Matt McGraw- Meeting Odin on the Au Sable

Meeting Odin on the Au Sable

This writing is the second in a two-part series on the author's recent adventure fly angling in Appalachian New York.

I had a convenient problem. I had just concluded a five-day business trip to the Finger Lakes Region of New York and had four days before I was scheduled to present at a conference at Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh. I had recently heard Pittsburgh described as the "Paris of Appalachia," a descriptor that I particularly enjoy. My favorite thing about Pittsburgh has always been Steelers fans. I do not follow football much these days, but I find many Steelers fans who are more fanatical about being a Steelers fan than anything that happens on the field. Prior to that sojourn, however, I had some time to kill in an area of Appalachia that I rarely visit.

I wanted to maximize my time on the water, fish somewhere unique, and hopefully catch a trout or two. I reached out to Steve with Destination Angler Podcast, one of my favorites, and asked for advice. A major criterion for my trip was that I did not want to deal with crowds, but I had to stay in the northeast, a challenge in itself. He referred me to a past episode on fishing the Adirondacks and, after listening, I had a destination: Wilmington, New York, and the Au Sable River.

I began prepping for the May trip in March. I studied hatch charts and contacted a couple of Adirondack-based fly shops for advice. The Hungry Trout Resort and Fly Shop in Wilmington were most helpful. They referred me to some online maps, gave me a list of flies to tie, and I made a mental note to stop in and support the shop while in the area. The flies were much larger than I thought. Sizes 10 and 8 were the norm; 16 and 18 were unheard of. 

I pulled off Corning on a Saturday morning, taking a detour in Vermont to visit the American Museum of Fly Fishing, and stopping by Lake George for two days to explore the area, particularly the former French and Indian War era fort, Fort William Henry. Fans of early American Literature will appreciate this area as the backdrop for Cooper's Leatherstocking Tales, most notably The Last of the Mohicans. It was easy to imagine Chingachgook silently gliding a birchbark canoe through the still waters or Natty Bumppoe leveling Killdeer and sighting on a whitetail. The weather was perfect, and it was before Memorial Day so the summer crowds seeking refuge from a dozen eastern cities had not yet descended.

I stayed in Lake George for two nights and the next two in Wilmington, New York, near the Au Sable. In fact, one of those nights was at the Hungry Trout Resort, where the Au Sable flows through the backyard. I dedicated Monday to some fishing but mostly reconnaissance, planning to fish hard Tuesday. The area's beauty is jaw-dropping: the iconic Whiteface Mountain, high plunging waterfalls, clear mountain lakes, and lots of wildlife. I saw multiple black bears, coyotes, eagles, and the most industrious beavers I have ever encountered. Remember, I am from Virginia, and we have a respectful river or lake beavers. The Adirondack beavers regarded me as more or less a nuisance, another human who was in their way as they knocked down trees and dragged wood around.

Monday was fruitful. I landed half a dozen brown trout, mostly experimenting with contact-nymph techniques. I quickly learned that the blackflies, which I surmise are descended directly from pterodactyls, would pierce any bit of uncovered skin. I found them to be vicious and unmoved by curses, pleas, and prayers. I moved often, measuring the character of the river. The fish were aggressive and struck hard. The manager at the fly shop was right- size 10 worked well, but a size 16 did not get a second glance. The only trout I caught on dry flies came this first afternoon. I slept in the truck that night, ready to fish hard the next day.

The local wildlife was active that night and the weather steadily cooled. The wind whispered, then sang, and then howled. At daybreak, it was obvious that it was safer in the vehicle. By 7 a.m. tree limbs had begun to fall around the truck, and I moved it to clearer ground. I breakfasted on oatmeal with peanut butter and banana cooked over a camp stove. The wind calmed a little, but only for a few minutes at a time. At about 2 pm it had finally calmed enough to fish, but it was still forceful, making casting difficult.

