Welcome to West
Virginia Trout Fishing,
the best site on the web
to get information about
trout fishing in Almost
Heaven, West Virginia.
Our aim is to make it
easy for you to keep up
with fishing conditions
across the state and to
provide entertaining and
informative original
content.
Of course, we go fishing
in other places besides
West Virginia, and we'll
probably include
information about those
places, too.
If you would like to
contribute a link or a
story to our site, contact
us at
philipheald@westvirginia
troutfishing.com, or click
here
Virginia Trout Fishing,
the best site on the web
to get information about
trout fishing in Almost
Heaven, West Virginia.
Our aim is to make it
easy for you to keep up
with fishing conditions
across the state and to
provide entertaining and
informative original
content.
Of course, we go fishing
in other places besides
West Virginia, and we'll
probably include
information about those
places, too.
If you would like to
contribute a link or a
story to our site, contact
us at
philipheald@westvirginia
troutfishing.com, or click
here
| Resources: West Virginia Fishing Licenses West Virginia Stream Conditions West Virginia Weather West Virginia Trout Stocking West Virginia DNR |
| Lodging, Guides, Fly Shops: Harman's North Fork Cottages Mountain State Anglers Watoga State Park Four Seasons Lodge Four Seasons Outfitters Yokum's Motel/Cabins Elk Springs Resort |
| Archived Articles The Glory and Power of the Outdoors By B. Dan Berger The Next Generation of Conservationsts By B. Dan Berger What's Wrong with This Picture? By B. Dan Berger Hail! to the Boardman by Philip J. Heald A Day in Blackwater Canyon by Philip J. Heald Fly Fishing in Left Field by Matt Cooke Alarming Fish Kills along the Potomac and its tributaries by Matt Cooke My Trip to the Holy Waters By Philip J. Heald Up Big Laurel Creek: Second Installment By Matthew G. Cooke Up Big Laurel Creek: First Installment By Matthew G. Cooke An Amateur’s Guide To Richwood, West Virginia (or, a guide to Richwood West Virginia, by an amateur) WV Trout Streams in “Good Shape” Despite Dry Summer Elk River, West Virginia (May 30, 2007) |
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It’s Not About the Gear
--by Matt Cooke
If you have come within a mile of a fishing magazine the last few months,
you have probably seen the advertisements for Orvis' new Helios line of fly
rods.
Here's a confession--I have never fished with an Orvis rod. I do have
some Orvis gear, but no Orvis rods. Why? Because I'm loyal to the rods I
have now.
Several years ago, I got a Cabelas gift certificate worth one hundred fifty
dollars. I wanted a rod I could thrash and beat anywhere, so I bought one of
their Three Forks brand rods, with reel, for less than two hundred bucks. It
suits me fine--simple, practical, utilitarian.
1 2
--by Matt Cooke
If you have come within a mile of a fishing magazine the last few months,
you have probably seen the advertisements for Orvis' new Helios line of fly
rods.
Here's a confession--I have never fished with an Orvis rod. I do have
some Orvis gear, but no Orvis rods. Why? Because I'm loyal to the rods I
have now.
Several years ago, I got a Cabelas gift certificate worth one hundred fifty
dollars. I wanted a rod I could thrash and beat anywhere, so I bought one of
their Three Forks brand rods, with reel, for less than two hundred bucks. It
suits me fine--simple, practical, utilitarian.
1 2
Some of our favorite
West Virginia Photos
West Virginia Photos
The Golden Trout
by B. Dan Berger
It’s the size of a Buick. I am standing on a vehicle-sized boulder in the North Fork River, and the
sun is slightly behind the mountains. I checked because I didn’t want to cast a shadow over the
pool of water behind the big ancient rock, possibly scaring any fish that may be hiding there. I
had been fishing upriver for just over an hour with some mild success.
The water is rippling by the boulder but the pool is smooth with some small bubbles here and
there. It’s fairly deep and crystal clear.
