nymphs and streamers, including a few wild brooks, and then we hiked out to the road.
For the afternoon session, we drove further upstream to the headwaters of Kettle. The idyllic scenery can't be beat, and the fishing was good. Dad was starting to get a feel for sneaking up on a run and planning out how to back cast and deliver his fly around the ample deadfall and obstructions. A precise bow and arrow cast earned him a nice trout. At one point, I was pointing out a brown mayfly to him, and it fluttered down to the stream. We watched as a healthy trout porpoised out of the water to slurp the bug. Super cool. Dad understood that a challenge had been declared, but let me try my hand given his trepidation about making the required cast. I debated switching my caddis to a mayfly imitation to "match the hatch" but figured it probably wouldn't matter. Sure enough, the greedy trout happily took my caddis. It wasn't a particularly big or colorful fish, but we were both stoked to land that one. After trekking back to the car, it was time to recharge with some cold beers and a slice of peanut butter pie at the Black Forest Inn.
We rolled back into camp with an hour or less of daylight remaining. We hustled down to the stream to see if we could catch a spinner fall. There were a bunch of what looked to be light cahills flitting about, but not many hitting the water. Rises were sporadic, and I eventually fooled one brown trout into taking a tan spinner. Tired out from a full day of fishing, we called it an early night about half an hour after dark.
Sunday morning dawned and we wanted to make the most of our last half-day of fishing before hitting the road. After packing up camp we headed to a nearby tributary to give my dad a shot at beating his newly set PB wild brookie. The run was tight in places and required some technical casting. An hour in, he had brought fish up but only hooked one which shook off at the net. After a perfect-looking pool gave up nothing on dries, I switched to a streamer and caught a good brook trout with impressive coloration. Soon we approached an unassuming braid where I recollected landing a surprisingly nice fish last year. I convinced him to crawl up slowly on all fours. He may have thought I was being dramatic at first, but any doubts disappeared when a good trout smashed his first bow-and-arrow cast. I netted the fish of ~7 inches and we celebrated his new PB. Dad had one more chance to beat his new record, but a bigger trout which he hooked on a streamer ran him under a log and got him tangled. Oh well, that's fishing.
With our time dwindling, we made one last stop on big Pine. After the technical challenge of the brushy small stream, pops wanted some "easy casting territory." There were some cahills and sulphurs in the air so I tied on my closest match and let him do his best impersonation of Paul Maclean. Fish were rising everywhere, and I could not figure them out. Tons of olives on the water, some brown midges, larger brown mayflies, a few caddis... I went through at least half a dozen flies and never got any interest. I saw a big brown floating at the surface, moving laterally in the current and constantly opening his mouth to slurp down whatever he was keying in on. We were out of time and I was almost out of flies to try. We headed to the tackle shop to grab a sandwich and get some intel for next time.
In a poetic way, ending on a skunking was kind of a return to form for us. Growing up, we fished together pretty often but never seemed to do that well. When he went out with others he'd catch fish, and I would when I went with my friends, but the two of us together rarely had a banner day. I promised him that if he was willing to give fly fishing a shot I would put him on fish, and we accomplished that goal. I had a little bit of apprehension that this trip might feel weird in some way - like I was bossing him around or trying to show off that my new preferred way of fishing was "better" than the ways he taught me growing up. But luckily it wasn't like that at all. He was a fast learner and very appreciative that I wanted to share with him something that I have a passion for. Seeing him light up when he caught his best brook trout, I think he "gets it" now.
I've been obsessed with fly fishing for the last few years, and have been trying to get my original fishing buddy (my dad) to catch the bug as well. We have mostly been surf fishing together the last couple years, but I invited him to join me on a camping/fishing trip this past weekend in the northern tier of the state to chase some trout on the fly in the Pine and Kettle drainages. We had a great time and I wanted to share a writeup and some pictures here.
