The author holds a fish caught in higher-than-usual water.

Standing shin-deep on a gravel bar that I had stood atop, bone dry, only a month earlier, I stared at the currents that whipped across the top of a normally placid pool. My hole was washed out. About that time my buddy popped through a gap in the thicket behind me and stepped out onto the gravel bar. “Mighty high today,” he said. “They should be concentrated.”
He pointed to an eddy no larger than my laptop on the far side of the river and asked whether I had hit it. I shook my head, so he snapped of a cast and placed his plug right against the bank. One crank of the rod handle, and a trout walloped my buddy’s offering. Impressed, I followed suit, and so did a trout that would turn out to be the twin of the one my friend was about to land.
The run that feeds that pool, normally a good spot to pick up a rainbow, was too swift to fish or to wade through, so we crawled back out of the creek to go upstream by land. The next few spots I would normally fish were washed out, but the next one we could get to produced another strike, although I missed the fish.
Winter fronts bring a seemingly endless series of rains and snows to Kentucky, and each causes streams to swell. From January through March, many streams run high, even between weather systems. Following specific fronts, they surge. High water brings both good and bad things to trout fisherman.
At the positive end of the spectrum, high water tends to concentrate trout, and it makes their locations very predictable. When streams push hard, shoreline cuts, midstream boulders and waterfalls create eddy pockets that act like magnets to trout. Large sections of stream that normally provide good habitat, meanwhile, become too swift for the fish.
High water also can make fish more aggressive becase greater depth, stronger currents and often-stained water cause the fish to feel less threatened. Finally, high water surges dislodge food items from the banks and from the bottom, putting trout on the lookout for easy meals.
The bad news is that many fish-holding eddies are easy to recognize but impossible to get a lure to or fish effectively because of current lanes that bound them. Also, winter trout, which already relate o the bottom for most of their food, hold extra tight to the stream bottom when the water pushes hard. Many of he best eddies are formed by sunken boulders or ledges and are not even visible from above the surface. Finally, high water makes many stream stretches unsafe or even impossible to wade. Steep-sided creeks become deep in a hurry, and rock walls or rhododendron often render the bank-fishing approach impossible.
Adjustments begin with up-sizing gear. Whether a fisherman prefers plugs, spinners or jigs, the lures should be able to find bottom, given a heavier water flow. Bigger lures also offer more visibility in water that is sometimes stained and give trout something to home in on.
For anglers who favor natural offerings, the main adjustment may be to simply add more weight to the line. Rod-and-reel combinations and line sizes used also may need to be heavier to contend with larger, heavier offerings and stronger currents.
Fly-fisherman should orient their approach toward the bottom when the water runs high during winter. Weighted nymphs are the norm, and extra lead may be needed. Big flies, like stonefly nymphs, offer good visibility while matching what the trout often dine on this time of year. After a major rain, when the water surges, a San Juan Worm with a split shot above it can reap big rewards. Because big flies and extra weight on the line make fly-casting more difficult, many fishermen who spend a lot of time on the water during winter own heavier outfits that they turn to when their favorite streams rise.
On the water, fishermen must learn to pick their spots and fish them thoroughly. Eddy pockets are obvious. Other areas worth working hard are long, deep runs with boulders along the bottom. Offerings of any kind must be presented right along the bottom and as slowly as possible to draw trout from their hiding places.
When it comes to safe wading on high water, adjustments begin with gear. A wading belt, always a good idea, becomes nearly essential during winter so that waders won’t fill up if an angler does slip. A waterproof wading jacket, worn instead of a vest, adds an extra measure of protection. In larger streams, a life vest is even worth wearing. These days, inflatable vests that don’t really even get in a fisherman’s way are available.
To avoid falling in the first place and make some crossings more manageable, a wading staff also helps dramatically. A staff becomes a third leg for an angler and can also be used to test the depth of a spot.
Maybe the most important adjustment that any angler must make when a stream runs high is in his mindset. Some spots simply cannot be waded safely or fished effectively. Winter streams, along with running swift, turn dangerously cold, and no trout hole is good enough to risk an icy dip in the drink.
—By Jeff Samsel

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Stephen Wrinn hooks into a trout during his first trip on the Cumberland River tailwater.

First published in the Kentucky Fishing Journal August 2002. This essay has also been published in Of Woods and Waters, an anthology by Ron Ellis of stories about the outdoors in Kentucky.

By Stephen Wrinn

Among the many myths that outsiders have come to believe about Kentucky is that it has no outstanding trout fishing. Despite 13,000 miles of rivers and streams, and more navigable waterways than any other state except Alaska, it is still widely believed that only bass, catfish, panfish, and the occasional musky lurk in the Commonwealth’s depths. Until very recently, I too shared this fiction.

This is the story of my enlightenment, and of the knowledge I gained after one trip to the Cumberland River. I now believe that Kentucky is home to a river that ranks as one of the best trout fisheries on the continent, period. Not just in the South, or in the midwest, or west of the Appalachians, or east of the Mississippi. Period. Below the Wolf Creek Dam, the Cumberland is a river that, in both natural beauty and trout population, rivals any I’ve encountered. And I’ve encountered more than my fair share.