The large, size 10 Au Sable Wulffs and size 12 Purple Hazes were out it was impossible to cast a dry in that wind or, for that matter, get a decent drift with a tight line. I moved to the only thing I could cast, which was large, size 6 or better, Conehead Woolybuggers, bi-colored with yellow on the bottom and mahogany brown or olive on top. Not as classy as I had hoped, but I abandoned class when my hat blew away during lunch. To my surprise, the bugger produced. My technique had devolved into punching the line across and downstream and swinging it old-school wet fly style. When the wind permitted, I could lob it upstream so it could drop in the current before starting the swing. Sometimes I could tightline it with small twitches. The deepest pockets all produced trout and I was quite pleased with catching four in quick succession.

It seemed as though I had figured it out and when I became aware of this, my ego swelled. I squinted and gazed into the middle distance reflecting that I was hundreds of miles from home, conquering elements and fooling fish, on flies I had tied. I concocted a mental image of myself as a sort of fly-fishing Jeremiah Johnson, a "fine figure of a man." That self-indulgent notion was too much for karma to bear. The wind picked back up, the temperature dropped sharply and ceased to produce any strikes at all. 

Two hours later, it had calmed again. By this time, it was 6:30 p.m. and the sun, which had been high on this blustery day, was just starting to move behind the mountain. I switched from streamers to a longer leader and concentrated on the shade line with a double nymph rig. It was still too windy to cast far, but a reasonable drift was now possible and the trout again cooperated. The temperature had dropped steadily all day and there was a chance of snow that evening. I do not like to fish in gloves, so I was cold, my face was wind-burnt (but free of blackfly bites, due to the wind), and my waders had sprung a leak somewhere around my left knee. My left boot was slowly filling with ice-cold, snow-melt. I was paying dues, catching fish, and feeling good about myself. Contact nymphing produced another eight or ten fish, mostly in the 14-17-inch range, with a few larger. Regardless of size, they were all strong and had attitudes. It was everything I hoped it could be.

I remember a single brown trout, my last of the trip, as exceptional. I had switched back to the yellow/brown Woolybugger and was fishing off the downstream tip of an island casting between gusts to shoot the streamer across to the far bank. The wind was in my face, so casts had to be low and fast to generate the line speed to reach it. The brownie that took the fly was not huge, only about 16 inches, but I knew immediately that he was different. He was smart and intentional. He went downstream in a way that was fast, but not panicked, slipping behind every rock he passed. In a way that seemed uncharacteristic of trout, he also used his body in the current, turning horizontal to it, which had the effect of doubling or tripling his mass. Before I landed him, I could have sworn he was 25 inches. Glancing up, I saw a sweeper 40 yards downstream. Its gnarly, tangled root ball was facing upstream, and the trout was headed straight for it. He had been there before. He had already gained a downstream position and was headed for structure, and I was worried about my barbless hook and 4X tippet. It was my last chance to turn him. Bending the rod and moving downstream as far as I could safely, I steered him away from the sweeper and back into the current. 

A minute later he was netted. The barbless hook slipped out easily and I finally had a close look at him. I do not think he was an old fish, but he was a powerful 16 inches, and ragged. This fish was experienced, and his physical condition hinted at this hard-earned knowledge. He was missing the left eye, like Odin, a sacrifice to a higher predator. On his right side, just below and on either side of the dorsal fin, were talon marks. He was scared, but not beaten and certainly not broken. The scars and missing eye only complimented his temperament. After snapping a couple of pics, I released him back into the stream. He gave one splashy tail slap and was simply gone, the vanishing only amplifying his mystique. Odin's release was a fitting end to this trip and afterward, I sat on the bank in reflection. The long drive, time away from my family, uncomfortable nights, wind-burnt cheeks, stinging fly bites, irreverent beavers, and supernatural wind now seem as though they were obstacles in an abbreviated odyssey. As Twain observed, "That which is hard to endure is sweet to recall." 

Less than twenty-four hours later I was in a business suit, in the "Paris of Appalachia," about to speak at a well-respected university and daydreaming of clear northern rivers, Odin, a hard fight, and a clean release.