I peek cautiously over the edge of the huge rock. Low and behold, down below me is a large,
beautiful golden trout. I didn’t see the beast from the riverbank. The fish is an easy 16 inches
long. Then again, I am a fly-fisherman and we are prone to exaggeration. The gorgeous
Oncorhynchus mykiss is bright yellow-orange and is about a foot or two under the water’s
surface. It’s facing upstream toward me and the boulder, tail moving slowly back and forth,
helping to keep itself pointed in the right direction.
I wedge my fly rod between my ribs and arm and tie on a dry fly. I cast it behind the large rock
and let it drift into the pool. The fish didn’t move. I do this over a dozen times; different angles,
but almost always floating the fly within a foot of the trout.
I pull the zinger that my Orvis snips are attached to and cut the fly off, and place it back in my
fly box. I meticulously choose another. And drift the fly over the nose of the golden trout. And do
it again. Then again. And several more times.
I put on a different fly, a nymph this time. I drift it so close, almost to the point of gaffing the
trout. I put on yet another fly. Cast and drift. Cast and drift. The golden trout doesn’t move
toward any of the flies. Not a flinch. This is one snooty fish.
I climb down off the backside of the big boulder onto the left bank. Actually, I slid down in a
controlled crash sort of way. I walk upstream about fifty yards, and then carefully and quietly
cross the flowing river. I am now on the water’s edge looking back across about forty feet of
rushing water toward the gigantic boulder and the calm pool behind it.
I tie on another fly and once again, cast and let the fly drift into the trout. I do this repeatedly
until I begin to develop a serious case of fly-fishing elbow. Then tie on a different fly, an emerger.
Once again, nothing. I literally used every fly I had in my fly box, over two dozen different tasty
morsels.
Getting the picture?
Well, it gets worse. Much worse. All the above occurs for four weekends in a row. Do the
math. That’s right, for an entire month of weekends, I am teased and belittled by this golden
trout. And my wife has become very worried about me.
Unfortunately when I went back the fifth weekend, my nemesis was not there. Did someone
catch it? Did the rain two days prior move him downstream? I will never know. In fact, I was
actually a little melancholy for a few weeks, borderline depressed, over not catching that golden
trout.
And now, every time I walk down to the river, I think about that fish. Typically I catch and release
most of the trout I hook up. But I have come to the conclusion, had I caught that damn golden
trout, he would be swimming on the wall of my house.
Dan Berger is a lifelong outdoorsman and avid fly-fisherman, and to this day, has yet to catch a
golden trout on a fly rod.
by B. Dan Berger
It’s the size of a Buick. I am standing on a vehicle-sized boulder in the North Fork River, and the
sun is slightly behind the mountains. I checked because I didn’t want to cast a shadow over the
pool of water behind the big ancient rock, possibly scaring any fish that may be hiding there. I
had been fishing upriver for just over an hour with some mild success.
The water is rippling by the boulder but the pool is smooth with some small bubbles here and
there. It’s fairly deep and crystal clear.
I peek cautiously over the edge of the huge rock. Low and behold, down below me is a large,
beautiful golden trout. I didn’t see the beast from the riverbank. The fish is an easy 16 inches
long. Then again, I am a fly-fisherman and we are prone to exaggeration. The gorgeous
Oncorhynchus mykiss is bright yellow-orange and is about a foot or two under the water’s
surface. It’s facing upstream toward me and the boulder, tail moving slowly back and forth,
helping to keep itself pointed in the right direction.
I wedge my fly rod between my ribs and arm and tie on a dry fly. I cast it behind the large rock
and let it drift into the pool. The fish didn’t move. I do this over a dozen times; different angles,
but almost always floating the fly within a foot of the trout.
I pull the zinger that my Orvis snips are attached to and cut the fly off, and place it back in my
fly box. I meticulously choose another. And drift the fly over the nose of the golden trout. And do
it again. Then again. And several more times.
