“The mountains are calling, and I must go” -John Muir
John, you’re loosing it. The mountains don’t call you. That’s just crazy! When months pass without a visit to the high elevation trout streams of the Appalachia, things get antsy. I crave a visit to these cold water, crisp air, blue lines. Where the 3 wt is king and anything over a size 12 fly seems disgustingly out of proportion; these streams produce colors that trump size. They demand tippet so thin that tying on a dropper makes your eyes bleed.
The western slope of Shenandoah National Park and the waters the flow from it seem to entice me. Maybe John isn’t so out of it, after all. Anyone who has stood in these (or similar streams) knows the feeling: releasing a trout, looking up, and finding that euphoric peace while simultaneously loosing every other thought. Then, another thought enters; this is why I am here. This is why I fly fish.
When the feeling hits, nothing else matters. The missed fish from previous holes, the 5 AM wake up time, and the thought of pissing your pants all fade. You are royalty, and your worn-in sweat stained hat is your the crown. For the rest of the day, all that comes to pass cannot undo this moment. Once it happens, you will never forget it. In these streams, the 3 weight is king and your time spent together is nothing less than a noble gift.