Hitting It Right

Guest Blogger: Guest Blogger: Mary S. Kuss, life-long avid angler, licensed PA fishing
guide (retired), founder of the Delaware Valley Women's Fly Fishing
Association

We fly fishers live in hope of 'hitting it right.' We dream of having all of the pieces of the puzzle fall into place to create what the late, great John Gierach would have called a 'cosmic' fishing experience. If we’re really lucky, good fishing will be further enhanced by beautiful scenery, perfect weather, and the company of good friends. I’ve been blessed to have this happen a few times, and I treasure those memories.

A trip that really stands out for me was to Potter County one spring. The decision to go was impulsive and last-minute. I called Susquehannock Forest Cabins in Oleona, PA, to inquire about renting a small cabin and found that the first available week was in mid-June. This was later in the season than I would have liked, but I figured that some insect or other would be hatching and the fish would be eating them. So, I made my reservation.

If there’s a hatch that most fly fishers hope to hit, it’s the famous Green Drake. This enormous mayfly usually emerges right around Memorial Day, and the hatch should have been over long before my arrival. That year, however, there had been an abnormally cool and wet spring, and all the hatches were about two weeks late. Quite by accident, I hit the Drakes right on the nose.

I had experienced Green Drake emergences before, in several locations. The fish never seemed to be on them, however. I had a theoretical knowledge of why the Drakes were so often ignored by trout as they feasted on the Sulphur and Gray Fox mayflies that were also on the water in greater numbers. It still seemed wrong somehow. I’d seen the Drakes on the Beaverkill River, in the Catskills of New York State. There would be a mix of insects on the water and rising trout. I’d watch as a big, juicy Green Drake dun floated by and drifted the entire length of one of the Beaverkill’s hundred-yard-long pools. I expected it to get eaten at any moment as it flapped and flopped on the water, trying to take flight while running a gauntlet of rising trout, only to see it disappear over the tail-out unscathed.

This time on Kettle Creek, however, things were different. Green Drake duns came off sporadically all afternoon. You could prospect the water with an appropriate fly pattern and have more than enough takes to be interesting. Both the Drakes and the trout became increasingly active as the sun dropped toward the horizon. Each evening, I drove down to the Special Regulations water, and it was clear that the word was out about the hatch. Every pull-out and the parking lot at the bridge was full or nearly so. Having no desire to fish in a crowd, I’d drive back to Oleona and take my chances on the non-regulated water. I’d usually have it to myself and caught sufficient size and numbers of trout to satisfy me.

A few times, I’ve been in the right place at the right time to fish over an emergence of Periodical Cicadas. You’ll have to forgive me for not outing the locations. I got into these situations mostly by luck, and in one case when a gentleman I met while tying at a Pennsylvania Fly Fishing Museum event very kindly shared where the Cicadas were present along a nearby stream. I’ve kept this knowledge largely to myself ever since, but in the age of the Internet, there are no secret fishing spots anymore. Still, why contribute to this indiscriminate proliferation of where-to-go info? The trick is to balance one’s desire to share with the feeling that no one should be expected to give away everything they know.

The first time I hit the Periodicals was the Brood XIV emergence in 2008. This was also by dumb luck, completely unplanned. From the time the sun hit the tree canopy in the morning, the song of the Cicadas was, if not quite deafening, loud enough that I was grateful when it ceased as the sun set. It sounded like a fleet of alien spacecraft. A perpetually rising and falling Wheeee-Oooooh announced their search for mates. Big trout that would normally feed only from dusk to dawn were on the prowl for Cicadas all day long. The insects were everywhere. You could walk along streamside paths and pick them from the bushes like berries. I often found them crawling on me. I’m not easily creeped out by bugs, but you can imagine what it was like to feel their prickly claws on the back of my neck.

On the final morning of the trip, I hooked by far the largest trout I’ve ever had on my line. I’d seen monster trout before in this creek, holding in lies along rock ledges during daylight hours, apparently comatose. I referred to them as Torpedoes. As my Cicada imitation drifted under the overhanging branches of a small streamside willow, a huge Brown Trout loomed up under my fly and casually sipped it in. I set the hook, and the fish leaped upward, nearly tangling my leader in the willow branches, then tore off upstream. Before I could catch up, it had wrapped my leader around an obstruction. Efforts to dislodge it failed, and the big trout snapped my leader with a toss of its massive head. Mental images of this event are still vivid.

Such spectacular experiences are special to us because of their rarity. We collect them gradually as we progress on our own unique fly fishing journey. I once asked a friend, who was both a fly fisher and a psychologist by profession, what it was that made fly fishing so compelling and addictive. She didn’t hesitate a moment before replying, “Intermittent gratification.” It’s the same phenomenon that leads to compulsive gambling. You know a reward will come eventually, but not when. So you just keep trying over and over again, always hoping for the next big hit.