Giants once tread through her soft, and mucky banks; Decades ago, when the likes of Vince Marinaro, Charlie Fox, and Ed Shenk so thoughtfully peered into the glassy runs of diminutive size, puzzled by the masterpiece that lie before them. Countless hours these artists of the sport spent, watching the watercress and elodea sway hypnotically in the micro currents of Letort Spring Run, eventually revealing many of the secrets that she possessed. Gentleman of the beautiful past time, dedicating so much of their lives to this fishery, who over time, so poetically put their thoughts, discoveries, and experiences to paper, forever changing the game.
Never will I forget, the first time I witnessed this magnificent yet haunting gem of South Central Pennsylvania; The first time I pulled down Bonnybrook road, to an ancient bridge, a small dirt pull off, and a "catch and release fly fishing only sign," that felt incredibly welcoming after my two and a half hour journey. I casually walked up the path, awestruck by the work of perfection that was finally in clear sight. The very water I had read and re-read so many articles about, and carefully inspected endless pictures of finally lie right before my eyes. As I cautiously approached the first wooden bridge on the trail, I stepped out onto the old structure, glancing up stream, experiencing a split second, that would change me forever. My first good, hard look into the stream, a gin clear run no more than a few feet in width, and right in the middle of it, a stunning brown of at least 16 inches that vanished like a ghost into the vegetation, gone just as fast as I had turned my head to look up and see it. I've crossed this bridge countless times since, and I have never witnessed another fish in this lie, let alone one of that proportion. I smiled, knowing at this very moment in time, that this place would take a grip on me, and never let go. The stream, no more than ten to fifteen feet wide in many spots, Possesses a hypnotizing affect, as it slowly and tranquilly meanders its way through the beautiful farmlands and meadows of the humble town of Carlisle, Pennsylvania. It was a peculiarly warm mid-November day for that first trip. The aquatic vegetation was in heavy bloom, and the meadows gave off a mysterious yet inviting sensation, that I have yet to encounter anywhere else. To simply walk along this stream in her upper stretches is an incredible experience alone, and you can feel the presence of greatness, and the historical significance that this place provided, and will continue to provide for American fly fishing. I failed to catch any fish, or even hook any fish that first trip, but witnessed for the first time, the stream that would forever change my perspective of life. The place that would teach me the importance of slowing down, and taking in all the little things that our surroundings in many instances, so beautifully provide without us even knowing.
Today, she is a small shadow of her brilliant past, however, over the last half century has constructed a reputation of global recognition. Notorious as a devil of the fly fishing universe, her resident browns are considered by many to be some of the most sophisticated and finicky trout on the planet. These exquisite specimens, a cross between the Loch Leven Brown trout of Scotland, and the Von Behr Brown trout of Germany, are perhaps just as unique in their appearance as they are in their attitude. Vividly golden coloration, and sparse brown and red spots, the creatures are far more beautiful than words could ever describe. To me, there will never be a more respectable fishery, or more worthy adversary than Letort Spring Run, and the brown trout that call her home.
It wasn't until March 25th of the following year, that I would finally land my first brown on the fabled run. Half a dozen trips, just as many missed fish, hours spent researching, more hours spent over the vise tying spring creek flies such as scuds and cress bugs, and discovering a side of the sport, that was completely foreign to me; All of this, and in the mean time, just adding fuel to the fire. Contributing more and more to the obsession that this place would soon become. At this point, over the last few years I have caught dozens of browns out of this tantalizing fishery, and I've made the drive out to Carlisle far more times than I'd like to admit. Yet, I will never tire of this stream or her magnificent inhabitants. The Letort taught me how insignificant size and numbers are to a successful day of fishing; The joys that the little things can bring, such as the wonderful aroma of honey suckle gently dancing through the breeze on a warm summer's eve, or a mother goose, tirelessly watching over her gaggle of goslings as they carelessly work their way down stream. I've spent days on the Letort where i've caught fish into the double digits, and I've made that long drive home with the smell of skunk and defeat lingering through the car, far to many times than one would deem normal. However, this being all irrelevant, because at the end of the day, whether she bests me, or I best her, I'll always go home smiling. I will forever be in debt to this fishery, that is truly unparalleled by anything else mother earth has to offer.
