It had been more than a year since I last caught trout on the fly. Graduating from college, commissioning into the Army, and the resultant orders left me a day’s drive from the nearest mountain stream. Too much work and too little fishing meant that on my first leave home, I needed some time to reflect. I wanted to slow down and fish for more than just bragging rights or the inevitable social media post that follows all successful days on the water. There was no better place to do that than my uncle’s secret brookie stream.
The creek sits hidden in Virginia’s highlands. No more than ten feet across, it is where I learned to bow-and-arrow cast, roll cast, and the patience born from innumerable tangles and snags. I experienced my first Hardy reel and split-cane rod on its waters. Most importantly, it is the place where I learned what it meant to be a sportsman. From my uncle, then my dad, and now to me, this stream has taught and entertained three generations of fly fishermen.
My uncle told stories of big brook trout and a once-thriving community along the stream. You’d never know it now. Only century-old stone walls remain, still marking the boundaries of ruined homesteads and dormant apple orchards. But time was kinder to the community fifteen miles north of the creek. The town hosts a country store with book-filled shelves, tourist maps, and the best cornbread in Virginia. I went there to see if my uncle’s old stories had any records in the region’s history books. Lucky for me, I found an account of the lost creekside community by a local historian. I decided the best place to read it was on the stream itself.
With book in hand and a two-mile hike later, I arrived at the last traces of the old community. An abandoned farmhouse and barn, nestled in a clearing by what was once an orchard, still sits astride the trout-abundant cascades of a little stream. A rocky outcrop formed a seat, and the canopy shielded the June heat as I read.
The book was full of legends of sachems and settlers who believed this valley to be the haunt of spirits, nymphs, and fairies. Even the Cherokee who hunted these parts associated the creek, rich in sacred quartz-crystal, with religious properties. My uncle’s tales were right – the community even hosted a circus, complete with an elephant, at the turn of the last century. By the Great Depression, the apple orchards’ profits began to fade, and with it the old town’s population. Now, just one house remains.
The story that stood out the most was about a few local boys who used dynamite to blow a twenty-inch brook trout out of its hole. Nowadays, these fish aren’t much for size. Fifteen inches is my uncle’s record. But what they lack in stature, they make up for in beauty. The intricate markings on their backs form maps to their speckled bodies. Blue halos surround vibrant reds that scatter over a background of forest greens and orange bellies.
As the Caddis started to hatch, I put up my book and got back on the trail to the headwaters. A few tangles and a couple new flies later, I at last made contact between brookie, fly, line, and net. Few fish are as deliberate as wild brook trout. One too many false casts, one negligent shadow or misplaced step, and your chances to meet him are gone. These fish will turn their tails to mock their would-be captors for the slightest mishap. This happens more than we like to admit.
When the mountain laurel became too thick and the rocks too steep, I knew it was time to add this day to the books. Watching the stone walls disappear back into the overgrown landscape, I thought that maybe the best way to preserve these days is to write them down. I have no kids or grandkids. I’m certainly not as old or storied as the anglers who taught me to fish. But even the stories our uncles and grandfathers told had to start somewhere before we canonized them into outdoor legend. Maybe, I reckoned, if I put memory to paper then these days might inspire those who come after me.
Crossing the bridge to my car, I found a stump reaching out of the bank that looked good enough to call a seat. I took out my sporting journal and, thinking back on my day, I wrote:
On the Trail Again
Rod in hand, I begin the walk,
"On the trail again" with just my thoughts.
Mountain Laurel and orchards abound,
Scenting the forest all around.
Stone walls line the winding road,
And harken back to times of old.
A derelict barn yet remains --
Remnants of memory not in vain.
But for all of man's deep footprint,
The Brook Trout here do not lament.
Neither fly, machine, nor age
Dismantles their ancient stay.
"On the trail again" I cast my line,
With plenty of trout to bide my time.
It’s days of reflection like this one that define us as sportsmen. The time we spend and the memories we make become our heritage and inform our future – they are worth remembering.
About the Author
Harrison is an officer in the United States Army. He grew up hunting and fishing on his family’s 300 year-old farm. When he’s not in uniform, he’s either fly fishing, running his dogs, or reading about some combination of both. You can find his thoughts and photography on Instagram @idol.hour.
