New Horizons Before Dawn

Editor’s Note: We have a bit of a milestone post here – the first time that a contributing writer has been featured on the blog. This essay was written by my good friend and longtime follower of TPLFF, Dean Kuettel. Look for content from the both of us in the future; I hope that this is the first of many and that TPLFF can become a collaborative platform for like-minded fly fisherman and their writing. – Sam

The game has changed. No longer do I have familiar water, those bends in the stream that I know as though I had designed them. No longer do I feel confident in my local entomology. No longer do I feel like fly fishing is second nature. Most importantly, no longer do I have my partner just upstream. These realities hang in the air beside me as I begin the discouraged drive back from a fruitless day of fishing in western Pennsylvania.

A lot of folks change their major during their undergraduate education. My particular change from chemical engineering to Catholic theology happened to land me on the eastern border of Ohio, in the town of Steubenville. Now, Ohio is no country for the trout enthusiast, however the Pennsylvania state line is only a short drive from campus, which means that there is plenty for a recent transplant from Minnesota to do; Pittsburgh is close, and there are plenty of trails to hike on the western side of Pennsylvania. These were on my mind when I took my first visit to campus last October, but so was a more important passion: fly fishing Pennsylvania water. The local fly shop was the subject of my route the first time I crossed the Pennsylvania state line. Since officially moving in last month, fly fishing has been at the forefront of my mind, manifesting itself in the drawings of flies and riverbeds in the margins of my philosophy notebook. One hike on the banks of a trouty looking creek was enough to get me to the fly shop for the down-low on where to start this long journey.

When I came to Pennsylvania, I left behind the pair of leaky waders that were so familiar to me as a subtle sign of change (new waders, new me?), but also from necessity. With the wise words of Sam in my ears, “It’ll be pricey but worth it. Buy once, cry once”, I left the International Angler with a new pair of Simms waders and the advice that would take me down the rabbit hole that fly fishing is: a stream name. Now, I learned very early on in my career that the names of the best streams are secrets well kept (see Hooked: The Magic of that First Trout). With this in mind, I was skeptical of what I would find the following weekend when I finally hit water.

My morning started with a quick breakfast, stale coffee, and a sunrise on the road. A last minute change of plans led me to a smaller stream near the originally suggested location. Boyish impatience led me to choose a day that was 10 degrees, knowing that the following day was going to be in the 40’s. With the confidence in the cold of a proud Minnesotan, I pulled off the road to take a look at the water. What I saw looked like everything that I could have hoped for: an Allegheny River tributary dancing through the mountain valley in grace, with a freestone bed and water that riffled. Having apologized to Sam in advance, I tied on a nymph with… dare I say… a “Squirmy Wormy” dropper. I suited up, said the customary prayer in thanksgiving for safe travels, a petition for a deeper appreciation for creation, and started implementing the new tactics that I had seen practiced by a favorite group on YouTube, Allegheny Native.

The sweet sound of the stream soon revealed itself as a siren song. With cabins on the left bank and steep slopes on the right, I was left to stand midstream; only my line froze faster than my feet. Both were soon compromised with the former being worse off. A tight space without the luxury of overhead casting and only a roll cast at the disposal meant that the rig, from the iced over nymph to the fly line hanging out of the rod tip, was soon coated in a thick layer of ice. This made casting burdensome and the presentation obnoxious. Before long, I convinced myself that the hard lesson learned was enough compensation for the feeling lost in my fingers and toes. It’s funny how the drive to the stream feels so long, but the drive home moves as quick as the mind when it’s running with thoughts of what will be different on the next trip.

That aforementioned “next trip” ended up being sooner than planned. After church on the following day, I quickly realized that there was an opportunity to take advantage of the 40 degree day that was unfolding before me. With another new stream and small-to-medium sized wild trout in mind, I was on the road by eleven. I pulled into the same parking spot and tied up the same rig as the day before, but this time I went to the other stream that was nearby. The water looked even better than the previous day’s scene, and without a thick layer of ice on the line, I was hopeful that it would be the long awaited day.

After fishing several deeper runs with no luck, my heart quickly sank as I lost hope in seeing fish. I soon gave up on the nymphs and moved on to a streamer that gave similar results. A suspicious meditation led me to a theory regarding the cause of the empty net: this side of Pennsylvania seems to rely primarily on stocked fish. This particular stream was told to have wild trout, but I came to realize that my efforts were most likely in vain until the first instance of spring stocking gets completed. There are plenty of wild trout in Pennsylvania, don’t get me wrong, but these populations might be more than a 2 hour drive from campus, and I have yet to do the research. With these thoughts weakening my resolve to fish, my focus slowly turned away from the familiar feel of cork in my hands as I began to get caught up in the ever impressive scenery.

I looked around and was held by the tall Pennsylvania pines covering the towering slopes to my right. To my left, the trees were just as stocky, but less dense, leaving enough space to instill awe as the deeper scene was taken in. Elements of the landscape reminded me of northern Minnesota, with the lush evergreens paired with the stormy boulders amid a snowy landscape. I was tempted to feel at home in these rivers, which is something that has escaped me since moving to Pennsylvania. Leaving the stream bed, I couldn’t shake the knowledge that I wasn’t going back to the city I’d called home and the people who made it so. Nonetheless, this is the closest I’ve been to the life that I had left behind me 8 months ago now.

Moving to Ohio was the right decision, and I have seen the fruits of the risky choice to change my major already in their immature stage. This will (God willing) be the place that I spend the rest of my college career. I have yet to find secure footing on campus and in the rivers alike, but the tides of spring carry in new life after each winter. These are my new horizons. I need only wait for the dawn to come, and for the trout to rise. Stay tuned for more to come from Pennsylvania.