Never will I forget, the first time I witnessed this magnificent yet haunting gem of South Central Pennsylvania; The first time I pulled down Bonnybrook road, to an ancient bridge, a small dirt pull off, and a "catch and release fly fishing only sign," that felt incredibly welcoming after my two and a half hour journey. I casually walked up the path, awestruck by the work of perfection that was finally in clear sight. The very water I had read and re-read so many articles about, and carefully inspected endless pictures of finally lie right before my eyes. As I cautiously approached the first wooden bridge on the trail, I stepped out onto the old structure, glancing up stream, experiencing a split second, that would change me forever. My first good, hard look into the stream, a gin clear run no more than a few feet in width, and right in the middle of it, a stunning brown of at least 16 inches that vanished like a ghost into the vegetation, gone just as fast as I had turned my head to look up and see it. I've crossed this bridge countless times since, and I have never witnessed another fish in this lie, let alone one of that proportion. I smiled, knowing at this very moment in time, that this place would take a grip on me, and never let go. The stream, no more than ten to fifteen feet wide in many spots, Possesses a hypnotizing affect, as it slowly and tranquilly meanders its way through the beautiful farmlands and meadows of the humble town of Carlisle, Pennsylvania. It was a peculiarly warm mid-November day for that first trip. The aquatic vegetation was in heavy bloom, and the meadows gave off a mysterious yet inviting sensation, that I have yet to encounter anywhere else. To simply walk along this stream in her upper stretches is an incredible experience alone, and you can feel the presence of greatness, and the historical significance that this place provided, and will continue to provide for American fly fishing. I failed to catch any fish, or even hook any fish that first trip, but witnessed for the first time, the stream that would forever change my perspective of life. The place that would teach me the importance of slowing down, and taking in all the little things that our surroundings in many instances, so beautifully provide without us even knowing.
Today, she is a small shadow of her brilliant past, however, over the last half century has constructed a reputation of global recognition. Notorious as a devil of the fly fishing universe, her resident browns are considered by many to be some of the most sophisticated and finicky trout on the planet. These exquisite specimens, a cross between the Loch Leven Brown trout of Scotland, and the Von Behr Brown trout of Germany, are perhaps just as unique in their appearance as they are in their attitude. Vividly golden coloration, and sparse brown and red spots, the creatures are far more beautiful than words could ever describe. To me, there will never be a more respectable fishery, or more worthy adversary than Letort Spring Run, and the brown trout that call her home.
It wasn't until March 25th of the following year, that I would finally land my first brown on the fabled run. Half a dozen trips, just as many missed fish, hours spent researching, more hours spent over the vise tying spring creek flies such as scuds and cress bugs, and discovering a side of the sport, that was completely foreign to me; All of this, and in the mean time, just adding fuel to the fire. Contributing more and more to the obsession that this place would soon become. At this point, over the last few years I have caught dozens of browns out of this tantalizing fishery, and I've made the drive out to Carlisle far more times than I'd like to admit. Yet, I will never tire of this stream or her magnificent inhabitants. The Letort taught me how insignificant size and numbers are to a successful day of fishing; The joys that the little things can bring, such as the wonderful aroma of honey suckle gently dancing through the breeze on a warm summer's eve, or a mother goose, tirelessly watching over her gaggle of goslings as they carelessly work their way down stream. I've spent days on the Letort where i've caught fish into the double digits, and I've made that long drive home with the smell of skunk and defeat lingering through the car, far to many times than one would deem normal. However, this being all irrelevant, because at the end of the day, whether she bests me, or I best her, I'll always go home smiling. I will forever be in debt to this fishery, that is truly unparalleled by anything else mother earth has to offer.
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