Fishing the Backcountry

The new aqueduct in the CVNP moves the Ohio & Erie Canal over Tinker's Creek, along with storm damage, have wiped out the usual gravel beds

Today started out as a normal day, or what passes for normal around here, until Susan asked, “Why aren’t you fishing?”
A perfectly logical question that might otherwise be ignored in January, except that today the thermometer was already gagging on 45 degrees and threatened to go completely whacky with a high of 58. Did I mention this is January?
Survival depends on being fast on your feet, so I immediately responded, “I am going fishing. I just want to finish reading last night’s saga of the Clown Circus masquerading as the Republican Primary. I need a good laugh to start my day.”
Less than 45 minutes later I was lining up my rod, confidently warning any steelhead trout swimming upstream in the Cuyahoga River, that he had something to fear this morning.
As I looked around, the first thing that did not feel right was an apparent lack of access to the stream. During the past year, beginning in 2010 actually, the good folks from the National Park Service have been repairing the aqueduct that transports the Ohio & Erie Canal over Tinker’s Creek, which empties into the Cuyahoga, and is the spot I like to fish here in the Cuyahoga Valley National Park.
They’ve done a fine job and it looks like the aqueduct should last 100 years. For me, however, it means walking about 50 yards in either direction to get to the stream. I thought of the quote, “You can never step twice into the same stream,” usually attributed to some Oriental philosopher, but really comes from Heraclitus of Ephesus, a sixth century BC Greek philosopher not known to be a trout fisherman.
In any case, he was right, the construction work on the aqueduct, along with our non-stop rain of last year, created a whole new waterway. It sort of looks the same, but access—from the road on in—is different. It’s much deeper now and I couldn’t step into it even if I wanted.
I managed to waste a couple of hours acting like I was fishing, then bagged the whole idea. Less than a mile down the road I spotted a deer trail leading back toward the river and thought maybe, just maybe … The more narrow the trail got the better I liked it. We’re talking about virgin territory here. I’d be sneaking up on the willy fish any minute now.

I like what these fishermen leave behind

Sure enough, the trail led to the river and I could see where the deer must cross. It was not a good place for fly fishing so I worked my way along the stream until I found an opening wide enough to allow me to cast. The only other tracks were those of a Great Blue Heron. The only other sign of life was some recent deconstruction work by beavers.
This had to be the spot. Or not.
By noon, none of the fish in the stream (assuming there were fish in the stream) had taken up the challenge of making fools of themselves. I walked a bit further down stream until I found the perfect log and ate my lunch. A Belted Kingfisher laughed at me as he flew up stream. I could see a small fish glistening in his bill and wondered if his mother ever told him not to talk with his mouth full.

Midnight snacks for a beaver

A Hairy Woodpecker impatiently tapped on a nearby tree like a rude card player drumming his fingers on the table, waiting for other players to get on with it so he could toss down his cards and scoop up his winnings.
After five hours of bushwhacking and fishing, what had I learned? Shoes made for wading in a stream make lousy hiking boots; maybe one cannot step twice into the same stream, but that’s okay; and one can always have a good day in the woods.
Which reminds me of another of Heraclitus’ lesser known quotes: “Man is most nearly himself when he achieves the seriousness of a child at play.”