Shenandoah National Park - First Day - Spring 2006

I've been looking for a place to fish for a weekend....so when Simon suggested heading off to Shenandoah National Park, I agreed instantly. We left Thursday, moteled in Luray late that evening, and camped two nights in the Park (returning Sunday).

To a post-modern sensibility, Shenandoah National Park seems bizarre. Created during the Hoover administration from land which had been heavily timbered and farmed, the Park is organized around "Skyline Drive" - a two-lane road tracking 105 miles along Virginia's famed Blue Ridge. This is the eastern-most ridge of the Southern Appalacians, dividing the Shenandoah Valley from the coastal plain. Who today would dream of building a road right down the high ridge of a wilderness area? But at the time, it must have seemed like a model of "modern" thinking, the ultimate marriage of the automobile and nature-preservation. And, of course, at the time no one objected to building a road through clear-cut woodlands and marginal subsistence-farmsteads purchased at Depression prices.

No doubt Hoover's love of fly fishing played a large role in the creation of the park. The Rapidan originates right in its center, near mile 52 of Skyline Drive, and Camp Hoover, where that President spent most weekends during fishing season, is a short hike down.

The Park, along with some other Virginia highlands in the George Washington National Forest, is home to some of the best native brook trout habitat anywhere in the US. These are the most southerly of the few areas rated "intact" by the Eastern Brook Trout Coalition. The last weekend in April seemed an ideal time to visit, and much more congenial for camping than upper New York State, or northern New England, even in an unusually warm spring.

Leading up to the trip, our biggest concern was water-levels which had been tracking at near cataclysmic drought-conditions until major rains hit the week before, and restored flows to near normal levels. As it turned out, the streams were fishing beautifully, with just enough flow to riffle the surface of many major pools...helping the fisherman approach without spooking trout, yet low enough to put most structures into play.

Our other concern was other fisherman. Would we be fighting with others for space on the streams? We decided to fish one of the well-publicized streams on Friday. But we chose to walk further than we figured most fishermen would venture: a trail followed the river near its headwaters, but there were a couple of miles of stream that were trail-less. We bushwhacked in from a woods road. As it turned out, we saw no-one. And judging from the lack of a track along the banks, few fishermen seem to ever venture in this far.

Following a 90 minute hike, we reached the stream around noon. The water was superb. The first pool we came to, a massive plunge pool in a steep gorge, held 6 fish that we could see. Three, 7-9", in quiet water near the tail. Three, larger, milling about in a deep, riffled section in the throat.

I covered the first few fish in the tail. But they seemed to have no interest in my fly (I started with a parachute Adams) and then moved to the bottom. No doubt spooked by our lines.

As we watched, one of the fish in the throat rose to take a natural on the surface.

Simon cast there a couple of times. The fish which had risen tracked his fly, but didn't offer. The other two fish ignored it completely. After a couple of more attempts, Simon reluctantly gave up.

In the meantime, I had lengthened my tippet and switched my fly to a #16 elk hair caddis with tan wings and black body. I cast to the same fish as Simon. It tracked my fly a few yards, then slowly rose, virtually to the surface. But whether it was micro-drag, or something about my fly, it ultimately held back in one of those infuriating moments in fly fishing that keeps us engaged in the sport.

I tried a few more times, but it never offered, or even showed serious interest again. Then one of the fish in the tail, a lovely 8" brook trout, seemed to take an interest in my fly as I retrieved it across the tail. I popped a short cast on his head, and up he came. So I caught my first fish in the first structure after all.

The next two hours were spotty, in much the same way. In retrospect, we probably should have been nymphing. But there was just enough surface action to keep us on the dries. After two hours of hard work we'd only caught 2 or 3 fish each.

Then around 2 PM the fishing seemed to "switch on". Now it seemed that every decent drift onto quiet water produced a strike. Simon was fishing a March Brown, and I stayed with the Caddis, but it didn't seem to matter, though for some reason I was having trouble hooking up. I'd stimulate 6 strikes on a single pool, hook 3 fish, and land 1.

Still it was great fun. Over time, my ratio of fish landed to strikes improved. Strikes were so common that I still lost count of the fish landed....and when they came to hand they were breathtakingly beautiful.

At 4 o'clock I realized we were in no man's land. Like idiots, we hadn't brought a compass or food, much less a GPS, though we did have a topo map. We were somewhere in the middle of a gorge with no obvious exit. The fire road we'd taken in, that roughly paralleled the stream, was now a tough half-mile through steep, brushy woods, traversing the towering valley wall, at least 400 vertical feet above us. To attempt the walk out this way seemed barely do-able in an emergency, but risky as hell. Heading back the way we came wasn't an attractive option, either. We'd have to clambor back over the stream bed for a couple of hours, to where the valley broadened out a bit, then bushwhack up to the fire road, and then make the long hike back to Skyline Drive.

No, the best option seemed to continue forward to meet up with the trail that followed the headwaters. But it was an unknown distance, perhaps a mile or more, and the streambed itself was steep, bouldery, and overgrown. We alternated between picking our way along the stream, and climbing higher up the banks to avoid obstacles, hoping to find a use path, or an abandoned woods road that didn't show on the topo maps. In vain.

We had long since abandonned fishing, and were now focused on exiting before dark. The prospect of a night spent outdoors without food or shelter, and with only a thin rain shell for warmth was unpalatable in the extreme. We determined that if we hadn't found the trail by 6, we'd venture the bushwhack to the fire road.

The constant climb over boulders, through torrents, over fallen trees, and overgrown banks was taking its toll on us, as was the emotional tension of the situation. I fell a few times, too tired to step as carefully as I should; but luckily I fell onto soft ground every time.

Finally, around 5:20, we found the landmark we'd been looking for, a tributary joining the main stream. Then, finally, a use path started to track the left bank, making the going easier. And at 5:40, we finally reached the trail which travelled like a super-highway compared to the streambed.

As soon as we reached the trail, we relaxed, despite the hour hike that lay before us. We realized we'd completed a peak experience, one we'd remember for the rest of our lives.