He reigns as the greatest icon in my journey into and through the magical world of difficult trout, for Ed Shenk was The Master, and the Letort Spring Run was the heralded queen of impossible trout waters that captivated me and taught me through many lessons, trials and errors. It is not coincidental that I think of him as summer graces the landscape, for summer was the prime season on the fabled Letort, and all of the limestone spring creeks of Pennsylvania’s Cumberland Valley.
Terrestrial fishing was born upon these waters, for they did not issue heavy hatches of mayflies during the past forty years or more. Their trout were secretive, taking full advantage of the lush beds of aquatic weeds, undercut banks and log jams. The essence of my own fascination with trout hunting lies veiled in the mists of humid summer mornings where the limestone waters meandered gently through my heart and mind.
And still I am called to hunt the mists…
Sixty-nine degrees at dawn and 100 percent humidity bound the morning fog heavily along the river. I stalked in the silence and listened. Every once in a while, I heard the rush of a hunter, and began the slow approach in it’s direction. Closing on an area, I concentrated upon the feel as the flex of vintage cane propelled my fly out, to land lost in the mist. Eyes strained to gather clues from a wider patch of gray water as I imagined the drifts I could not see.
Nearing the place where my ears had told me to expect a hunter on the prowl, I searched in vain for any indication of movement. With low light and fog robbing me of the best of my senses of perception, I called upon the ethereal. One moment the fly was out there, unseen, and the next, I knew it had been taken. The arching bamboo transmitted powerful head shakes as I stripped line, the great fish barreling away from his hunting ground toward open water. I could hear his boils at the surface and see the flashes of white water, but the world beneath the surface remained opaque, reflecting the soft gray of the low-lying mist.
The spinning drag of the old CFO seemed amplified by the silence, and my heart beat faster with each ratcheting arpeggio.
I saw him clearly only once my stroke with the net pulled him from the mist shrouded water, the black fly prominently displayed on the point of his maw. He was beautiful!
Hours passed before the sun slowly burned through the cloud cover for the few minutes required to cause the surface hugging mist to vanish. I had taken another quality brown trout and continued hunting slowly, searching. A soft sound drew my attention to one small undercut. The cane flexed smoothly, and the little fly touched down less than an inch from the edge of riverbank and water. A spitting rise and I bowed the rod heavily as an unseen monster pulled the tip down hard. We froze there in that pose, the trout powering around some unseen rock or root, wrapping the leader in an instant before breaking the tippet cleanly.
The sun burned through once more and winked at me before retreating back through the clouds.
Bright Waters Catskill 