At the onset of the trip, the weather was looking iffy. In fact, we debated calling it off altogether. But given our busy schedules and the challenge of finding a replacement date, I decided to push on. When my dad arrived at my house on Thursday night, we got our gear staged and spent some time studying the map and weather forecasts to confirm our plan of attack. It looked like we would be able to stop in the Poconos and fish until noon on Friday, then finish the drive up to Pine Creek as some storms blew through.
Friday morning I was up before my alarm and we were quickly on the road. After an uneventful drive we arrived at our first fishing spot, a small mountain freestone stream. Chasing natives is my favorite type of fishing, and I was determined to get my dad on his first brook trout. This particular stream held some notoriously gullible stocked trout as well, so I was confident that he would beat the skunk despite his limited experience. Stepping out of the car, we were greeted with the worst mosquito swarm I have ever experienced. In the time it took me to walk from the driver's side to open the trunk, I had amassed a cloud of skeeters around me. Luckily I brought bug spray and neck buffs... but our exposed hands took a beating all day.
Starting out, fishing was slow. The fish were not highly active in the chill morning hours. I was working with Dad on his casting stroke, line management, reading the water, etc. He was doing his best to stay out of the trees. He had several strikes on a small foam hopper, but couldn't quite get the hook set and keep tension. We approached a small plunge where a rock created a soft pocket at the lip of the upper pool. I directed him to make a short cast to this slower water and get ready to set the hook. He placed the fly on target and a small trout immediately crushed it. This time, he kept tension and I was quick with the net. Success! Just a small one, but the first wild brook trout was in the books.
Moving ahead, we fished a couple large waterfall pools where stocked fish congregate. I tied on a streamer for him and we worked that through the deeper water. Strikes were plentiful and he brought a couple stocked brook trout to the net. He remarked that the bigger stocked fish were fun to catch but they could not match the little wild ones in their color and appearance -- I have to agree. As the rain began to fall, we decided to wrap up fishing one more pool. Dad asked if we would stick with the streamer here or go back to a dry fly. I wanted to show him something a little different. I tied on a mouse pattern and cast it into a mat of foam. After a few slow strips, my mouse vanished in a violent boil. I missed the hook set and recast. I cast to the same position and saw the wake of a different trout cut across the foam. This time I stuck the fish and landed it. One more cast across the pool prompted a take from a big fish (judging from its tail which breached the surface) but this fish wised up quickly and disappeared. I handed the rod off to pops and let him go to work. He was getting the hang of loading the rod on the backcast and managed some nice casts, convincing a couple fish to nip at the mouse. Nothing beats the anticipation of a big topwater blowup, and I thought this style of fishing would remind him of casting whopper ploppers for smallies back home. As the rain came down more heavily, we beat it back to the car, counting the mosquito bites on the way back. Between the bugs and the mouse action, I joked that this was a poor man's Labrador trip.
We finished the drive up to our campsite on Pine, stopping at the Waterville Hotel for a hearty meal. We got the tent set up just in time, as some heavy rain started coming down. Dad brought his fancy pop-up tent with cots and bedrolls. The "Cadillac of tents" he called it. He bought it several years back in anticipation of some river rodeos with my grandpa, but it hadn't been used yet. I was grateful for the deluxe accomodations -- waiting out storms for hours in my backpacking tent would have been a bit claustrophobic.
Morning came and we decided to head over the mountain to Potter county so I could show him "God's Country" for the first time. We headed south on 144 and I stopped at a vacant pull-off. Our entry point to the stream was fairly shallow and featureless, so we started hiking downstream to scout some deeper pools and fish our way back. The first deep run held a large golden rainbow trout in plain sight, which drew my dad in like a moth to a flame. I was fairly certain our downstream approach had alerted this trout to our presence, but we gave it the old college try. After several fly changes, it became apparent that this fish wasn't going to eat. As another fisherman we talked to later in the day quipped, "those fish don't have digestive systems." I picked up a rainbow on a pheasant tail under an indicator. My dad got a few strikes on an elk hair caddis. Before moving on, I took off my float and made a few drifts to the skinny water at the head of the run. My line twitched and I set the hook. A flash of bright blue appeared in the water, and I was confused by what I hooked into. My dad thought it was a piece of trash at first, but I felt a head shake and knew it was a fish. I brought it in and we took a quick photo before releasing it. The photo really doesn't do justice to how bright of a blue this fish looked in the water. I'm guessing it is just a color variation of a rainbow trout, but I've never seen one like it. Curious to hear if others more familiar with this area can share more. We fished one more pool, where Dad caught some chubs and a brown trout on a nymph. He was happy to have finally got on board with the "target species." I picked up some fish on nymphs and streamers, including a few wild brooks, and then we hiked out to the road.
