On those hot, humid summer evenings of my childhood, my Dad would often ask me, “Do you want to go fishing?” My usual answer was an enthusiastic “YES!”
There was something magical about going fishing with Dad. He was an expert fly fisherman who firmly believed in catch and release – so the fish would be good sport for another time. We also fished with barb-less hooks; it made it a little easier for the fish to escape once hooked, but was a challenge to the fisherman to land the trout expertly and gently. The battle was fairer that way. My Dad was an environmentalist long before it became vogue.
We discussed where we would fish that evening. It was easy. The Cumberland Valley abounded with beautiful limestone streams where trout fishing was sublime.
One of my favorite spots was Green Spring, a tiny stream that twisted through fields, woods, and a farmer’s pasture. When we arrived, we would park the car and start to prepare for our time on the stream. Hip boots were donned, bug repellant was applied, fishing jacket, with its many pockets was slipped on, net was hooked to the back of the jacket, and finally the fly rod was assembled. Dad would light his proverbial cigar; “The smoke keeps the gnats away,” he would mumble.
Then we would walk to the stream, to see if there was a hatch in progress. That meant we wanted to find out what kind of bugs were hatching and flying around the water. Finding a hatch was exciting. My Dad would cup his hands to capture a bug so we could examine it and try to match a dry fly. I was passionate about fishing dry fly. I loved casting the line upstream and watching the fly settle lightly upon the water and float towards me. The anticipation of a strike required careful observation of the lure.
Lighting on the water could make it difficult to track the fly. Obviously, in shaded water, a light-colored fly was easier to see, and in water reflecting sunlight, a darker lure was more visible. Riffles would often mask the fly in its splashing channels as the water tumbled between rocks and through varying creek-bed terrain.
Live fly activity would usually increase as dusk approached – the crowning hour for a fly fisherman. Unfortunately, the growing darkness carried with it a regret that the fishing would soon be over. Eventually, it would grow so dark, we could not see our fly on top of the water; therefore, we were unable to see the fish strike and respond by setting the hook.
The visions of Green Spring remain vivid in my mind. In the haze of a humid, summer evening, the creek sparkled and giggled as it flowed through the fields and woods. I recall sections of the creek by the trout that lived there.
A favorite riffle was the home of Flippy, a trout named for his habit of flipping his tail when he leaped out of the water. I have no doubt that Flippy allowed me the sport of catching him on several occasions. He would always give me a good fight, showcasing his trademark leaps. Did he know that he would be released?
Releasing a trout is an art in itself. A spent trout was to be guided gently to the angler and handled as little as possible. If the hook could be removed in the water, my Dad encouraged that. However, with my awkward, youthful hands, that was not always possible. I often had to lift the fish out of the water. If the trout rolled over on its side or belly-up after being returned to the water, Dad recommended massaging the gills gently to encourage oxygen flow. It always worked. Slowly the trout would return to an upright position, fin slowly, and then suddenly take off. Dad always thanked the trout for the sport.
As I worked the water, I entered the section of the stream that flowed through deep woods. Around one bend, there lived a huge trout; I had named him Tremendous. He was a worthy opponent for my father because Dad was an expert fisherman. I always fished that part of the stream with great respect for that trout. Dad was fortunate to hook Tremendous a few times, but was never able to land him.
Where the stream left the woods, it flowed past a beautiful farmhouse. The farmer owned a Brittany Spaniel named Zeke. When Zeke was loose, forget about fishing. Anytime the dog saw a fisherman, he came dashing to the creek in anticipation of “going fishing!” He would watch the line intently, with tongue dangling, and ears flicking forward at any unusual motion. My Dad used to swear that Zeke would “point” trout. When a trout was hooked, Zeke would make a flying leap into the water and retrieve the fish, bringing it back to the angler. Took all the fun out of playing the fish! But Zeke thought it was great sport!
This farm was also home to a herd of cows – black and white Holsteins. On evenings when the fishing was slow, I would set aside my rod and venture over the barbed wire fence to “talk” to the cows. I would moo my lungs out! Usually, the cows ignored my foolish attempts, but one night they, too, must have been bored. When they saw and heard me, they decided to investigate. Instead of plodding over slowly, they gallumped towards me. Even though I was a country girl, I was afraid of cows; I thought all cows with horns were bulls! I panicked, bolted over the barbed wire fence, and got hung up on the top strand. A barb ripped the soft skin on the inside of my thigh. No matter how I struggled to free myself, the barb stayed firmly imbedded. My father had to come and untangle me, all the while chuckling quietly to himself.
Another time, at that very same spot, Dad fell into the creek. Water flooded his hip boots and drenched his trousers and socks. He took off his boots and socks and hung them over the fence to dry while he proceeded to fish in his bare feet. Considerable time passed, and eventually Dad was ready to move on. He returned to pick up his wet garments only to find a cow lazily standing by the fence finishing off his socks.
As darkness settled upon us, our return to the car was accompanied by the smell of water and fish mingled with cigar smoke, sweat, and insect repellant. Our rubber boots would thonk and swish with each step as we exchanged stories and matched numbers of fish caught that evening. Tree frogs trilled in the background as the tips of our rods disappeared in the darkness. We would walk the final mile in silence – a father and daughter intertwined forever by their love for the outdoors and each other.
In 1924, Adolph Borie donated 190 acres to the state for a park in memory of his mother Susan Parke Borie and her granddaughter Susan Ryerson Patterson. The field house was constructed from materials taken from the remains of miners' homes.
