Fishing the Jackson

Salvation on Mossy Creek

This is actually the first fishing story I wrote. It was for a writing contest I didn't win. Since I didn't win the prize or publication I figured this was the right place to share the story. Thanks for reading. rick

I was as new to fly fishing as a Mayfly dun drying his wings in the sun. Besides a handful of bream and a few juvenile Smallmouth my fly fishing experience was limited to a couple of trips to the mountain streams of Virginia. I had fished the Rapidan and Rose Rivers, and by the grace of God and a Parachute Adams, managed to hook two native Brook Trout on each river. Catching a couple of natives on a dry fly in Shenandoah National Park can fill a novice with confidence that defies the truth about the catch – stumbling into a pool and making a clumsy cast on a leader too big for dries made it just short of a miracle the skittish Brook Trout had been caught at all.

But, the reality of a situation is often not seen until much later. All I knew was that I’d caught native trout on a dry fly… twice! I was a fly fisherman. More than that, I was a trout fly fisherman. I had done it, and I could do it again. My pride, my confidence, was full. I was just waiting for that next trip.

Later that summer the next trip came. My good friend and fishing buddy, Chuck, invited me to fly fish for trout at a place called Mossy Creek. I jumped at the chance; after-all I was a trout fisherman now. Mossy Creek is one of Virginia’s most famous trout streams. A spring-fed creek, it runs not over mountain boulders and rocks but through rolling valleys and meadows of private farm land. It’s a special regulation stream – no live bait, no wading, fly fishing only, catch and release. It is known for its trophy Brown and Rainbow Trout, and for being deceptively difficult. When I told my more experienced fly fishing neighbor about my plans he simply shook his head and sighed, “Mmm… The Mossy is tough.” No problem, I can do it. I’m a trout fisherman. So I thought.

We arrived at the Mossy early. It was a beautiful August morning. The sun was bright, the day full of potential. Gearing up, we could hear the bloop-bloop of trout steadily feeding on the morning Trico hatch. My heart raced as we crossed the bridge to the public side of the creek. This is why I came, to catch trout. There they were, just steps from the parking lot eagerly rising to a hatch my friend told me would happen. I was ready.

Stepping off the road and onto the trampled grass of the farm, over the electric fencing that kept the cows out of the creek, we approached the water. I was fishing a small Trico dry fly on a 9 foot, 4X leader with a 5X tippet. We quietly walked to the bank and made our first cast just steps from the bridge. Small white flies were hatching and gently floating away. Trout steadily sipped them off the surface as they emerged to take flight. The water low and clear, I could see the fish in their feeding stations darting to the emerging flies every few seconds. I’m using the right leader, the right fly; I can see the trout rising. I can do this. Heart racing I make several casts. “Nice cast. Nice drift,” my friend Chuck tells me. I’m doing this right. Any cast now. My fly drifts right between two trout. One leaves his station and rushes toward my fly. He rises, inspects it carefully, then returns to his station. I make more casts. I drift the fly directly over a trout, watch in excitement as he rises, only to take an emerging fly right next to my offering. I switch to a small Parachute Adams and make several more casts. Still nothing. A Blue Wing Olive - nothing. The hatch faded as the August sun turned morning to midday. Hours had been spent fishing rising trout and not a one was landed. We decided to stop for lunch. I wasn’t defeated, but I had started to doubt.

After lunch, we crossed the bridge again and fished our way up the creek. Each of us tied on a Dave’s Hopper for the afternoon terrestrials. Grasshoppers were all over the place. This had to work. Within minutes Chuck landed a Brown Trout. His skunk was off. Mine was just starting to stink.

Looking at Mossy Creek, it’s easy to think casting shouldn’t be a challenge since there are no trees along much of the bank. This couldn’t be farther from the truth. That hot afternoon I found every way possible to hang up my fly. I snagged the mossy grass in the middle of the creek. The 5x tippet broke off and the hopper was lost. Too long of a back cast and the three feet tall weeds behind me grabbed the line and tangled my fly. The one stick in a wide-open stretch was somehow hooked, stranding the fly. The no wading rule made flies snagged in the middle of the creek out of reach and lost. An old fence post appeared from nowhere to grab my back cast and knock it down along with the rest of my confidence. I set down my rod, took off my vest, and sat on the ground leaning against the fence post. Just about every fly in my box had been tried and the closest I had come to landing a fish was a roll at my hopper that couldn’t be hooked. I was hot, tired, and dejected. I guess I was wrong. I can’t do this. I guess I need to fly fish for bass. Trout are hard and far away. It turns out I’m no trout fisherman. Meanwhile I hear the excited shout of, “Fish on!” as my friend lands his sixth trout.

There are two stretches to the public section of the Mossy, an upper and lower section. Having had enough of the upper section I headed back to the truck alone. Chuck approached with the light step of someone who has caught multiple fish. Afternoon was winding on but he wanted to fish that lower section before we left. We drove to the next bridge crossing and dropped down. I tied on another hopper figuring I had nothing to lose… I couldn’t catch any less fish. The lower section of the Mossy is known for having bigger trout hiding elusively in small pools and grassy runs. The challenge is that the banks are steep with lots of brush. Promising looking spaces often offer no way to actually reach the water. The no wading rule looms large over this stretch. We walked and fished. The best sections of water are the hardest to reach. Several casts and nothing for either of us. I can’t do this. I’m done. I want to go home. The Mossy had won.

Walking to catch up with Chuck, I passed a nice little stretch that seemed to call out to me. It was a nice brush-covered, washed-out bank with a small clearing to drop to the water’s edge just in case. I dropped the hopper over the brush into the run. As if in slow motion, a large silver head thrust out of the water, hammered the hopper and smacked the water with its tail as it raced back into the pool. In shock and excitement I raised the rod as the slack turned to tension and the tip bent. The trout made a run down stream, the reel singing that sweet song of line being stripped off by a runaway fish. My heart raced with excitement and fear. I’ve got a fish on! A nice one! I can’t lose this fish!

Chuck heard the splashes of the trout trying to throw the hopper and rushed over with his net. “Let him run. Strip in, strip in. Keep him out of that brush. You can do it. Keep the tension on the line.” The trout made a series of runs up and down the narrow stream. We dropped down the small clearing I had eyed and stood on the water’s edge. The trout was wearing out and I carefully pulled him close to the shore, still fearing a last burst that could set him free. Chuck reached out and I guided the trout safely into the net. Grabbing the net, I rushed up the bank letting out a thunderous “Whoo hooo!!!” It was a beautiful Rainbow Trout. I quickly measured it – 14 inches. Far from a trophy, but a giant to me. I knelt on the ground and held the fish with my fly rod across my lap. Chuck quickly took some pictures. Thank you Lord. I took another long look at the trout and carefully set him back in the creek thanking him quietly for letting me catch him. He disappeared into the same hole from which he had so dramatically appeared.

I climbed up the bank a new man. Chuck patted me on the back as I picked up my rod. The excitement turned to relief. Exhaustion overtaken by adrenaline. As a trout fisherman I had been born again. All of the dejection, doubt, and despair of that long day had been washed away in one moment of hooking, fighting, and landing that Rainbow. The rest of the words of my neighbor came to mind, “The Mossy is tough. If you catch one fish on the Mossy you’ve had a good day.” I had caught one fish. It was a great fish… and it was a great day. I was still a fly fisherman. I was still a trout fly fisherman. In that one fish my trout fishing career had been saved. I had done it. I would do it again. Salvation on Mossy Creek.

copyright 2009 rick ridpath