For the afternoon session, we drove further upstream to the headwaters of Kettle. The idyllic scenery can't be beat, and the fishing was good. Dad was starting to get a feel for sneaking up on a run and planning out how to back cast and deliver his fly around the ample deadfall and obstructions. A precise bow and arrow cast earned him a nice trout. At one point, I was pointing out a brown mayfly to him, and it fluttered down to the stream. We watched as a healthy trout porpoised out of the water to slurp the bug. Super cool. Dad understood that a challenge had been declared, but let me try my hand given his trepidation about making the required cast. I debated switching my caddis to a mayfly imitation to "match the hatch" but figured it probably wouldn't matter. Sure enough, the greedy trout happily took my caddis. It wasn't a particularly big or colorful fish, but we were both stoked to land that one. After trekking back to the car, it was time to recharge with some cold beers and a slice of peanut butter pie at the Black Forest Inn.
We rolled back into camp with an hour or less of daylight remaining. We hustled down to the stream to see if we could catch a spinner fall. There were a bunch of what looked to be light cahills flitting about, but not many hitting the water. Rises were sporadic, and I eventually fooled one brown trout into taking a tan spinner. Tired out from a full day of fishing, we called it an early night about half an hour after dark.
Sunday morning dawned and we wanted to make the most of our last half-day of fishing before hitting the road. After packing up camp we headed to a nearby tributary to give my dad a shot at beating his newly set PB wild brookie. The run was tight in places and required some technical casting. An hour in, he had brought fish up but only hooked one which shook off at the net. After a perfect-looking pool gave up nothing on dries, I switched to a streamer and caught a good brook trout with impressive coloration. Soon we approached an unassuming braid where I recollected landing a surprisingly nice fish last year. I convinced him to crawl up slowly on all fours. He may have thought I was being dramatic at first, but any doubts disappeared when a good trout smashed his first bow-and-arrow cast. I netted the fish of ~7 inches and we celebrated his new PB. Dad had one more chance to beat his new record, but a bigger trout which he hooked on a streamer ran him under a log and got him tangled. Oh well, that's fishing.
With our time dwindling, we made one last stop on big Pine. After the technical challenge of the brushy small stream, pops wanted some "easy casting territory." There were some cahills and sulphurs in the air so I tied on my closest match and let him do his best impersonation of Paul Maclean. Fish were rising everywhere, and I could not figure them out. Tons of olives on the water, some brown midges, larger brown mayflies, a few caddis... I went through at least half a dozen flies and never got any interest. I saw a big brown floating at the surface, moving laterally in the current and constantly opening his mouth to slurp down whatever he was keying in on. We were out of time and I was almost out of flies to try. We headed to the tackle shop to grab a sandwich and get some intel for next time.
In a poetic way, ending on a skunking was kind of a return to form for us. Growing up, we fished together pretty often but never seemed to do that well. When he went out with others he'd catch fish, and I would when I went with my friends, but the two of us together rarely had a banner day. I promised him that if he was willing to give fly fishing a shot I would put him on fish, and we accomplished that goal. I had a little bit of apprehension that this trip might feel weird in some way - like I was bossing him around or trying to show off that my new preferred way of fishing was "better" than the ways he taught me growing up. But luckily it wasn't like that at all. He was a fast learner and very appreciative that I wanted to share with him something that I have a passion for. Seeing him light up when he caught his best brook trout, I think he "gets it" now.
