Rare Birds & A Frog Full Moon
My Sunday solo trip to the Wissahickon Valley yesterday exceeded my expectations in every way, including the fly fishing!
The cowslip (marsh marigold) were in full bloom and carpeted the valley's forest floor from the trail down to the creek. There were tiny wild violets and pansies, buttercups, and the signature single leaf umbrellas of numerous mayapples. The trees were immense and sighed from the very tops whenever the breeze blew, which was steadily, all day. Most of the trees were either in full flower or covered with delicate new leaves, colored a green as bright as fresh limes.
The air resounded all day with an eerie chorus of frogs. These spring plumpers sang a simple song; a resonant, metallic drone, one which sounded like the engines of a hovering U.F.O. The gray day and a full moon sent the mating song up to full volume. A few brave amphibious suitors even swam across the creek in plain sight. I was not the only one intrigued by these sounds and sights. A rare green heron -- the shy and diminutive cousin of the great blue heron -- casually joined me on the cobblestones along the water as it hunted for those same frogs. This bird, in flight, resembled a large purple kingfisher. Standing, streamside, it resembled one of the bird men depicted in the paintings of Flemish artist, Hieronymous Bosch. I also heard a raucous call from the brown leaf fall on hillside above. My camera was out of film by this point, but I used the telephoto for a better look and saw, to my birder's delight, a very rare pileated woodpecker. It's large size, handsome red crest, and fluttering flight reminded me of a prehistoric rooster.
The creek was clear and a bit low for this time of year. The stretch I fished had several gravel and cobblestone bars and the stream flowed in chutes between these outcrops; nice fly fishing water. I tied on one of my pattent patterns, a size 14 pheasant and orange wet fly, and this one lured a 10 -inch brown trout around 12:12 p.m. -- my first of the year! The strike was gentle, yet the fish's fight was all muscle. I brought the bright speckled brown to my side, and as it lay sideways in the water, I snapped a photo before a muscular twist sent it swimming to freedom. I later caught two plump redbreast sunfish on the same fly, and then switched to a Mickey Finn streamer, purchased at a Pocono's fly shop the previous week. That fly lured another, even larger, hand-sized redbreast sunfish.
I closed the day with a refreshing drink of water from the spring house beside the rusticated stone of the old Mt. Airy bridge. The bright faces of the marsh marigold and buttercups cheered, me. Still, the frogs's song and the ancient face of the spring house conjured up the spirits of the ghosts in the valley. I quickly mounted my mountain bike and sped off happy, tired, a little bit scared, and still accompanied by the full moon blues of the frogs.
My Sunday solo trip to the Wissahickon Valley yesterday exceeded my expectations in every way, including the fly fishing!
The cowslip (marsh marigold) were in full bloom and carpeted the valley's forest floor from the trail down to the creek. There were tiny wild violets and pansies, buttercups, and the signature single leaf umbrellas of numerous mayapples. The trees were immense and sighed from the very tops whenever the breeze blew, which was steadily, all day. Most of the trees were either in full flower or covered with delicate new leaves, colored a green as bright as fresh limes.
The air resounded all day with an eerie chorus of frogs. These spring plumpers sang a simple song; a resonant, metallic drone, one which sounded like the engines of a hovering U.F.O. The gray day and a full moon sent the mating song up to full volume. A few brave amphibious suitors even swam across the creek in plain sight. I was not the only one intrigued by these sounds and sights. A rare green heron -- the shy and diminutive cousin of the great blue heron -- casually joined me on the cobblestones along the water as it hunted for those same frogs. This bird, in flight, resembled a large purple kingfisher. Standing, streamside, it resembled one of the bird men depicted in the paintings of Flemish artist, Hieronymous Bosch. I also heard a raucous call from the brown leaf fall on hillside above. My camera was out of film by this point, but I used the telephoto for a better look and saw, to my birder's delight, a very rare pileated woodpecker. It's large size, handsome red crest, and fluttering flight reminded me of a prehistoric rooster.
The creek was clear and a bit low for this time of year. The stretch I fished had several gravel and cobblestone bars and the stream flowed in chutes between these outcrops; nice fly fishing water. I tied on one of my pattent patterns, a size 14 pheasant and orange wet fly, and this one lured a 10 -inch brown trout around 12:12 p.m. -- my first of the year! The strike was gentle, yet the fish's fight was all muscle. I brought the bright speckled brown to my side, and as it lay sideways in the water, I snapped a photo before a muscular twist sent it swimming to freedom. I later caught two plump redbreast sunfish on the same fly, and then switched to a Mickey Finn streamer, purchased at a Pocono's fly shop the previous week. That fly lured another, even larger, hand-sized redbreast sunfish.
I closed the day with a refreshing drink of water from the spring house beside the rusticated stone of the old Mt. Airy bridge. The bright faces of the marsh marigold and buttercups cheered, me. Still, the frogs's song and the ancient face of the spring house conjured up the spirits of the ghosts in the valley. I quickly mounted my mountain bike and sped off happy, tired, a little bit scared, and still accompanied by the full moon blues of the frogs.
