River Hunting

» Trying to hook a brook trout is a thrill for
fishermen looking for a challenge.

BY JEREMIAH KNUPP

Anyone who thinks that fishing is not a spectator sport has never been hypnotized by the casts of an experienced practitioner of the fly rod. I realize this as I sit crouched on the edge of the the Dry River observing professional fly fishing guide Brian Trow. The falling sun illuminates the off-green line as it makes its lazy arch behind Trow’s back, before a snap of the wrist pulls the line in the opposite direction, dropping the fly precisely and as effortlessly as a lifelong tobacco chewer can hit a spittoon across the room. The rushing of the river provides an ambient symphony with Trow’s fly rod the conductor’s baton.

The target of his cast is a fish as fascinating, as special and as beautiful as the technique that Trow uses to catch it: the native brook trout, a fish whose story is as old as the Valley itself. Not a true trout, but actually a member of the char family, brook trout were brought south by the ice age and were trapped in the streams and rivers of the Valley when the glaciers receded. Virginia’s only native species of trout (browns and rainbows were introduced), they were once present in all of the waters that flow through the Valley. The arrival of the Europeans and their clearing of the land pushed the trout back into protected mountain streams. Now, only 2 percent of the state’s waterways are adequate for the fish’s survival.

“Virginia is one of the last havens for brook trout,” Trow says. “Virginia has more miles of brook trout water than any other state, besides New York. In the Valley we’re flanked by trout water. If you drive east or if you drive west you’re going to run into trout streams.”

Trow, who co-owns the Harrisonburg business Mossy Creek Fly Fishing with his twin brother Colby, has made fishing his career for nearly a decade. When he’s not manning the shop, he takes clients from around the country on guided trips on Valley waters for everything from bass to carp.

On the River The first spot that Trow selects for our brook trout outing is hot. He’s rewarded with a catch nearly every time his fly hits the water.

“I didn’t scout this place beforeshand, honest,” he says, despite the fact that he’s catching fish like he’s in front of an Outdoor Channel camera.

Though he’s fished salt water and fresh water around the world, Trow admits that going after “brookies” in Valley streams is his favorite type of fishing.

“Brook trout fishing is ‘sight’ fishing,” Trow says. “It’s a lot more like hunting than it is like fishing. You’re not sitting on a bank watching a bobber. Seeing a fish come out of the water to hit your fly, I don’t care how big it is, if you’re not into that then you’re not a fisherman.”

Though native brook trout average between 6 to 12 inches long, they put up a fight, challenging anglers, especially if they use light tackle. March through June is prime brook trout season, but natives can be pursued year round.

“Even if you go to the same piece of water over and over again, it’s never the same place twice,” Trow adds. “Brook trout fishing takes you to pretty places. It’s always quiet and peaceful and you’re catching what is, in my opinion, the prettiest fish there is.”

Our first brook catches this afternoon are stocked brookies,  identified by their muted colors and fins that have been rubbed off from living in the crowded confines of a hatchery run. These newly stocked fish don’t make the state’s 7-inch creel limit and are returned to the water. But for Trow, all fishing is catch and release; even the biggest trophies are kept just long enough for a quick photo. It’s a growing trend among brook trout fishermen, who know the fish they catch are a finite resource.

Threats What is the biggest threat to native trout? Trow answers my question with a silent nod of his head at the two fishermen who recently arrived at our spot. In the span of a few minutes they’ve shared our luck, but instead of returning the undersized fish to the water, they place them in their cooler.

“People talk about over-fishing the oceans and that’s a hard concept for people to understand,” Trow says, “but when you explain to them that if you catch all the trout in a small pool high in the mountains, those fish are gone forever, it’s a concept that’s easier to grasp.”

Humans also threaten native brook trout indirectly. Acid rain from carbon emissions disrupts the stream’s fragile pH balance. Agriculture run off causes plant and algae growth that robs the water of its oxygen content. Warming temperatures raise summer waters above the 70-degree mark required for trout survival, and droughts dry up the small isolated pools that the brook trout call home.

As we move upstream in search of the native non-stocked brook trout, the fishing isn’t so easy. We continue moving, hoping to find that one perfect spot. Trow adapts his technique. He switches flies. It’s all part of the thrill of fishing for native brook trout.

“Exploring is the heart of brook trout fishing,” Trow says. “You’re always wondering what’s around that next bend. Sometimes you go out planning to fish for an hour, and by the time you hike back out you’ve spent hours. Sometimes you’ll find a spot where the water’s nearly dried up, and you’d swear that all the trout are dead. But you’ll come back later when the water’s up and there’ll be 50 fish in the same pool.”

The ability to survive. The ability to adapt. It’s those unexplainable, genetic skills that have helped brook trout survive in the mountain streams of western Virginia, skills that will continue to make them the ultimate challenge for Valley anglers.