In my briefcase, tucked behind a thick file of paperwork labeled “To Do,” I carry a cheap plastic photo album of some of my most memorable fishing trips. I’ve learned that it comes in handy to keep these photos nearby, especially after one of those long, hard, frustrating days at work. You know, the kind of day we try to forget when we’re fishing.

Looking at the album, I’ll see some of the gorgeous brown trout I caught in Scotland, the huge steelheads I landed in New York, and the many rainbows from my home sate of Connecticut. There are the beautiful little native brookies from New Hampshire, the smallmouth bass in Maine, the Northern Pike in Vermont, and, of course, the six-pound golden trout I caught in Pennsylvania as my envious father-in-law looked on, which is now mounted on the wall of my office.

There are a lot of pictures and even more memories. When some unfortunate soul with a casual interest in fishing mentions the topic, I reach for the album and narrate the stories of the many gigantic striped bass I’ve caught off the Rhode Island coast, the countless bluefish in Massachusetts, the flounder in Delaware, the incredible false albacores off the outer banks of North Carolina. I’ve stalked trout in some of the nation’s finest rivers, and, outside of New England. I’ve caught them in Wyoming, Montana, Idaho, Colorado, West Virginia, Maryland, Virginia, and Washington state. Before my son, Eli, was born 18 months ago, I had caught trout in 18 consecutive months.

Stephen Wrinn and Cumberland River guide Brandon Wade look through some flies for the best choice of the day. The choice, usually? A sow bug, a favorite for Cumberland trout.

While I consider trout my favorite quarry, I’m not one to discriminate against a good tug at the end of my line. Freshwater, saltwater, spinning rods, fly rods, lures, live bait — I’ll do whatever it takes (I wish I was exaggerating) to catch fish, wherever, whenever, however. Have I mentioned the redfish I netted in South Carolina, the tarpon in Florida, or the bonefish in Mexico? Occasionally, on business trips, I’ve been so desperate for a fight that I’ve fished the Hudson River from the shores of Manhattan, and I even caught shad and catfish in the Potomac River in the heart of our nation’s capital. The bumper sticker “Fish tremble when they hear my name” has always held a special resonance for me.

I believe, with the same conviction, that Fox Mulder pursues the “truth,” that the fish are out there, and my philosophy is that any species of fish I haven’t yet caught is one I’d like to feel tugging at the end of my line. I don’t even eat fish and will release any that my wife doesn’t care to consume. At last count, I had caught fish in 22 states and 4 countries — and man, those red snappers in St. Lucia fought like tigers!

Kentucky was definitely not on the list of places where I’d caught fish. In fact, the Commonwealth never even ranked as a fishing destination for me.

When word arrived that I was a finalist for a job in Lexington, I did what any devoted fisherman would do. I immediately went online, accessed Google, and typed, “fishing…Kentucky.” It came as no surprise that the majority of hits discussed the Bluegrass State’s many lakes, and the bass and panfish opportunities they offered. I wasn’t disappointed by what I learned, because some of my best fishing memories come from the four years I lived a few hours north of the Bluegrass. I enjoyed some tremendous farm pond and lake fishing in central Ohio, and, trout or no trot, slamming a hungry largemouth bass on a surface lure is always a great thrill. Within two weeks of moving to Kentucky, I went bass fishing early one morning in a pretty Sadieville farm pond. It was a positively gorgeous setting, and I caught some nice bass, but I assumed that my trout fishing days were over. To my delight, I was approached to write this article, and my education in Kentucky trout fishing was about to begin.

My guide, Brandon Wade, met me at my apartment at 4:30 a.m. sharp. Even without the benefit of caffeine, he was clearly as excited as I was to get on the water and catch some fish. We briefly discussed the large amount of trout we would undoubtedly slam that day. I always evaluate guides not only by their skill, knowledge, and safety, but also by their enthusiasm for their profession. I knew instantly that Brandon shared my passion for fishing in equal measure.

Our photographer for the trip, Drew Sturgill, arrived. He looked groggy but was alert and already outfitted with a mug of coffee. We made our introductions and drove approximately 85 miles south to Russell County. As the sun rose over the hills, I imagine Civil War soldiers encamped on the mist-shrouded fields. The countryside was as inspiring and lovely as any I had encountered, but my mind was focused on catching that first Kentucky trout.

To whip myself up into an even greater frenzy, I blasted an energetic live version of “Cumberland Blues” by the Grateful Dead, though I was confident that I would be far from blue when the day was over. After a quick McDonald’s breakfast in Russell Springs, we drove through the historic ghost town of Creelsboro (I thought the name of the town was a good harbinger) and dropped our boat in the water approximately six miles below Wolf Creek Dam. Brandon, Drew, and I I would spend the day on a 15-foot drift boat constructed by Brandon himself, and simply put, the boat is a work of art.

