Big Fishing Blog

I hate winter. Yeah I know, it’s a great time to get your fishing gear in shape and replenish your box but I’d rather be fishing than attending to the necessary chores. The holidays get me through the early part, but as the winter doldrums set in I become a real mess. Once in awhile I enjoy a poetic glimpse of winter, like when I’m blessed with an overnight snowfall on a late, Sunday morning, munching bagels as the coffee coffee brews in the kitchen. But usually I’m fixed on the monochromatic mood of the season and I long for the sun.

This year we’ve enjoyed a rather mild winter; so far anyway. I normally try to fish all year. But after being snowbound for weeks my cabin fever finally triggers a primordial urge to go forth to hunt and gather. If this urge could talk I think it would say, “Ugga ugga uug. It’s cold as hell. Let us seek out plenty of food for warmth and nourishment.” I rarely keep my fish but I do speak primordial urge fluently.

In Pennsylvania, the rolling hills are populated with a wide variety of deciduous trees. During the winter months, after their final autumn blaze, the trees become barren and skinny, a sea of gray apparitions. Penn’s woods include Oak, Walnut, Hickory, Maple, Birch, Poplar, Mountain Laurel, and Dogwood; to name a few. Mountain Laurel our state tree, a familiar presence along many streams, can be found in higher altitudes and its waxy, verdant disposition helps me through the bleak winter season.
These Mountain Laurel veins flow evergreen, down barren gray hills, playfully mirroring the cascading streams that dance beneath their canopy. Up north, Pennsylvania’s central region has a rich heritage based around the hardwoods, mostly second growth, though anyone armed with some knowledge can find some remnants of our old-growth past. The Pine Creek watershed is in the heart of this region, it’s home to a pair of famous runs; Slate and Cedar, two genuine beauties, well worth a visit.
Charles Meck, provides an excellent section on these lovely runs in his book, “Trout Streams and Hatches of Pennsylvania”, considered by many to be Pennsylvania’s hatch bible. John Gierach, visiting Spring Creek, gave us the following tribute to Meck’s influence, “It’s a book that’s not uncommon even in the West, but I saw tattered copies of it on the front seats of every fishing car I looked into in Pennsylvania. That’s deeply impressive to a writer.”
In the Pine creek area, you’ll find old logging roads that crawl along, not so famous, deep and narrow hollows. These tributaries are filled with native Brook Trout and plenty of rattlers. This time of year I watch the naked, skinny trees like a famished hawk. By March I see the hills begin to transform as the trees nudge their buds, making the hillsides appear fuzzy and soft. My anxious yearly vigil for this red bud debut conjures up visions of magical clouds above tickling riffles, and I find my thoughts traveling south of lumber country to the farmland region of central Pennsylvania; limestone country, the fly fishing Mecca of wild brown trout and Amish farms. It is this region where I find blissful refuge.

Fuzzy buds equal fuzzy nymphs. It’s during this period that Pennsylvania fly fishing calls for a more workmanlike technique - nymphing. Slinging a bit of lead is good for the soul. It keeps us true to our roots. After all, didn’t we all start out as 6-year old, bait dunking, bluegill fishermen? It makes me appreciate those magical, dry fly fishing, moments even more. Really I’m not so opposed to it, especially since I’ve learned that most of a trout’s buffet is subterranean, even during a hatch. I guess dry fly fishing is a bit like vacationing, “This is the life! I could do this forever. pour me another one.” On the other hand nymphing pays the bills and you have to crack open your own can of beer.

I normally use small sizes for early season nymphing, and most of the time general searching patterns. I fish them slowly, with a diligent, methodical approach. Red buds, and deep bottom bouncing fuzzy nymphs - that’s my early season ticket. Of course as soon as I dial in this tactic, something magical occurs, usually in the form of a hatch, once more reminding me how much I truly love this sport. When the trees are fuzzy the dancing mayflies aren’t far behind.

Leo Vensel