Father & Son: Back to the Blue Ridge

Smoke poured from the tailpipe of our ’78 powder-blue Malibu. At age seven I stood envious in our driveway as my father drove off for his annual fly-fishing trip to the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia with his friends. Some were professors at the University of West Virginia, where my father matriculated. Others were respectable businessmen, and more. I was told I wasn’t old enough to join their tribe. Yet.

I did join for a single trip to Bolar Run, a tributary of the upper Jackson River, when I was 20, but many of the old tribe were in heaven by then, likely floating among memories of the wild trout of Virginia’s finest streams, like the Bullpasture, Back Creek, Buffalo Creek, and others that thread this bucolic part of the world.

My father’s friend Frank was a kind man. His life dream had been fulfilled. He built a cabin on Bolar Run, and we joined him for successful angling on nearby streams. I heard stories from before my time and for the first time, shared a sip from the flask with a member of dad’s tribe. Frank is no longer with us, but that weekend is still with me. So, with most of his comrades now gone, my father and I returned.

Trout in the South

The Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia are striped with watercourses. Many are spring-fed and cold—and hold big trout, especially in the catch-and-release-only areas of Virginia’s Special Regulation Trout Waters. And there are warmwater species as well. Many of the coldwater trout streams are tributaries of the James River, which is rich in smallmouth bass, and even muskellunge.

My father and I after some decades entered the time warp and revisited, thinking back to where and when he used to fish these waters. We stayed with an old friend. Derek Hutton, and his wife Margaret, were the lodge managers at Bair’s Lodge on Andros in the Bahamas and tended to me when I was there on a bonefishing trip a few years ago. I learned that they were leaving Bair’s to start an inn in Lexington, Virginia, where Derek had previously graduated Washington and Lee University and played lacrosse. My best friend also went there. I used to visit there and once, in a fraternity house, saw a young ensemble named The Dave Matthews Band. I also played lacrosse, and he did so earlier with some of my high school teammates. Derek Hutton was also a Beta Theta Pi, as was my father. And he was starting a fly-fishing operation. Cosmically, it all congealed and my father and I dropped in to wet a line in some of his old territory.

The Huttons restored an opulent mansion in the center of Lexington, Virginia, where they hosted us. Top-shelf breakfasts and comfortable lodging primed us for our days on the river.

Their guest house was a brilliant, restored home called Stonegate Manor. After the Civil War, James Campbell, the original owner, and Robert E. Lee used to hole up there. At that time Lee was president of Washington and Lee University. With bystanders waiting in the streets to catch a glimpse of him, Lee used to escape the onlookers by darting out a trap door and dashing off on his horse into the night.

Around one hour’s drive from Lexington is a tiny hamlet, Mountain Grove. Not far from there, Back Creek flows into the Jackson River. We waded upstream in the special-regulations wild-trout-only area and arrived at the finest pool within a mile. The green, creamy water was quickly disrupted by a hungry otter and the fish went missing. So, we retreated to Spring Run, another special-regulations area, where watercress clung to the bed of the clear stream. It was a virtual aquarium full of big rainbows and browns. Special-regulations areas are open year-round and are mostly fly-fishing-only, catch-and-release waters. They’re typically not stocked, and full of wild trout.

We were just south of Williamsville near Corsey Springs, and despite the challenge of these difficult fish, we caught three each, and my father was ecstatic. This was technical fishing, mostly high sticking, Euro nymphing in a sense, I even managed to hook what might have been the largest trout of my life. It was easily 22 inches—based on many witnessed jumps—but it was lost near the net due to a thin tippet and ill-advised leader touch.

We fished a foam hellgrammite pattern as a strike indicator, most often with a Duracell nymph dropper. The fish rose very little during the day but subtly sucked in our nymphs with the right drift. It was still a bit early in the season, mid-April, but soon the water would warm just a bit to allow for more topwater action.

Bass Hunting

The next day was a warmwater day. We loaded Hutton’s raft and headed to a nondescript cluster of four homes, which is an established hamlet in that part of the world, named Glen Wilton. There, from a hidden boat ramp, we launched his

12-foot vessel to float 6 miles on the James River. It’s warmer, devoid of trout, and is birthed from the confluence of the cold Jackson River and the Cowpasture River. On the right day, it’s smallmouth bass heaven.

