We had another break in the weather, and this time I was able to arrange a quick fishing trip. It was Super Bowl Sunday. I figured everyone else would stay home for the game.
I headed for the tailwater of the Brookville Dam, the only location in this part of the state that's stocked with trout. It's a hundred miles from home one way, but that's how far I drove to Rocky Ford Creek in Washington. As then, it seemed a reasonable distance to drive for a chance at winter trout.
There were lots of cars in the parking area as I geared up and started down the path to the water. I would see maybe ten other fishermen over the course of the afternoon. My guess is they were Colts fans.
The water looked good from the ridge.
Ponds I had passed on the drive were covered with a skin of ice, and here, too, the backwaters still showed evidence of our recent cold spell.
The water temperature, according to my research from the night before, was just under 40 degrees. The air temperature on this day beat that, hitting a high of 50. I waded in and began fishing the slick ahead of the riffle. Then I fished the riffle down to the next slick.
Looking back, I could see the dam and the concrete spillway and the rip rapped channel. Seems that many like to fish right up in that, but I was happy to be fishing my way downstream in a river that looked like a river.
Are there more fish up there in the industrial end? I didn't see any evidence of that; and even if there were, I would still fish downriver.
This tailwater is stocked with Browns as well as Rainbows. There are said to be holdovers, and I imagine that's what all of us were looking for. I was throwing big streamers, and there were plenty of spots that could have held a winter-hungry trout. I was also more than willing to feed a hungry smallmouth that might have slipped up into the trout zone.
It was good to stretch out my casting muscles, stiff from inactivity. My ankles also got a nice workout from the cobble bottom.
Other than that, the wading was easy, and I was able to find pathways through the current that never went over my knees. That's good, because the leak in the waders is in the crotch and never came into play.
Two fishermen were ahead of me and stayed in one spot for a long time. When they left I waded up and found the lovely little run they had been working.
I worked it over thoroughly, head to tail. It was well-oxygenated, deep along the bank, and widened out into a deep pool. I was forced to conclude that this would be the place to find fish--if there were any fish in this river. Maybe there was a big holdover Brown lurking somewhere, but if he wasn't in here I don't where he could have been.
I did get one thing out of this run: a big streamer hung up in a tree. It wasn't that hard to reach. I guess the guy that lost it had plenty more where that came from.
I worked my way back upstream drifting a nymph deep under an indicator through the whole run. It was good practice.
The sun went down behind the town just over there behind the trees. I had seen a couple of mayflies glowing in the afternoon sun earlier, and a caddis fly had fluttered by a little while ago. I stayed awhile to see if anything might pop, or half pop, with the sun off the water, but it wasn't a popping kind of day.
I finally waded out under the bridge, walked past the fire ring--there was one on the other side, too--and climbed up to the car.
The sunset on the drive home was Falcon red, but quickly faded into Patriot blue--and then blackness.
