It begins with the riffles above the swimming hole. Across it one can see the flat rocks and muddy tracks of raccoons and other critters who pass along on their nighttime forays. Behind are the hemlocks keeping watch over the deep cut run and large standing stones that harbor the line dancers and quick strikers...the wonderful trout that populate a small stretch of this northern Pennsylvania stream better known as Kettle Creek.
Below the swimming hole there always tends to be a large fallen tree washed up and stranded by the receding water after winter’s rush, a cover for the fish and marking a shift in the stream’s bed for anglers. The deep water above is best attacked from the shore, while the water behind the deadfall is flat and shallow, but looking carefully with shifting feet, you’ll find the stretch full of pockets and short runs invisible to quickly passing shore walkers. The far bank is draped in shadows from the overhanging evergreens that bow their limbs like Tantalus might in an attempt to sip from the cold mountain stream.
This is a magical place. Through the generosity of family, I’ve been able to experience it for more than a glimpse. I like to walk into it from the main road, each step in the grassy, gravely tract, brings me closer to the soft, pine needle bedded trails meandering along the water. I like to start casting at the swimming hole and work my way concurrent with the flow of the water.
I’ve ambled down from my brother-in-law's camp high on the hill. I like to arrive in the waning light of evening. The show is almost always starting with risers and nippers all along the run. I like to cast caddis and take my chances with a feisty rainbow, brook, or brown that continue to strike over and over as I release them back into the stream, my face smiling and happy. I’ve fished until darkness completely envelopes me before returning to the camp and the fire with a full heart.
When June begins the magic seems to increase ten-fold, as the green drakes drop in droves. If I had to pick a place to cast a line the first week of June every year, I’d choose this little stretch of water above all others in a heartbeat.
I’ve shared my casts here with family and this is where the best secrets are revealed. To glance down stream and see my brother-in-law and niece standing side by side in the evening light, a forever framed picture in my mind’s eye. Seeing the rods bend and the silvery flash and splash of a hooked trout from a distance keeps me smiling. To watch my Uncle Jerry and his son-in-law Shane enchanted by the magic of this place brings a perpetual grin. “It’s like fishing in a snow globe,” Shane once remarked after experiencing the green drakes on a perfect June night.
I turn from these visuals to feel the shoulders of young sons, who now stand before me in this sublime stretch of water. I place the fly rod in their hands and lightly grip the reel and set them casting elbow to wrist, setting the drake imitation on the water...and the magic continues as cast after cast brings the reward. We enjoy the moment of a captured char and release it back into the hidden pockets as the hemlocks watch us strain our eyes against the darkness for just one more cast...one more cast...one more cast...