I had no excuses. The conditions were ideal for fishing. There was no wind, and it was warm and sunny with occasional cloud cover. My guide grew up fishing on the banks of the Cumberland and knew the river intimately. I also had Brandon’s assurance that a 70-fish day wasn’t out of the question. Even before setting foot on the boat, I observed several trout rising to a caddis hatch and watched longingly as a nearby angler landed a sizable rainbow. At 50 degrees, where it remains nearly year round, the temperature was definitely in the trout zone. Most importantly, the height of the river, which is controlled by the dam, was at an optimal level. Brandon tied on a prince nymph trailed by a caddis pupa, and we set off.

The night before our trip, I had read Tailwater Trout in the South by Jimmy Jacobs, which described the many state-record trout caught in the Cumblerland. At first, the river wasn’t at all what I had envisioned, and it certainly didn’t resemble most of the blue-ribbon trout rivers I’d fished in the past. The section where we entered was slow and wide, more of a pond than a river, with dead logs and other structure. The current was almost imperceptible. I remember thinking that it might yield more smallmouth than trout. Of course, it was at precisely that moment that I missed my first hit. Before an hour had passed, the river’s complexion had changed to resemble a textbook trout stream complete with riffles, rapids, and deep pools. By the end of the day, I concluded that the Cumberland is diverse enough to satisfy the tastes of any trout angler.

A word of caution to those anglers unaccustomed, as I was, to drift boats. Although they offer fly fishermen distinct advantages over wading, such as covering more water with less casting, fishing from a drift boat nonetheless requires adaptation. One must overcome the instinct to continually cast, false cast, and cast again as if working a specific, well-defined section of a stream. Remember, it’s not called a cast boat. In addition to my unfamiliarity with the drift boat (I know what you’re thinking and you’re right, it is a lame excuse) it took me a while to understand that Cumberland trout took our nymphs with extreme delicacy (yes, that’s even more lame). The slightest twitch of the yarn strike-indicator signaled a hungry trout, and I’m ashamed to say how many I missed before I finally hooked up.

After nearly a dozen misses, I began to worry that Brandon would classify me as a Yankee mutant who couldn’t catch a fish in an aquarium. At one point I suggested that we throw Drew overboard because the presence of a photographer was definitely messing with my mojo. I should mention here that patience is another of my favorite characteristics in a guide. Every time I missed a strike, sometimes with unintended comical choreography, Brandon would just smile, tell a funny joke, and put me on top of more fish. His confidence in Cumberland’s potential was reassuring.

Though we enjoyed perfect weather conditions, I was surprised by the dearth of fishermen on either boats or the banks. During our nearly 10 hours on the water, we saw just a dozen other boats and even fewer anglers on the shore — an average crowd on this section of the river, according to Brandon. In my defense, others we talked to complained of it being a slow day. I was just beginning to smell a skunk, when I watched a large trout dart from the shadows under a tree to inhale my beadhead copper john. This time I managed to set the hook, and believe me, it was a particularly satisfying fight. After a few minutes of solid resistance and some acrobatics, Brandon netted a 17-inch brown trout. It was one of the loveliest brown trout I had ever observed, its coloration spectacular, resemling a bar of gold. I wondered if it had been introduced to the river as a fingerling, as are thousands of other browns annually. I posed for a photograph, gave the fish a kiss, thanked him for his company, and returned him to Cumblerland. Th extreme beauty and serenity of the river was almost distracting (this is my last excuse, I swear), and it was worth the trip just to see the numerous birds, trees, limestone cliffs, caves, and arches. We shared a lot of laughs and stories in our pursuit of trout that day, not to mention a gourmet lunch on a secluded bank. As it often does, our perseverance paid off. Shortly after landing the brown, I hooked into a spunky rainbow at the tail end of a long pool. These areas where the current begins to accelerate before entering a shallow riffle section had been most productive for us and the other anglers I had watched. My fly was a sow bug, which are abundant in the Cumberland and a fovorite food source for trout. This 15-inch rainbow fought with the determination of a much larger fish and made five impressive runs. I posed with him and released him. As we approached our take-out point, I began fishing with streamers and managed to land another rainbow. Though it was not my fortune to catch one that day, I could easily understand why the Cumberland has produced so many of Kentucky’s trout records. It’s just that good.

….

Exhausted, jubilant, and satisfied, I spent the evening at the Cumberland Lodge in Russell Springs reveling in the trout I had aught and the new friends I had made. To those fishermen who, like me, particularly enjoy a cold beer or seven after a hard day of fishing, be warned that Russell County is dry. But as the friendly manager at the inn said, “If Abe Lincoln didn’t need it, why should you?” I slept extremely well that night knowing that Lexington is in such close proximity to a world class trout fishery. Although the house we just purchased is in desperate need of a new roof, I’m thinking a canoe would be a much wiser investment at this point. Stay tuned for my wife’s reaction. But come hell or high water, or both, I’m going to have me a 70-fish day on the majestic Cumberland.

Stephen M. Wrinn arrived in the Commonwealth in April 2002 and is director of the University Press of Kentucky. You can read this essay and many others in Of Woods and Waters, an anthology of stories about the outdoors in Kentucky.

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