I put on a different fly, a nymph this time. I drift it so close, almost to the point of gaffing the
trout. I put on yet another fly. Cast and drift. Cast and drift. The golden trout doesn’t move
toward any of the flies. Not a flinch. This is one snooty fish.
I climb down off the backside of the big boulder onto the left bank. Actually, I slid down in a
controlled crash sort of way. I walk upstream about fifty yards, and then carefully and quietly
cross the flowing river. I am now on the water’s edge looking back across about forty feet of
rushing water toward the gigantic boulder and the calm pool behind it.
I tie on another fly and once again, cast and let the fly drift into the trout. I do this repeatedly
until I begin to develop a serious case of fly-fishing elbow. Then tie on a different fly, an emerger.
Once again, nothing. I literally used every fly I had in my fly box, over two dozen different tasty
morsels.
Getting the picture?
Well, it gets worse. Much worse. All the above occurs for four weekends in a row. Do the
math. That’s right, for an entire month of weekends, I am teased and belittled by this golden
trout. And my wife has become very worried about me.
Unfortunately when I went back the fifth weekend, my nemesis was not there. Did someone
catch it? Did the rain two days prior move him downstream? I will never know. In fact, I was
actually a little melancholy for a few weeks, borderline depressed, over not catching that golden
trout.
And now, every time I walk down to the river, I think about that fish. Typically I catch and release
most of the trout I hook up. But I have come to the conclusion, had I caught that damn golden
trout, he would be swimming on the wall of my house.
Dan Berger is a lifelong outdoorsman and avid fly-fisherman, and to this day, has yet to catch a
golden trout on a fly rod.
West Virginia Trout Fishing welcomes Patrick Sullivan to our growing list of
contributors. Patrick is one of my old college chums, and a talented writer. During a
recent moment of idol web surfing, I got the idea to find him, email him, and hit him up
for some material. It worked, so here is the first of what hopefully will become regular
contributions by Patrick Sullivan to westvirginiatroutfishing.com. It first appeared in the
Lakeville (Connecticut) Journal in 2007.
On Opening Day
--By Patrick Sullivan
I spent the early part of the first day of general regulation trout season
watching other guys fish. Opening Day is a news story, and one I dislike
intensely.
Part of that is because I was reporting on matters of great fiscal concern
to the Town of Kent the night before. This invariably puts me in a bad mood,
not because I have anything against Kent, but because I can think of oh,
maybe 17 gazillion better ways to spend a Friday night, starting with being
buried up to my neck next to a colony of Sumatran fire ants and working up
from there.
Friday night's duties got me home late. Combined with a 4:30 a.m. rising
Saturday, my mood, hardly cheerful to begin with, commenced lousy and
continued to disimprove.
Being a reporter means being a pest, and the last thing a fellow wants
when he's trying to get his worm to tumble down a slightly swollen stream is
some yutz with a camera asking him where he's from. (In fact, said yutz is
much more likely to get directions on where to go.)
But the day was glorious, in good enough time my chores were done and I
was fishing in one of my favorite small streams, where I could be assured of
solitude. Even with occasional trips to year-round fisheries over the winter
months, I still find the first real day of spring fishing difficult.
Some pitfalls:
· I discover that, contrary to a deeply held personal belief, that the
combination of ice cream and sleeping over the winter does not in fact cause
weight loss, and my fish pants don't fit.
· I realize that I have neglected to purchase new leaders, forcing me to
construct them from tippet material added to a butt section in a thoroughly
unscientific manner.
· I realize that while I have in fact become dumber over the winter, the
fish have remained constant, and can see and hear me coming a mile away.
I will note that my skills in getting the fly caught in the bushes remain intact,
as does my instinct to step on the least secure rock in the stream.
