Prompt Blog #6: There’s a trout stream in PA

I propose that we make a new license plate here in Pennsylvania. I can imagine it now. There, on the plates of the cars that pull off Rt. 35 before me, heading north with me on Jericho Road. Across the top it’ll read “There’s a Trout Stream in Pennsylvania”; at the bottom it could read the name of the stream that serves as the rock of that fly fisher’s faith. “There’s a Trout Stream in Pennsylvania: Pine Creek.” “There’s a Trout Stream in Pennsylvania: Penn’s Creek.” “There’s a Trout Stream in Pennsylvania: The Little ‘J.’” Maybe Trout Unlimited could even incorporate this saying into the plate that they already produce in conjunction with PennDot. That way the extra money anglers are paying to evangelize their sport and their holy shrines will go to an organization that will help preserve the land and the water that they share in communion with others.

I know that there’ll be more than enough interest in such a venture. I’ve talked to numerous fishermen who describe, in detail, their altar stream and invite me to fish those waters as freely as my grandpa invited any stranger to church. These fishermen can, of course, recite the names of pools and swifts better than they can recite even one Bible verse, and they are only inviting me to fish with them so they feel less guilty about praying for a rise instead of kneeling to pray on Sunday. They need partners in crime. These fisher-types would be glad to personalize and purchase a license plate that would boast of the glories of their trout stream. Then, when they’re gathered around the tailgate, beer in hand, they can talk about how their waters are superior to the Henry’s Forks and Big Horn Rivers of the West—that theirs is the one and only, true trout stream. They’ll have the proof right there on their bumper and in their creels.

As I think about it, though, many fly fishermen whom I know (and whom I fall into ranks with on some issues) would discount the value of buying these license plates—and for many different reasons. Some would just say that fishing is just fishing and wouldn’t agree with my associating fly fishing with religion. Others may claim this license plate scam is just more evidence of how commercially trendy it has become to be a fisher of flies since that movie with Brad Pitt came out. But most of the people I fly fish with wouldn’t buy a plate with their favorite stream on it because they don’t want to blow the whistle on their whole operation. They (as well as myself) don’t want anyone else eavesdropping on their creek-side meditations. To some of us, the connection with our fish and our God is a personal one—a private, individual relationship, where God whispered into our ear where the fish are! We’ll fish the bigger waters—the Delawares, the Lehighs, the Clarion Rivers, etc.—but only when we don’t have the time to make it to our favorite streams. Those bigger streams are very nice cathedrals with wonderful gospels written about them that attract the devout and the faithful. But on them, it feels as if you’re only going through the motions, as if you’re not having a genuine experience.

I haven’t been to my trout stream in a while. I haven’t even thought about its currents in over a year. But as I cross over Lost Creek on an open-grate bridge in Jericho Mills, its currents remind of the quintessential trout stream—the stream that’s there in Pennsylvania for me, and I am transported to its banks.

It is the kind of pilgrimage that only a few people take. I’m looking for some obscure splinter of wood that’s supposedly a part of the Crucifix and is displayed on an altar in South America. You can’t locate it on the Internet or read about it in books; the only way you’ll ever find it is by talking with the locals.

Along the way, you’ve got to shuck pretension and ritualism like a nymphal skin. You’ve got to feel the grass in an oaken grove with your hands or bare feet. Splash the water on your face; put the rod down for a while. You’re only about an hour and 45 minutes from the intersection of Jericho Road and Rt. 35, somewhere in that vast north you spy on your commute home everyday. There’s a dirt road leading back to an old stone and timber bridge where you park since it’s too old and narrow to cross. The only sign of civilization is an abandoned camp made out of the same stone as the bridge. Down below there’s a series of runs and holes that hold decent trout, but you decide to wade slowly into the flatwater right in front of you. It’s not winter now; it’s that time of year, and you know the sulfur duns will pop up through the surface tension of the water. Anyway, you know there are some big trout in here, so there’s no reason to go tramping all over the countryside. The sun is starting to sink below the ridge that rises immediately due west, and you know you won’t have a lot of time before you can’t see your imitation on the water. This means you might not catch a fish, but—man!—it is just enough to be in a setting like this.

And that’s just it—you know. From faith or experience or whatever you want to call it—you know that stream so intimately that you have names of fish you caught on the back of your pictures. That place is so much a part of you that you might want to slap it on a license plate. Then again, you might not.