Hatch Matcher

by | Aug 16, 2017 | 20 comments

It was the summer before college — before the real world started, they said. Although, college life never proved to be anything like the rest of the world. I was working for a printing company, spending three hot months in a delivery truck, shuttling press orders to the docks and doorsteps of western Pennsylvania companies.

As I drove repetitive miles across the Keystone state, I was most attentive in the valleys. From my tall perch behind the worn-out steering wheel, I peered over each bridge crossing, wondering and dreaming about trout. I knew of western Pennsylvania’s struggles to harbor wild trout. I knew about its troubled past with acid mine drainage, but I’d seen marked improvement in water quality over my young life. And I had explored enough to expect surprises — trout can be anywhere.

Read: What Happened to Laurel Run: The story of a trout stream and a fisherman

So every skinny ditch, every wide river, every length of flowing water gained my consideration. I was at a point in life where anything was possible. I still believed in the undiscovered.

Photo by Pat Burke

The company tracked the hours on my deliveries but not the miles, so I made detours on my lunch breaks — quick scouting trips into the valleys below the most promising bridges. While taking water temperatures, I looked for a rise or any sign of trout. I kept a Delorm atlas of the area and highlighted it with a color code: blue for stocked trout, orange for wild trout, and red for no trout.

I’d fooled around with fly fishing off and on but never committed myself to it. In a two-hundred yard wooded section between two bridge crossings, that all changed. I found a group of rising trout one late July morning. And they were consistent.

— — — — — —

On my lunch break, I swung the company truck down the gravel road, parked in front of a hissing gas well and walked to the river. I watched feeding trout from a riverbank while passively eating a sandwich and wishfully digging to the bottom of the brown bag for more. I did the same thing for three days until it occurred to me — these trout were feeding on just one thing. And if I was to catch them I’d need the fly rod, some really thin monofilament and even smaller flies.

Careful to keep my company khakis clean, I leaned far over the bank, behind the rising trout, and watched the water. I saw no bugs, so I poked further through the shade. And where a narrow ray of sun found the river, I watched the surface, leaning so close that my nose skimmed the water. The temperature and humidity were different there — a thin zone where the air mixed with evaporating mist — it was foreign to me, but home to what I searched for.

Vitruvian Man — Da Vinci

One after the other, I finally saw them — tiny mayflies with clear wings stretched aside like Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man, tripling their size and balancing on the surface. Then I noticed the tails, twice as long as the spindly bodies and each perfectly divided in a V.

I reached into my back pocket to find a round Skoal can. The long-cut, wintergreen tobacco was nearly gone, so I made it all gone as the last half-pinch went to my lip. I swished the can in the water, then dried the inside with my shirttail. I plucked four of the itty-bitty flies from the water and dropped them in the can.

After work, I hurried to the fly shop and found the owner.

“What are these, Woody? I asked, plopping the container on his old oak counter. “I found a group of trout eating them, one after the other. They do it every day.”

Woody grinned as he thoughtfully rotated the open Skoal can in his palm, peering over his glasses into the short cylinder.

“Well that’s one way to go about it,” he said.

Woody looked at me with some measure of satisfaction. I was learning, I was young and ambitious, and I’d brought samples of the bugs I needed to match. Woody knew he could send me off with a few flies and a little advice, then probably receive a success story in return.

“Those are Trico Spinners,” he said. “The cream ones are female and the black ones are male.”

“Why do they have to be so tiny?” I asked.

Woody ignored the question and didn’t look up.

“They’re size twenty-fours. And they’re gonna be a bitch to fish with.” He paused, still looking at the bugs in the can. “Do you want a half dozen or a dozen?”

I left the shop with twelve flies in a clear plastic puck and an empty can of Skoal.

“Wait!” I heard Woody call to me just before the crack of the door closed out the cedar scent of the fly shop. So I turned around.

“What?” I shrugged.

Woody dug behind the counter, into his own fishing vest. He fiddled with zippers and Velcro before exhaling a satisfied sigh. He then turned to me, leaned over the counter and offered me a spool of tippet in his open hand. The label was faded and crinkled, as though it had been through a few rain storms.

“Use 7X until you get used to getting good drifts with those little bastards . . . and I don’t know why they have to be so tiny.”

“Thanks, Woody.” I said.

I stashed the spool in my pocket in front of the empty Skoal can. Before I walked out the door again, Woody lent some final advice: “Don’t get hung up on wanting to see your fly, either. Just set the hook on maybes.”

“Alright,” I nodded.

Two fishing trips and three days later, I finally fooled my first rising trout.

After babying the fish to the net on 7X, I set its nose into the cool flow. Then I watched the tail kick, carrying him back through scattered rays of sunlight.

 

Photo by Chris Kehres

 

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

 

Share This Article . . .

Since 2014 and 600 articles deep
Troutbitten is a free resource for all anglers
Your support is greatly appreciated

– Explore These Post Tags –

Domenick Swentosky

Central Pennsylvania

Hi. I’m a father of two young boys, a husband, author, fly fishing guide and a musician. I fish for wild brown trout in the cool limestone waters of Central Pennsylvania year round. This is my home, and I love it. Friends. Family. And the river.

More from this Category

Lost Fishing Friends

Lost Fishing Friends

The lost friendship transforms a river bend — the one with the ancient and hollowed-out sycamore — into an active tombstone. The towering tree with the undercut bank becomes a place to remember shared moments of casting into cool waters, where the ghosts of laughter and fond companionship persists.

Seven Days

Seven Days

For those who fish daily, the routine resonates. We are part of the pattern, not mere observers of the design.