And speaking of butt sections, Saturday's two minor pratfalls are pretty
much the industry standard, although my attorney Thos. (of whom it may be
safely stated that when God was handing out coordination he stepped out for
a beer) owns the single-season record for Most Spectacular Early-Season
Wipe-Out one April morning a few years back when he took a tumble in the
Esopus Creek in New York, cracking an elbow, denting a reel and getting his
cigars wet.
Often the first pass of the season through a familiar stream is
disheartening; I dread finding a favorite run or pool obliterated by spring
flooding. But on this brook, anyway, the changes were minor, and good -
there are some new runs and exceptionally trouty-looking stretches that
should be productive.
But not Saturday. I couldn't get anything to move, except when I was
floundering around, thinking "Whose feet are these, anyway?" - and
watching little dark shapes darting away to safety.
--Patrick Sullivan is a newspaper reporter and veteran fly fisherman. He resides in
Connecticut, and his home waters are the legendary trout streams of the Catskill
Mountains in New York.
contributors. Patrick is one of my old college chums, and a talented writer. During a
recent moment of idol web surfing, I got the idea to find him, email him, and hit him up
for some material. It worked, so here is the first of what hopefully will become regular
contributions by Patrick Sullivan to westvirginiatroutfishing.com. It first appeared in the
Lakeville (Connecticut) Journal in 2007.
On Opening Day
--By Patrick Sullivan
I spent the early part of the first day of general regulation trout season
watching other guys fish. Opening Day is a news story, and one I dislike
intensely.
Part of that is because I was reporting on matters of great fiscal concern
to the Town of Kent the night before. This invariably puts me in a bad mood,
not because I have anything against Kent, but because I can think of oh,
maybe 17 gazillion better ways to spend a Friday night, starting with being
buried up to my neck next to a colony of Sumatran fire ants and working up
from there.
Friday night's duties got me home late. Combined with a 4:30 a.m. rising
Saturday, my mood, hardly cheerful to begin with, commenced lousy and
continued to disimprove.
Being a reporter means being a pest, and the last thing a fellow wants
when he's trying to get his worm to tumble down a slightly swollen stream is
some yutz with a camera asking him where he's from. (In fact, said yutz is
much more likely to get directions on where to go.)
But the day was glorious, in good enough time my chores were done and I
was fishing in one of my favorite small streams, where I could be assured of
solitude. Even with occasional trips to year-round fisheries over the winter
months, I still find the first real day of spring fishing difficult.
Some pitfalls:
· I discover that, contrary to a deeply held personal belief, that the
combination of ice cream and sleeping over the winter does not in fact cause
weight loss, and my fish pants don't fit.
· I realize that I have neglected to purchase new leaders, forcing me to
construct them from tippet material added to a butt section in a thoroughly
unscientific manner.
· I realize that while I have in fact become dumber over the winter, the
fish have remained constant, and can see and hear me coming a mile away.
I will note that my skills in getting the fly caught in the bushes remain intact,
as does my instinct to step on the least secure rock in the stream.
And speaking of butt sections, Saturday's two minor pratfalls are pretty
much the industry standard, although my attorney Thos. (of whom it may be
safely stated that when God was handing out coordination he stepped out for
a beer) owns the single-season record for Most Spectacular Early-Season
Wipe-Out one April morning a few years back when he took a tumble in the
Esopus Creek in New York, cracking an elbow, denting a reel and getting his
cigars wet.
Often the first pass of the season through a familiar stream is
disheartening; I dread finding a favorite run or pool obliterated by spring
flooding. But on this brook, anyway, the changes were minor, and good -
there are some new runs and exceptionally trouty-looking stretches that
should be productive.
But not Saturday. I couldn't get anything to move, except when I was
floundering around, thinking "Whose feet are these, anyway?" - and
watching little dark shapes darting away to safety.
--Patrick Sullivan is a newspaper reporter and veteran fly fisherman. He resides in
Connecticut, and his home waters are the legendary trout streams of the Catskill
Mountains in New York.