Editor’s Note: Guest author and itinerant trout bum Dean Kuettel is back with another trouty tale from the Keystone state. As you’ll soon learn, much has changed since his first post back in 2020. Dean and I have shared many great days on trout streams in the Midwest and I’m stoked that in a few short weeks we will have that opportunity once again. Stay tuned, trips like those typically lead to great stories. -Sam
Author’s Note: *Disclaimer: These photos were taken exclusively on a super cheap camera that I do not know to use. I also do not know how to change the timestamp (it is clearly not 2020).* -Dean
Many months ago, I wrote a post for this blog on my first experiences with Pennsylvania fly fishing and the struggles therein. Much time has passed since the adventure east began, and I now find that it is drawing to a close all too quickly. The entire experience feels like a dream, as though I’ll wake up at any moment only to find that it never happened. The primary reason for the difficulty in leaving exists with a small band of men who have adopted me as one of their own here in Steubenville; a band of men who have shown me adventure and courage as well as a great many characteristics that I someday hope to be able to replicate in my own life. This is not the place for the great many details I could provide of these men, so I will draw upon just one.
These men have embraced me totally, and the most relevant example happened quite recently. As my time was drawing to a close with these men, several of them decided to take up a fly rod and allow me to pass on my legacy to them in this particular way. The most surprising part is that, even though they experienced the common struggles, they all took to it with zeal. I’m not just talking about catching fish; they immediately adopted the language and began dreaming about the lifestyle we’ve all been dreaming about: the Trout Bum. After just one casting lesson, we had resolved to go on a trip in Pennsylvania for my last weekend in town. The plan was simple: a two-night camping trip to a trouty creek that has fish to catch and is sufficiently secluded. After some rushed planning, we were on our way after work on Friday.
Armed with new fly rods were three good friends of mine: Mike, Max, and Brad. We arrived on the scene late, and did not have enough time to hike in to one of the more secluded old fire-rings that are periodically found along the creek. Instead, I gave a quick casting lesson to Mike (who had never used one before that moment) into a pool near the access point. As the sun went down, we went to the nearest campsite and set to work starting a fire with wet wood (I’ll spare you the details of the struggle). After eating some canned soup and ravioli, we went to bed relatively early.
I was the first one up in the morning, and immediately took to the pool where I had shown Mike how to cast. I managed to pull out a small, beautiful rainbow fairly quickly. Not long after, the guys began to stir. Brad set his mind exclusively on coffee (who can blame him?), while Mike came with his rod and I began round 2 of casting lessons. I emphasized the essential point of taking things slow, of feeling the weight of nature’s calm as you practice this craft. Mike took to this well, as we watched for rises in the pool while setting up his rod. I talked him through the process of determining a place from which to cast, explaining that each stream is a riddle that is created for the fly fisher to solve with much deliberation and a bit of skill. He made the decision of where to cast from, and we went down off the bridge to the stream.
After fishing for years now, I find it rather easy to take for granted how difficult the first few trips as a new fly fisher are, but I was reminded swiftly as I overloaded Mike with the components of the cast, which are many. Despite the complications and the difficulty, he seemed to be enjoying himself and was quite receptive to my many poor explanations. He was progressing steadily, learning all of the basics at once. He would cast here and there, not so much fishing as practicing, until we watched as a moving shape came up from the bottom and softly broke the surface.
I do not know many people who land the first fish that ever takes their fly. Mike did. The look on his face was sheer focus as I coached him through how to play a fish while stripping in line and being your own drag system. He brought the fish to my hand (I didn’t bring a net or a camera, not expecting him to catch one), and I told him to wet his hands before handling the fish. Mike had just landed a 10” stocked brown trout. And Mike couldn’t stop talking about it. He had crossed to the other side; I had successfully fostered the beginnings of an addiction.
Mike had the tools he needed, so I left him to practice as I went to help with breakfast and make some tea. After cleaning up the camp, three of us started the hike to the next site some ways upstream. Brad decided to stay back to practice casting in the same pool as we went to pave the way forward. We were of the mind to work our way upstream slowly, fishing as we went. These thoughts went out of our heads immediately after we discovered the thick clouds of tiny biting flies. The new plan was to hike in to the camp and unload the gear before dedicating time to fishing.
Once this was accomplished, we decided to split up: Max fished a large pool just downstream of the site as Mike went upstream. I went back downstream to fish the better runs while keeping an eye out for Brad. As I walked, I quickly realized that the only thing that would keep the flies away was a pipe of tobacco, which is my new preferred method of insect repellant. I worked slowly without much luck until Brad and I met. We met much later than I had expected, which was the consequence of Brad losing his way and taking some bad directions. Nonetheless, I sent him towards the guys as I fished a bit longer.
The plan (which is never dependable and nearly never works out for me) was to eat fresh trout for dinner. The first trout that Mike caught was of proper size, but I had him return it as we had a hike and many hours between us and dinner. Since I had not caught anything (and truthfully I did not expect the guys to have a large haul of fresh trout when I returned), I entertained the idea of hiking all the way to the pool by the parking lot where there are always sizable stocked fish. It was almost four by then, and I had skipped lunch. I decided to refuel at camp and speak to the others about trekking back to pick up some dinner after being refreshed.
When I had gotten back to the camp, Mike and Brad were lounging and Max was somewhere upstream. I relayed my plan, but decided to work the pool that Max was working when I first went downstream. I stood on the same rock and flipped a streamer into the pool, not very far from me. As I glanced down, my hunger convinced me that I had just glimpsed a trout striking at my fly. I cast once more, and quickly discovered that it was not my imagination that saw the trout. I set the hook, but it did not set.
