INTRODUCTION
In June of 2019, while sitting in my room at the Oasis Café and Motel in Juntura, Oregon, I’m contemplating a decades long fly-fishing journey that led me to this place in that moment of time. The quarters contain four motel units, a restaurant, a few RV slips, and a couple of “permanent” trailers. I doubt that more than 36 residents inhabit this unincorporated village in Malheur County. The stream I visit on this trip, the Malheur River, flows east through this arid, hauntingly beautiful landscape, eventually reaching the Snake River at Oregon’s eastern border. It is surely a less traveled stream by all measures. I encountered nary another angler—nor any trout for that matter—in the three days I’ve encamped here. My guidebook may have been dated, but there are supposed to be trout in this river, mostly hatchery plants that survive harsh conditions. It is a place that few call a fishing destination, hence its appeal. I tend to choose fishing locations or times of year that will afford me a more solitary experience, but occasionally I incidentally appreciate encounters with strangers, some of whom fish, and others who might not have any connection to the sport. Aside from those encounters, I tend toward introspection when I fish. That’s not to say I am not serious about catching fish on every outing, but my success is not necessarily measured in pounds or inches. Though I am formulating this introduction in a far western corner of the United States, the streams from which this eclectic gathering of writings cover might be quite familiar to anglers of Pennsylvania or the Catskills. Here is the list, in no particular order: Neshaminy Creek, Octoraro Creek, Penns Creek, Schoharie Creek, Beaverkill, East Branch of the Delaware, West Branch of the Delaware, Manatawny Creek, Frankford Creek, Lackawanna River, Wissahickon Creek, Valley Creek, Bushkill Creek (Easton), Hosensack Creek, Perkiomen Creek, and Tulpehocken Creek. All are tributaries to larger systems, and most have wild trout in them, though in some of those creeks trout may have arrived via the nearest two-lane county road.
Outside of a few selections, it seems most books on fly-fishing these days drill into technique, fly selection, and location in order to demonstrate how to catch more and bigger fish. I make no grandiose claims, but like any fly-fishing volume, the reader may infer a technique or hint that will enable better fishing. But that is not the purpose of this book. Rather, I would like to suggest that the book will allow the reader to catch more of what fishing offers outside the quest for handsome fish. It is the chance to immerse in the wider encounter that gives depth, texture, and emotion to the fishing experience. As to some of the topics and themes covered, many reach outside of the fishing culture and I would suggest that the non-angler can get just as much enjoyment out of this book as their angling counterparts. In full disclosure, the less traveled streams are a metaphor for events and circumstances that mark the experience as being memorable, unique, and in some cases self-reflective. For many this feature of fishing generally finds itself around campfires and long drives with companions to far-flung destinations. And as with many stories from a more distant past, memory and the facts often diverge but there are numerous strands of truth braided together in this book to make a plausible case for an honest telling. In self-defense, I do reserve the right to feign ignorance if confronted with a differing version of the same event.
As you may guess by thumbing through some of these pages, the chapters herein contain a memoir of forty years of fly-fishing, some while I was a novitiate, a few while I was proficient, and a scattering from the in-between stages during the many years I lived in Pennsylvania. I pay a few homages along the way, to Art Flick and John Burroughs in “Catskill Remembrances” and Richard Brautigan in “The Amish Boy.” The topical subject of vegan philosophy versus catch-and-release can be sifted from “Siren of Shangri-La,” while “Demons” offers a peek into inner psychology. “Natal Streams” explores the roots of a passion for fishing, wondering what role genes and culture each play. “Redeeming Currents” touches upon urban fishing along Bushkill Creek and my encounter with an underprivileged young boy from a disadvantaged neighborhood in Easton, Pennsylvania. “The New World” entails a coming-of-age fishing chronicle. In full confession, the opening dialogue (May 1969) is speculative as the only facts I could ascertain were that Indian Joe’s part-time job was lost when a rope mill in Hulmeville, Pennsylvania closed, leading some to believe he could no longer pay taxes on his holding. I did hear that he moved on to the Pocono region of Pennsylvania. The rest of the events and dialogue are as true as I could remember them. I would be remiss if I did not disclose that in some of these tracts, the names have been changed to protect the innocent (and the guilty). “Tulpehocken Dreams” preserves some of my best days on the water as I graduated from neophyte to accomplished angler. Though most of my fishing is done alone, “Drought Fishing” celebrates fishing with friends as we commiserate over the bad luck of seasonal drought in less-than-elegant fashion. “Last Cast” evokes how meaningful the end of an outing, a trip, a season or even a lifetime of fishing might be experienced. “Woodward Cave” attempts to uncover personal enlightenment in literally the darkest of places. Of course, what fly-fishing volume could be considered complete without addressing the Zen of fly-fishing as I venture in “Wild Black Raspberries.” The birthing of this book began more than thirty years ago when I became deeply involved with my local Trout Unlimited Chapter, Perkiomen Valley (#332). After having acquired sufficient skill as an angler, it is not hard to make the obvious connection between fly-fishing and the habitat where trout live. Unfortunately, even though Trout Unlimited has roughly 350,000 members today and has been in existence since 1954, not much in the angling literature appears to affirm the blood, sweat, and tears that members of local chapters produce in their efforts to make watersheds more sustainable for the fish that most fly anglers purport to love. “Perkiomen Nightmares” aims to correct that deficiency in hopes that writers more gifted than I can pay forward the work of a great organization and the loyal, hard-working volunteers. There are very few among us who are not beneficiaries of TU stream and watershed enhancements that have taken place in our local and distant destinations in search of trout. To show my appreciation, a portion of the proceeds of each book sold online will be dedicated to the national organization.
Tight Lines,
Lou Wentz
Eugene, OR
An excerpt from Tributaries: Fly-fishing Sojourns to the Less Traveled Streams. Copyright © 2022 All rights reserved.
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