We launched a few miles south of Glen Wilton and floated to Gala. The James is cartographically broken up into 11 sections, with sections from 4 to 13 miles long. All stitched together, they comprise the storied Upper James River Water Trail. The glide passes through not only public and private water. Campsites dot the shoreline, allowing for a canoe or driftboat trip of a week or more.

This section of Virginia is very bucolic; the trail rarely passes homes, other than a series of large farms, and has no amenities. One would almost believe you’re in the American West. It’s a terrific, right-under-your-nose option with very little pressure. We didn’t see another boat.

It took eight hours to complete the float. En route we saw deer, a family of three eagles, a beaver, a groundhog, two blue herons, scores of painted turtles, and a pod of around 100 identical butterflies. The water, like the other rivers we’d fished, was still warming, so the smallmouths were slow to attack.

The highlight of my day was feeling tension. I cast into flotsam and felt snagged. I was using a 6-weight rod with 1X tippet. My retrieve was arrested, then it flinched. I pulled back, and a 3-foot writhing log of a muskie roiled the surface. I had no wire bite tippet on, and with their renowned teeth I thought this was an inevitable failure. But I played the fish cautiously, almost felt the joy of success, but once again, after a leader touch, he popped off. This time the fish left me with uninjured tippet and an intact #10 Kreelex orange streamer.

Hutton’s raft was the perfect ride. He eased it over Class II rapids and steered us so we could pound each outside bend with precision. We fished all day, the midpoint punctuated by a shore lunch of grilled chicken salad with the requisite trimmings.

We dined under a seemingly abandoned railroad trestle that turned out to be alive. A long chain of boxcars and tanker cars chugged through the valley as we ate.

I was feeling disappointed. Yes, we’d caught fish, but not the abundance my father deserved. So as our plane headed toward us the next day, we spent our departing morning angling Buffalo Creek, a tributary of the James. It’s another special-regulations area with mostly private water, close to campus and Lexington, and again there wasn’t another angler in sight.

Hutton tended to my father like a good guide does. I was shooting photos and high sticking Perdigon nymphs through chilly troughs. When my father waded, Hutton kept a watchful eye on his wading belt, grasping it with one hand, pointing out riffles and opportunities with the other. My father landed three magnificent rainbows, and I managed to come tight to a few also, the largest stretching 19 inches in the net.

After landing that crimson-striped rainbow that Hutton declared had “put its makeup on for me, just like Christie Brinkley,” I focused on shooting images of my father. He gifted me the image of his smiling, almost-stunned facial expression. We had plane to catch in Roanoke, but dad was hungry for one more. As he drifted his fly through a verdant pool, his line went tight again.

A 20-inch rainbow ran downstream as he lifted his rod. The fish didn’t like the tension and twice ejected itself from the water, once jumping easily 4 feet in the air before coming to Hutton’s net. There was a wry grin from my father as he slid the fish back to the stream. He said not a word.

45 Years Later

We returned late at night, hugged at the airport, and went back to our hurried lives. A day later I visited my father, who lives nearby in my hometown of North Conway, New Hampshire. He handed me an 8-inch-deep pile of musings. It was handwritten memoirs written by him and his comrades during 45 years of fishing in Virginia.

On top of the pile was a thin book, published by WVU professor and friend of dad’s, Lloyd Davis. It is titled Fishing the Lower Jackson. On the frontispiece he penned: “To Bob Irwin, in memory of mayflies and other delights, and looking ahead. Lloyd Davis”.

If You Go

Getting There: Fly to Roanoke. Flights are fairly reasonable from most major airports in the East. We rented an inexpensive car and drove to Lexington, Virginia.

Lodging: We stayed at Stonegate Manor (stonegatevirginia.com). While other options exist, this historic inn was the perfect fit complete with history and a Civil War-era graveyard across the street. Rooms with breakfast from $275.

Guides: Hutton operates the inn, and also Virginia River Guides (virginiariverguides.com). Wade or float, rods and tackle included, along with shore lunch, costs $550 for a full day.

Gear: Bring a 5-weight for trout, 6-weight for the James. 

Flies: We used Soft-hackle Duracells, Kreelex streamers, and Spanish Bullets (Perdigons). Woolly Buggers and other streamers can be productive in trout waters at times. In April there are Hendrickson hatches on the trout waters, and Sulphurs start in May. 

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Brian Irwin is Fly Fisherman’s New England field editor. He practices medicine in North Conway, New Hampshire. He has a specialty in travel medicine and he accompanies adventure filmmakers around the world.

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