I decided to walk upstream, cross the stream, and fish the pool from the other side. As I walked by, Mike looked at me expectantly:
Dean: “Mike, you better come along for this next part. I’m going to put on my shoes and grab my net. It could get interesting.”
Mike: *Visibly excited* “Really?! I’ll take the net.”
We crossed over, I took position in the best spot, and used the classic bow-and-arrow cast (of which the guys were very fond) to hit the water just upstream of the deepest part of the pool. A few seconds later, Mike flawlessly helped me net the stocked rainbow trout that would supplement our dinner.
Catching this trout got Mike quite excited, and renewed his vigor for fishing. Brad had some questions and Max had just returned, so I showed them just how I worked the pool, and let them practice as I went to clean the fish and wrap it until we were ready for dinner. After cleaning the fish, I turned around and was happily surprised to see Mike holding a trout! This was a big turning point for Mike. Earlier, he had caught a stocked fish with my help; now, he had caught a beautiful, wild fish on his own merit. Mike would spend much time reflecting on both of these experiences, comparing the trout to each other, and comparing this to his other experiences fishing. Our conversations have convinced me that he has really begun to understand our addiction.
The rest of the afternoon and evening was exactly what I needed for my last weekend in town. Max and I saw some wildlife (a short-eared owl, I think, and a porcupine). I was able to cook the trout for my friends in the fashion that was shown to me by my own mentor, the editor of this blog. They all nodded with approval with mouthfuls of trout and ramen as I told the story of Sam and I eating our own trout and ramen for the first time, which felt like an incredibly long time ago in a place that felt incredibly far away from that stream in PA. After dinner, I found myself among a group of men who were laughing together, yet conversing intelligently and reciting poetry from heart as the owls of the woods conversed in their own language, and the fire burned until it was quite low.
When Sunday morning arrived, I started the fire and began to cook myself some oatmeal. The others slowly stirred and began to do the same. We took a slow morning, and talked about plans for leaving early enough to make it to Mass that evening. We decided that we should be packed and hiking by 1:00 to be safe. After a bit more conversation on fishing plans, I told the guys that I was going to go to unexplored water upstream, and that I would be back by noon.
This ended up being a very complicated morning for me. I walked slowly through the woods, watching the water and reflecting on my leaving; it was likely the last time I would see that stream moving busily through those stoic woods. I walked for some time, never fishing, reflecting as I walked thoughtfully through the beautiful and quiet wood. In an instant, the scenery opened up into a large meadow-section. It was as though the heavy forest simply decided to lose interest in the stream, which was now free to dart back and forth in the open.
The jarring part was that this stream looked nearly identical to my favorite stream back in Wisconsin, which left me in shock. Just for a moment, I felt as though I was already back in Wisconsin, and as though everything that I was struggling to leave in the east was taken from me suddenly and too soon. The stream changed altogether: apart from opening up, the stream also changed from a rocky to a sandy bottom, it deepened and narrowed, it began to twist and kink instead of being mostly straight, and the banks were undercut and grassy instead of straight and muddy.
It took me a few minutes to recover myself and begin to process the many metaphors that I had just found myself surrounded by. There was something else, too: there was the sudden recognition that I knew exactly how to fish this incredibly familiar water, even though I was seeing it for the first time (this was, of course, one of the metaphors to my greater situation as well). I hopped into the water and began to fish more easily in Pennsylvania than I ever had. I knew the fly, I knew where the trout would be, and I knew the techniques. I was successful, and I was sad in that familiar poetic way; the kind of sadness that comes with the loss of those things that are supremely good and beautiful.
The clock had struck, the hourglass had run out. I had to go back to camp to return when I said I would. Again, it was another slow, thoughtful walk through the stoic woods. I knew deeply that I was lingering in an attempt to delay something, to delay the end of my time with these men. Alas, I returned to camp to find them all standing in the shallow stream, in the sun. They were talking until they saw me, and they looked expectantly for news. They asked me how it went:
Dean *Walking through creek*: “You have no idea. I had a vision quest; I was confronted by myself all at once, and I do not know if I won. It was an entirely fitting way to end this trip, and in a greater way, to end my time in Ohio.”
Boys: “Wait but did you catch anything?”
Dean: “Nothing can be the same, men. Everything changes and indeed already has.”
Boys: “We lost some of your flies, we’ll have to get you some more.”
Dean *taking off shirt*: “No worries men, I won’t need those where I’m going. Actually, I’ll definitely need those where I’m going.”
Brad: “Wait did you catch anything or not!”
I dove into the deep pool from which I caught our dinner the night before. When I came up, I told them the whole story, leaving out no thoughts and explaining all of the metaphors culminating in this: “There still exists a lot of unexplored water here in the east, and my time for exploring it has ended in a hard and fast moment. My consolation is that, as of today, I have left my legacy and my mission in the hands of worthy and capable men. And this, please understand, goes far beyond fishing.” They said nothing, but I was sure that they all understood. After a few moments, we were all laughing, relishing, packing, and heading home with an unspoken understanding among us.
My last weekend in Pennsylvania was exactly what it needed to be. Even now, writing this a week later in a cafe in Duluth, I find it difficult to imagine going out any other way with those men. And while it did feel like a hard goodbye, there are some among us who have given up on goodbye, and I am sure to see them again because of it. In the meantime, we’ll create more stories in the spirit of each other. And I, now released back in my home waters, will make a difference as I am able, all the while living the lessons they’ve given me, and looking forward to the stories they’ll tell in our next meeting. And I am sure that they will not cast a rod without my memory, as I am sure that I haven’t forgotten the one who taught me how to cast my own fly rod so long ago. If you’re looking for me, I’ll be upstream, near Superior’s shores.
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