The water was stained — almost orange, really. And it had the troublesome look of coal mine drainage that so many streams in western Pennsylvania had at the time.

“No way there are fish in there,” Mark said.

We had parked off the interstate, at a long, wide pull off of mixed gravel, cinder and stubborn weeds. Tractor trailers parked here regularly, and some of them overnighted while the long haul drivers got a little shuteye. As Mark and I climbed back over the guardrail, away from the rusty water and toward my car, he pointed to a condom among the litter. I signaled to the Mountain Dew bottle, probably filled with piss. The area was in need of a cleanup.

Two days later, I came back.

I pulled in behind a Freightliner that was decked out with every aftermarket trinket sold by the Flying J. And I strung up my Redington while standing at the raised trunk of a Buick Skylark. The wind and hum of cars whizzed by at eighty miles an hour.

I saw two snakes, fished for three hours and caught four fish — all tiny wild brook trout. And I couldn’t wait to tell Mark that he was wrong. I hadn’t thought I’d catch a fish in that orange ditch either. But I fished it anyway.

Photo by Bill Dell

— — — — — —

Early July. Hot sun with cold water running in the mountain streams. At the tail end of a camping trip, Dad was a good sport and logged the backcountry miles behind the wheel of the pickup as I navigated with a Delorm atlas on my lap. With hope and curiosity, my finger traced and twisted through the mint green forest and around the gray contours of peaks and valleys. We crossed over big waters on concrete bridges, and then we crossed small creeks flowing under old iron grates. Dad slowed and stopped at each of them. We peered out the open windows, breathing the cool air that directly inhabits such valleys, as we gazed upstream, dreaming of native brook trout.

“How about this one?” Dad asked at one crossing.

Dust from the tires blew through the narrow gap and found a scattering of sun rays that broke through the green tree tops. I heard Dad — a thin voice at the edge of my consciousness — while I leaned out the window and stared at the water, considering our fate. As a young man granted the trust of my father, I felt a responsibility and a fervent wish to choose wisely.

“One more valley, Dad.” I leaned back in and returned upright in the cloth seat. Our Border Collie’s wet nose found my ear, and he gave me a little nudge. “We’ll get there,” I told them both. “Let’s drive a little further into the headwaters.”

When our afternoon travel had extended well into the evening, Dad’s truck finally settled on the north side of a culvert. We’d gone far enough that the headwaters had broken into high gradient branches, and with these summer flows, there were a lot of dry rocks around the edges of a meager, narrow stream no wider than the truck bed.

“It’s thinner than I’d hoped, Dad,” I said.

“That’s alright. Let’s see what we can find,” he replied happily.

In the few hours before dusk, we walked upstream and cast Royal Wullfs to every likely hole and undercut. We caught nothing, but we learned about the wariness of Eastern Brook Trout. In the skinniest riffles, we watched trout fins drawing lines through the surface, as the small fish rushed to the nearest mossy log for cover.

It was a good lesson in great company. It was the smallest water we’d ever cast to. But we fished it anyway.

Photo by Bill Dell

— — — — — —

The morning fishing was average, with a few trout to net in the best spots and rarely a trout from anywhere else. Nothing remarkable had happened — and that’s saying something for any fishing trip.

Over the last two hours, the sprinkling rain that began the day had grown into a full pour. I was uncomfortable and wet under the raincoat, because I’d left it unzipped in the drizzle for too long. So when the driving rain finally came, I zipped up and locked in the hours of absorbed moisture. The hood made it worse. Forty degrees being pushed by a northern wind had made its way to my limbs. The chill that settled in threatened to make its way to my core. But when I moved enough and waded hard, it was bearable.

From upstream fifty yards, I saw Smith reel up and break down his rod. He looked around one last time, seeming to take it all in. Then he gazed toward the rain clouds and into the future. With spring flows already topped off, this river was the only fishable water around. But heavy rain would send it over the top for the next few days. And considering the forecast, we stood a good chance of suffering blown out conditions across the region for a week or more.

Smith walked my way. And when he was close enough, Smith yelled over the washed-out white noise of a million raindrops landing and splashing everywhere. His voice, so distinct from the rain, made it to my ears and reverberated in the chasm of my Gore-Tex hood.

“Did you see the Olives?” Smith asked.

I stood midstream with my rod dangling at my side, unsure, uncertain and in a crisis of decision. I nodded to Smith.

“I did see them, yeah. First Olives of the year,” I said. “I saw two decent rises in the soft water too, right before this rain got so heavy.”

And from somewhere subconscious, a part of me made the choice . . .

“I’m gonna stay on till dark,” I told Smith. “I’m tying on a dry-dropper, and I’ll cover the edges.”

Smith looked surprised. “Good luck with that, Dom,” he said.

His tone was not patronizing. Smith’s comment was purely benevolent. He meant it. From one fisherman to another — good luck with that. Go get ‘em.

I watched Smith walk toward the access, toward home, toward the rest of life — into the lights, into the warmth, into the friendships. I stayed with the river and remained alone — pensive in the rain, resolute in the wind.

The river rose quickly and the Olives were gone, or at least I couldn’t make them out through the drapery of raindrops. It would be hard to make the case for a dry-dropper rig any longer, given the deteriorating conditions. But it’s the rig I’d already tied on. So I fished it anyway.

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Enjoy the day.
Domenick Swentosky
T R O U T B I T T E N
domenick@troutbitten.com