"Chesapeake Church" Stripers (November 2018)

Admittedly, my newfound interest in hunting made October and November less fishy than it otherwise would have been.  But late in the month,  I headed to the Bay for some late-season striper action with two good friends.  The morning started in the dark with black coffee and hushed conversations, but as the sun came up it became clear we had a beautiful, if chilly, Sunday on our hands. 

Our trip was courtesy of my friend Matt, who by all accounts could (and should) be a saltwater fly fishing guide.  Every time we fish together, I'm blown away by the depth of knowledge he has accumulated.  I try to soak it up.  Read his adventures at: anywaterwilldo.com 

Buddy #2 leads an environmental non-profit, and grew up fishing stripers in New England.  We talked at length about our passion for stripers, but also the management challenges facing the fishery.  

 Good friends

First glimpse always gets us stoked

Temps hovered at 35F as we cruised out of the Patuxent River and into the Bay...comfortable when stationary...pretty cold when running fast.  Through endless thermals layers, we scanned for diving birds -- hoping to be clued in to breaking fish.

Chilly morning

After following birds fruitlessly for a few hours, we decided to follow humans instead.  A dense cluster of fishing boats in the middle of the Bay caught Matt's attention, and we began jigging off the bottom with light tackle.  WHAM!  Matt landed the first and last keeper of the day.

Desperate to leave the crowd, we drifted into new water.  Within an hour, the action picked up.  Birds were now thick, diving for bait in every direction.  Loons pushed water as they chased small fish.  Schoolie stripers rolled on the surface.  Though the fish weren't big, they made for constant and exciting fly rod action.  At times, it was a striper every cast as we stripped small clousers near the surface.

We fished for hours, the temp hit 55F, layers came off, and someone remarked longingly that we'd forgotten beer.  What a Sunday.  This was "Chesapeake Church," my friend commented.  We considered trying to find larger stripers, but ultimately adhered to the adage "don't leave fish to find fish".

A representative sample

LL Bean ad, or just a handsome angler? 

 Note the bird action

 Raspberry sunset cruising home

Despite having no claim to Matt's keeper, the generosity of my pals landed me with fish for dinner.  I was particularly stoked because I knew Adrienne would have fun filleting.  A marine biologist with a penchant for ichthyology, she made short work of Mr. Striper.

We sizzled the fillets in garlic, butter, white wine, salt and pepper.  A bit of lemon, spinach, and rice pilaf finished out the meal.  Light, flakey and just 15 minutes removed from the fish itself, the fillets did not disappoint. 

Bear Church Rock Hike (November 2018)

Choosing a day-hike requires a bit of compromise for us.  A is always trying to hike up, toward a summit and a commanding view.  I'm looking to hike down to valleys and fishing opportunities. 

After consulting a friend on Shenandoah National Park hikes, we landed on Bear Church Rock.  Our hope was to summit early and catch a few late-fall brookies on the way down.  Also appealing were reports that this hike was under-appreciated, and thus less crowded than more popular SNP routes. 

"I partied last night and it's early...but I have copious amounts of Pedialyte, coffee and water"

After parking in the small lot, we climbed steadily uphill through beautiful hardwoods on the bank of the Rapidan River.  The Rapidan is where I learned to catch Virginia brookies years ago, and I always feel some nostalgia for its plunge pools and little runs. 

Rapidan still high 

Before long, the hike forked and led us along the Staunton River, a slightly smaller stream but apparently chock full of brook trout.  I suggested to A that we hike no further, save our energy, and fish the day away.  No luck.

Eventually, the trail steepened, and the sounds of the river faded. The large hardwoods gave way to groves of mountain-laurel as we approached the summit. 

Modeling new daypack

Mountain-laurel tunnel 

At the summit, we sat enjoying the view and soaking up the November sun on our backs.  After a sandwich, we headed down for what I hoped for would be a fishy second half of the adventure.

Back on the banks of the Staunton, A set up her hammock while I stuck together my 6-piece, 3-weight rod.  For an hour, I slung Adams and ant-pattern dry flies to seemingly perfect trout water.
The type of water where you know there's fish.  Nothing.  Perhaps it was already too late in the season for trout to feed on the surface.  With a few cold shadows growing, we decided to head down.

As corny anglers say, that's why it's called "fishing"...not "catching".

