Penn-siberia

 

    Upon looking at a supposedly "spring-fed" local trout stream completely iced up from the pools to the rapids, with the soft white aura of anchor ice along the bottom, I immediately began to wonder what crimes I've committed to deserve exile in such a frigid, unforgiving environment. I then decided that was an overly dramatic platitude and that considering the absurd amount of blue lines on the map where I live in Pennsylvania, It was within the realm of probability that I could find some open water and willing fish. 

    Luckily, true spring-fed streams won't ever ice up, not even in the most cold and crystalline temperatures they'll stay wide open from the fired warmth of the center of the mountains and the springs that reside within. I drove East away from the river of slush and eventually ended up on a picturesque PA spring-fed stream without a lick of ice on the surface. 

    Spring creeks are true trout factories, especially here in the limestone belt where the low pH cooks up a delicious batch of scuds, mayflies, caddis, stoneflies, and a smorgasbord of other aquatic macroinvertebrates moving slowly along the buffet-line right into the hungry maws of fattened brown trout. The laziness is part of their trade-off, with spring creek fish becoming much more technical and picky with your presentation. 

    I started off with a black stonefly under a bobber, ticking it through a deep boulder-strewn pool. It dipped, I lifted, and was soon connected by the magical thread of a fly line to a decent brown trout. 

    However, as this was a Friday evening, post-class, Alan-avoiding-personal-responsibility-to-fish type of outing, I was soon limited by the waning daylight as it sunk into that golden hour. I rigged my streamer rod up and began to throw a twisty-tailed brownado, smacking it against every piece of available structure. 

    I chucked my streamer underneath a bridge from which I've narry seen a trout over 12 inches. My first cast, a brown trout I'd estimate to be well over 20 follows it back, tracking my fly in a streamline all the way to the bank, where I proceeded to completely whiff my shot by flipping my fly upstream, getting my line tangled around the two hooks, when which the trout then realizes its folly and spooks off. 

    A few casts later under an overhanging bush, a 20 inch rainbow whacks my fly with the kind of vigor expected from a fish half his size in water about 20 degrees warmer. I barely even needed whatever panicked spasm passed for a hookset before I brought the fish to hand after a short battle. 

    After wetting my hands to land that fish, my fingers soon lost all connection with their central nervous system and failed to serve their motoric functions. I tapped out, called it an evening. The fish still need to eat though, so go out and ramble yonder in the cold and the snow, up and down the mountains trying to fool the denizens of traveling water.