Back in May I took a break from my GoFISHn work to escape to
Shenadoah with my daughter, Justine, for a little fishing adventure. A
few weeks ago I'd read a piece called "All the President's Brookies"
about the fishing camp and retreat Herbert Hoover built a couple of
hours west of Washington DC in a remote area of northern Virginia
that's a short a hike off Skyline Drive
in Shenandoah National Park. The camp sits at the headwaters of
Virginia's Rapidan river, where the Mill Prong and Laurel Prong
mountain creeks come together. And the article said the waters were
full of native brook trout. That was enough for me to start asking a
few friends if they had ever fished there. I got some vague answers and
some vaguer advice, but nothing to hang my hat on. Then I searched on
Google and found many references to the Hoover camp but nothing much
about fishing, at least on the first page or two of search results
which is where I usually stop looking. As
were were driving west at the crack of dawn from our home in Maryland,
my daughter asked groggily if I knew what we were doing, and I had to
answer no, not really. I'd packed or most contingencies, including the
cooler altitudes (around 3200 feet on Skyline), threatening spring
thunderstorms, and come what may. When we passed through the Thornton
Gap entrance station to Skyline Drive, a helpful ranger told me I'd
better stop at the Byrd Visitor center, which was fortunately on our
way to the trail head, to pick up a Virgina fishing license. Most
national parks don't require a state license to fish, but this one
does. I asked him how the fishing was, and he said he had no idea. Not
a good sign.The ride south on Skyline was pretty spectacular.
We glimpsed the spreading expanses of the Shenandoah valley to the west
and the soft greens of trees coming into their early spring foliage on
the mountain slopes all around. We picked up our licenses at Byrd and
drove another few minutes to the Milam Gap parking area, where we got
organized for the hike in. Rods and reels, check. Lunch and water,
check. Rain jackets and dry shoes, check. Garmin and map, check — not
that it did me any good because the first thing I did was march my poor daughter half an hour in the wrong direction on the trail. Whoops. Once
we got on track, it was an easy 45 minute hike down hill (about 700
vertical feet) involving three friendly creek crossings to reach the
Hoover camp, where we found the three simple cabins,
two of which are now museums maintained by the national park service.
We ate lunch sitting on the porch of Hoover's own cabin, situated on a
little rise above where the prong creeks come together. (At top right
is the confluence of the two creeks that form the Rapidan, with the
Hoover cabin in the background. At right, Justine studies a pool.)Just
about the time we finished eating, my daughter gave me one of those
"now what?" looks. The fishing looked challenging. The creeks had a
fair amount of water, but the woods and undergrowth were tight all
around, and while it was easy to imagine lots of promising pools full
of small but worthy brook trout, it was less easy to imagine how to get
to them. I rigged us up, and I immediately wished I'd brought something
smaller than nine foot, five weight rods. If we weren't careful we'd
put more flies in the trees than in the water. Then
there was the question of getting to the water. Facing down river from
Hoover's cabin, there is a bridge that leads to a fire road on the
left. I figured that must parallel the Rapidan and if it did, anglers
might have worn paths through the woods to the best holes. So we set
off down the road to see what we could find. After a few hundred yards
the sound of the little river started to fade and we saw no paths. I
decided to try walking through to the river, but after fifty yards the
rocky, leaf-carpeted surface, perfect snake country, started to make me
nervous. I came back out to the road, where Justine, ever patient,
looked less convinced than ever that we'd get into any fishing. Now
don't get me wrong; I actually love exploring, but I had come to fish,
and I had no idea it was quite this tight up here, though I suppose it
should not have come as a surprise. So we moved back up to the Hoover
cabin and tried a more direct approach: we went straight into the river
bed, boulder-hopping and wet-footing where need be to work down river
and find some promising holes. The shiny wet boulders were slippery as
snot on a door ***, as Uncle Red used to say, but the mossy ones held
better and the dry ones were fine. I was glad we had brought dry shoes
for the hike out. (Image at right: big brookies clearly don't swim in
small pools at 2500 feet!) It took acrobatics and a few near
falls, but we found some small pools. I flipped (there was no room for
casting) and stripped some flies and promptly caught a very small
brookie on a bright green buggit streamer, and I had to admire the
little gumption in going after a fly meant for a much bigger fish. We
fished for another couple of hours, but I was not on the water all that
much because both of us were losing a lot of flies to logs and other
debris in the river. Just when you thought you had a nice few-second
drift just shy of some overhanging log, the fly would hook up on some
infernal obstruction. Like I said, tight waters. I caught one more
little guy (on a flashback bead-head pheasant tail) in the course of
working my way about 100 yards downstream, and Justine, much to her
annoyance, caught none. (She got a bit snippy and asked if I had saved
the best flies for myself, but truth was she fished the same ones, I
just covered more pools than she did. But I'm not sure she sees this
the same way…)We knocked off at around 4:00 pm because we had
a two-mile uphill climb still ahead of us and a long ride home. As I
panted my way back up the trail to the car, I thought, great little
adventure, but this could have been easier.
Brookies and tight water at the source of the Rapidan in Shenandah National Park