I didn't have to wait long for my spirits to rise.  Out of the woods, we were back in the sun, and Virginia shimmered.  A flight of beer at our favorite Shenandoah-area brewery, Bald Top, set me straight.  A giant hamburger, a bonfire, and some good conversation left me happy and exhausted.

Virginia looking her best

My First Hunt (October 2018)

I've always loved the woods, but have only recently become interested in hunting.  Years ago, I viewed hunting as both brutal and simple.  Over the past few years, though, I became curious.  Two friends whom I respect immensely began sending stories and images of their experiences hunting elk and pronghorn in Montana.  I was intrigued both by the adventure, the opportunity to fill my freezer, and the conservation intersect.  This fall, I accompanied a friend for a weekend of deer hunting in Pennsylvania.  After years of intrigue, I would finally get to experience the sport. 

We arrived on an overcast Saturday afternoon.  After raining all morning, Pennsylvania was wet, raw and beautiful.  The fall foliage was nearly peak, but muted in the dampness.  I threw on three pairs of long-underwear pants and a rain shell...no camo for this newbie.

  

Pennsylvania deer country

I followed my friend to his favorite double tree-stand.  This first night, my job was observe, not to hunt.  After getting comfortable in the tree, the waiting began.  Just before dusk, we simultaneously spotted a doe.  She walked toward us.  With each careful step, my heart pounded harder.  My friend tensed with his bow.  She paused, sniffed the air, and causally did a U-turn and walked out of sight.  My first education in a whitetail's uncanny survival instinct.

Next, we tried a buck snort call.  A week out from peak rut, we were hoping a rival buck would hear the call and come looking for a fight.  Not two minutes later, a spunky young male came running down the hill, pausing directly under our tree stand.  Bow raised...heart pounding again.  Bow lowered.  Our buck was a bit too young...four cumulative antler points instead of the legal minimum of five.  We walked back to the cabin by headlamp, stoked on our close calls.  

No legal hunting in Pennsylvania on Sundays, so the next day was training day.  I learned how to spot deer trails and the "rubs" where bucks scratch their scent into the dirt.  We built and hung tree stands in promising spots.  Finally, I learned how to safely use the crossbow.  

Sunday workday

Monday was my day to hunt.  I woke up a 5:30am and crept silently into a ground blind -- sort of a camouflaged tent.  This was my first time making decisions on my own...when to make a buck snort, where to look...potentially when to touch the trigger.  I didn't see a thing all morning, but did learn that a plastic bucket becomes an uncomfortable seat after four hours. 

Peering out from the ground blind

That night was my second solo-outing, this time back in the double stand.  As I settled into the tree, I reflected on how far I'd come in just two days.  From a wide-eyed observer, to something closer to a careful, intentional hunter.  Several hours in, a brief but cold rain began.  My focus shifted from spotting deer to keeping warm, and I almost missed three deer walking off my left shoulder.  

Fighting adrenaline, I slowly raised my bow and took aim at a doe.  I sent an arrow flying.  She ran, potentially hit, but the buck stayed.  He snorted in my direction, and pawed the earth angrily.  I looked around my stand for another arrow, quickly realizing I'd made an amateur mistake.  My arrows and cocking mechanism were stashed under a jacket.  I thought for sure the buck would run as I loudly fumbled to re-arm my bow.  After what seemed like an eternity, I was ready, and the buck was still there.  I shot.  He ran.  

I spoke to myself, out-loud, to force a slow, safe climb out of the tree.  I ran to the spot of the doe, and found my arrow lodged in a rotten log.  No blood.  I'd missed her cleanly.  After a second search, it became clear I'd missed the buck as well.  

At that moment, and for hours after, I experienced an avalanche of ranging emotions.  Intense excitement, at having taken shots on my first weekend hunting.  Crushing defeat, at having come so close to success.  A week later, I'm still replaying my missed shots and wondering how I would have cooked my first venison dinner.  And finally, relief at having missed the animals cleanly, leaving them injury-free.  

As we drove home, I reflected on how I was being drawn into hunting so deeply, so quickly.  Like other sports I love, experiencing the outdoors and building camaraderie with friends is fundamental.  

I also keep coming back to the wide gap in how I once viewed hunting, and how I'm beginning to understand it now.  This sport's lessons, morals, and ethics are complex and evasive.  

I'm ready to dive in. 

