"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.