We have time to learn and grow, to breathe deep and sigh with satisfaction. We’ve the time to stand tall, to rise from the constant crouch and the intensity of a fisherman, to take in the surroundings, not once, but regularly. It’s the ferns, the sun and the rain, the trout in the water and the birds on the wind. It’s everything . . .

What water type? Where are they eating?

What water type? Where are they eating?

Fast, heavy, deep runs have always been my favorite water type to fish. I can spend a full day in the big stuff. I love the mind-clearing washout of whitewater. No average sounds penetrate it. And the never ending roar of a chunky run is mesmerizing. I also enjoy the wading challenge. The heaviest water requires not just effort, but a constant focus and a planned path to keep you upright and on two feet. Constant adjustment is needed to stay balanced, and one slip or misstep ends up in a thorough dunking. It reminds me of the scaffold work I did on construction crews in my twenties. I always enjoyed being a few stories up, because the workday flew by. When every movement means life or death, you’d better stay focused. I always liked that . . .

The Twenty Dollar Cast

The Twenty Dollar Cast

“Okay, Dad,” Joey bellowed over the whitewater. “Here’s the twenty dollar cast . . .”

His casting loop unfolded and kicked the nymph over with precision. And when the fly tucked into the darkest side of the limestone chunk, Joey kept the rod tip up, holding all extra line off the water. It was a gorgeous drift. And the air thickened with anticipation.

We watched together in silence as Joey milked that drift until the very end. And I think we were both a little surprised when nothing interrupted the long, deep ride of over thirty feet.

“Not this time, buddy,” I told him.

Joey flicked his wrist and repeated the same cast to the dark side of the rock. And because the world is a wonderful place, a no-doubter clobbered the stonefly nymph . . .

Nobody Home | Nobody Hungry

Nobody Home | Nobody Hungry

Nobody home means there’s no trout in the slot you were fishing. And sometimes that’s true. Nobody hungry suggests that a trout might be in the slot but he either isn’t eating, isn’t buying what you’re selling, or he doesn’t like the way you are selling it.

Does it matter? It sure does!

New Structure | Old Structure

New Structure | Old Structure

One of my favorite places in the world is a deeply shaded valley that runs north and south between two towering mountains of mixed hardwoods. The forest floor has enough conifers mixed in to block much of the sunlight, even in the winter. The ferns of spring grow tall, and thick moss is spread throughout. The ground remains soft enough here that all large trees eventually surrender to the valley. When they can no longer support their weight in the soft spongy ground, they fall over, leaving a broken forest of deep greens and the dark-chocolate browns of wet, dead bark. It’s gorgeous.

Fallen timber also dictates the course of this cold water stream. The fresh tree falls force the creek to bend away from the hillside. Rolling water carves away the earth and lays bare the rocks — these stones of time, as Maclean puts it. And when water cuts into a neighboring channel, previously dry for centuries, new river banks are undercut and fresh roots exposed . . .

What do you think?

Be part of the Troutbitten community of ideas.
Be helpful. And be nice.

20 Comments

  1. Great article! Fished the trico hatch Saturday. I too have wondered “why are they so small”.

    Reply
  2. Hatch matcher- good read and a learn !Thanks I felt like I was there.

    Reply
    • Nice picture Domenick! Way better than mine. LOL!

      Reply
  3. Fantastic! Much needed read on a mid Friday office workday.

    Reply
    • I have read this a couple of times. It reminds me of how I started fly fishing.

      I am now 73 and still enjoy figuring out what fly to use, the presentation and the anticipation of the catch.

      Thanks for the memories

      Reply
  4. Great stuff Domenick, really enjoyed that read! Not sure that we get too many Tricos on the Northern UK rivers that I fish – but we sure do get tiny ‘midges’ that are equally tough to fish when the trout are keyed onto them! A size #22 griffiths gnat usually does the trick. Cheers

    Reply
  5. I’m sure you made Woody’s day when you whipped out that can of skoal full of tricos! I started going to Woody’s shop when I was in my early teens and still stop by to see him whenever I’m in town. Great guy and always willing to help young guys learn the sport.

    Reply
  6. Beautiful! Your writing takes me right there.

    Reply
  7. Nicely done story. Tickled my Pittsburgh roots and Steelers days. PA is a great fly fishers state.

    Reply
  8. Beautiful, Dom!
    The cedar smell of Woody’s shop is lingering in my nose now.
    Reads like an opening script of a great movie!
    Did you keep the old Skoal can?

    Reply
  9. Hell of a way to start with dry flies: one of the smallest bugs you could have chosen and 7X. I love fishing tricos, getting up in the dark, finding the duns on the water in the cool grey light, catching a few on a tiny cdc comparadun, watching as the spinners start to fall and transitioning with my flies. I look forward to this season every year. Great story, thanks.

    Reply
    • Hi Dom, that was me on the “Hell of a way” comment. I forgot to leave my name before hitting submit. Hope you’re having a great summer and catching a few on Tricos.

      Reply
  10. What a fun and inspiring read. To observe and learn and to have a mentor at the shop. The Mayfly picture at the end is perfection of focus and composition. Thanks.

    Reply
  11. I enjoyed your article. Since my eyes aren’t what they use to be I’ve had GREAT success fishing a sinking Trico spinner with an indicator.
    Love your stories.

    Reply
  12. Grilling steaks and wishing I was fishing! Love it!

    Reply

Submit a Comment

Your email address will not be published.

Recent Articles

Pin It on Pinterest