Bluefish Smokefest (September 2018)

I'd been looking forward to this trip all year.  Matt, my salt-sensei and author of the excellent blog anywaterwilldo.com, booked a week on Virginia's Eastern Shore.  I was planning to join for three days of serious fishing.  Our primary target was cobia (more on that later), but in retrospect, my bluefish adventure was almost as thrilling. 

Matt and I set out from the Patuxent River in his sleek Parker early Saturday morning.  Two other fishing pals were meeting us on the Eastern Shore, while Matt and I boated down with the rods, coolers and beer.  With a 3-4 hour ride ahead of us, we were glad to see calm waters and bluebird skies.  Along the way, Matt schooled me in spotting cobia on the surface. 

Heading to the Eastern Shore, stoked! 

Once we arrived and picked up our friends, we were off to fish a rubble pile Matt knew of.  For bluefish, my tackle included colorful streamers (tied by Matt), an 8-wt flyrod, and sinking line.  I cast and let the current take out my line as we drifted.  I stripped back aggressively.  WHACK!  First bluefish to the boat.  

Provided we were over the rubble, almost every cast yielded a blue.  They put up an exciting fight, especially on a fly rod.  Blues are notorious for their sharp teeth, and the flies were quickly damaged by the aggressive fish.  Nevertheless, ragged looking flies kept producing.  

 Bluefish Snacks

Ready for the next drift

 My new friend helping me out!

Many other adventures were had Saturday, but enough foreshadowing.  With a boat full of fresh bluefish, we headed home for the filet table and glasses of whiskey. 

 Heading home, but the bluefish adventure was just beginning...

Step 1 was filleting 15 bluefish...which took awhile.  No complaints, though.  Filleting fresh fish has become one of my favorite parts of saltwater fishing.  With pounds of bluefish in the freezer, we tossed a few fresh cuts on the grill with garlic and butter.  Delicious. 

Bluefish has oily meat and can sometimes have a strong "fishy flavor".  For this reason, many people don't cook them.  However, I'd been tipped off that smoked bluefish was the way to go...and smoked bluefish pate was the pinnacle.  My fishing buddies weren't too interested in the freezer bags of bluefish (which had recently been joined by cobia steaks), so I happily loaded my cooler at the end of the weekend and trekked the fish back to Arlington. 

I faced an initial challenge to smoking bluefish.  I don't own a smoker.  After failing to enlist a friend's smoker (he's allergic to fish), I got desperate and began researching alternatives.  Somewhere in the interwebs, I happened across instructions for turning a normal propane grill into a smoker.  With my fillets beginning to stink up the freezer, I leapt at the idea.  I invited over a buddy, Alex, with prior smoking experience (though only meat), and the experiment began.

First, I soaked the fillets overnight in a brine of soy sauce, saltwater, mustard seed and peppercorn.  This adds moisture (important for the smoking process) and flavor.

The next morning, I dried the fish on a metal rack.  After four hours, the fish was dry and tacky/sticky ...you want a dry surface for the smoke to stick to.  At the same time, we soaked cherry woodchips, chosen to give the fish a medium-light smoke, and a touch of sweetness.  We were ready for the grill!

 Filets in brine

Soaking cherry chips

Turning the grill into a functional smoker was the hardest part, by far.  The idea is to wrap soaked woodchips in tinfoil pouches, and punch a few holes through each.  The pouches go under the grill grates, in the back corner, where the grill is hottest.  We put the woodchips in and turned the grill to high.  Before long, our chips started to smolder and produce smoke.  Once smoke was visible, we turned off all grill burners but one, and put on the fillets. 

The strategy now was to keep the grill at a low temperature (between 150-250) for several hours.  This is where a real smoker is handy.  We agonized over keeping the grill in the correct temperature range.  Too hot, and the fish would cook before soaking up smoke.  Too low, and the woodchips wouldn't produce smoke.  I'd guess we averaged 225-250 degrees for several hours. 

Sometime in the afternoon, without much precision, we decided to sample a filet.  It was amazing!  The cherry smoke was rich and sweet, and our bootleg smoker had left a crispy golden layer atop each filet.  The four of us devoured the first piece, barely speaking.  As Alex and I finished the thicker filets, A and Kara turned the first batch into smoked bluefish pate and bagel toppings.  By the time I turned off the grill...a feast awaited.

Smoke Squad

Golden brown, cherry smoked 

 Smoked bluefish pate! 

See you at Bluefish Smokefest 2019

 Recipe Credit: http://davescupboard.blogspot.com/2008/08/smoked-bluefish.html

Spruce Knob/Seneca Creek Backcountry (August 2018)

Just a week following our big Montana trip, we repacked gear and set out for an overnight backpack of Spruce Knob and Seneca Creek.  After an amazing and long summer of adventuring, our packing process was a well-oiled machine.  Most exciting of all, we were taking A's sister on her first backpacking trip!

West Virginia's Seneca Creek Backcountry is located in the Monongahela National Forest, which by now is our go-to adventure spot.  While not far from Dolly Sods, Seneca is a completely different ecosystem.  Rather than an alpine bog, Seneca features nearly 60 miles of trails winding through red spruce, hardwoods, open meadows, and fast-moving brook trout streams.

Our adventure began at the parking lot atop Spruce Knob, the highest point in West Virginia (4,863 ft.).  Our plan was to descend Spruce Knob to Seneca Creek, some 6.5 miles below, camp for the night, and then hike out the next morning.  

Our newest backpacker was a natural!

 Wildflowers atop Spruce Knob 

Under overcast skies, we set out through shady groves of red spruce and dense moss gardens.  The trail descended gradually at first, then steeply as the spruce gave way to hardwoods.  The coolest part of this hike was the changing flora.  With such significant altitude change, we passed from wind-stunted conifers, into the quiet hardwoods, down through wildflower meadows, and finally into a river valley.  Along the way, we uncovered fields of wild blackberries, deliciously tart. 

Hardwood forest as we descended into the valley

After several hours of hiking nearly straight down, we began to hear the creek churning gently in the distance.  The trail suddenly spilled into a stunning meadow, with sweeping views of the valley. We were getting close.

After another mile, we hit the creek.  It being late afternoon, we wasted no time in claiming the first campsite we saw.  Seneca Creek is famous for beautiful campsites, and for good reason.  Most sites are right along the water...close enough that you could cast to trout from your sleeping bag.  The only challenge is finding dry firewood.  We didn't, and the result was a long and arduous process keeping our campfire burning.

Time for a well-earned rest 

View from my tent

While setting up my tent, I noticed trout rising under a log across from our site.  I rigged up my St. Croix 2wt rod (perfect for small stream fishing) and tied on a small Adams.  Within three casts, I landed the first of many native brookies.  Rumor has it rainbows swim in Seneca, but I only encountered brookies.  They were beautiful with their dark features and pink spots.

Fish #1 of infinity

Next it was A's turn.  Despite not having cast in years, A was soon making productive casts...and trout began rising to her fly.  Unfortunately, by the time A remembered how to set the hook, the trout in that particular spot figured out feathers didn't taste great.  Determined, A moved to a hole downstream, which required a technical cast under a low-lying tree.  She cast. BAM!  Fish on.  Just like that, she landed her first brookie of the year!  Had you any doubt? 

The Determined Angler

I stole the rod back and spent an hour fishing downstream.  Quite simply, it was the best hour of brook trout fishing in my life.  Without exaggeration, every cast yielded a rise.  I landed two, three, four fish out of the same run...then would cast once more out of sheer curiosity, and to my astonishment, land another fish.  I quickly lost count.  The fishing was so good, I barely made it two turns away from my campsite. It was paradise. 

Eventually (this has never happened to me before), I began to feel as though I'd taken enough trout from the creek.  It didn't feel fair.  I wandered back to our campsite, where A and her sister were working on dinner.  As the sky grew darker, we snacked, drank and chatted beside the fire.  I fell asleep, exhausted, listening to the stream outside...and dreamt of brook trout.

Sunday morning was considerably less relaxing.  We awoke and set out early, in order to get Liv to the airport that afternoon.  After a Clifbar breakfast, we began the long, steep climb out of the valley, up to Spruce Knob.  Before the pain really set in, we stopped at our favorite meadow for one last look.

And then we were off.  We climbed all morning.  Apparently, there is a way to access Seneca Creek without hiking off Spruce Knob.  Next time.  Although our hike out was beautiful, we were totally gased at the top.  Driving home, we grabbed meatball subs under the shadow of Seneca Rocks.  Overall, I think we showed Liv a pretty sweet (if somewhat intense) first backpacking adventure.