The Best Time of Year
by B. Dan Berger

Woohoo, autumn is here!

I’m in my pick-up truck with the windows down, driving south following the beautiful North Fork River. On this cool fall morning, I am checking on some of my key hunting locations and may even wet a line later.

Fall is my favorite time of year. Period. The weather gets cooler, the leaves begin their natural journey through the color spectrum, and more importantly, the trout fishing gets better and hunting season begins. And of course, it is also a time for eye-pollution and democracy.

That’s right. Besides fishing and hunting season, it’s also campaign season. As I drive through gorgeous North Fork Valley, I am whizzing by small political campaign signs and some signs as big as a Chevy. They are everywhere, sprouting up like mushrooms after a summer rain.

And to be honest, I am completely conflicted with all the emotions caused by this visual pollution. Why you may ask? Because, I have made my living in the legislative and political arena for over two decades. I am personally responsible for singularly shoving thousands of political yard signs into the ground as well as erecting hundreds, if not thousands of large 4’X 8’ signs all around our great country. I am ashamed. Kind of. You see, I have actively participated in our democracy since literally 8th grade and have actually made a living in legislative affairs since graduating from college. And I am proud to say, we made sure each and every one of those signs were taken down after the election and recycled or disposed of properly. Every single one. See? Conflicted.

As an admirer and believer in the incredible document that is our Constitution and the Bill of Rights within, this time of year also reminds me of the importance in participating in our democracy. If you love to hunt and fish like I do, find candidates that appreciate and support that way of life. That not only includes supporting the Second Amendment, but also supporting important conservation programs that protect our ability to hunt and fish. Can’t hunt if the land is destroyed by mountain-top removal, right? Can’t fish if our streams and rivers are polluted, correct? It ain’t calculus.

I am so excited about this time of year, as the anticipation has been growing since last fall. My bow and guns are sighted in, and they are clean and ready to go. My beat-up old fly-rod and a box of new flies are calling my name. And I am ready to vote for candidates that will support and protect my way of life (and will keep my dadgum taxes low).

As I sit on the tailgate of my truck stringing up my fly-rod, I look up at the incredible cliffs atop North Fork Mountain. I thank the good Lord everyday for the opportunity to live here amongst all this beauty. And then I pray every night that our politicians don’t mess it all up.

Remember folks, vote on Tuesday, November 4th. If you don’t vote, you can’t complain.

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)

The Glory and Power of the Outdoors
By B. Dan Berger

It is dawn in West Virginia. The sun is coming up almost perfectly between the two rock wedges of North Fork Gap, as if being released by the earth’s vice. As I stand in the middle of the North Fork of the South Branch, I hear and feel the mildly rushing water slushing-up against my waders, the cold water tickling my legs. These Potomac headwaters can also be heard going over, around, and under the rocks and small boulders, seemingly littered by time, nature and I’m sure some other powerful Being. I heard something similar recently, maybe it was the trickle of a fountain in that cheap Chinese restaurant in Washington, DC (I strongly recommend the Cashew Chicken with Spicy Brown Sauce). And then there is an old Irish proverb that goes like: “Listen to the sound of the river and you will get a trout.” That’s one fellow who has never been fly-fishing.

As the sun slowly continues to rise, the water seems to steam like a pot of homemade soup, the waffing vapors quickly dissipate into the foggy air. Squirrels begin their clicking calls. A few small miniature flies flutter by, way too fast for me to recognize what the hell they were. Dadgummit.

I wedge my custom Beaverkill fly rod between my ever-expanding girth and my right bicep. I reach into a secret compartment inside my waders and rip the Velcro apart, opening the small pocket where a small treasure is hidden. At least hidden from my wife. I pull out a fresh pouch of Levi Garrett and take a large three-finger pinch and place the yummy leaves between my cheek and gum. Ahhhh, this is how to start the day... a banana, two cups of coffee and a pinch of cancer-causing delight. Breakfast of Champions.

A handful of birds begin to take their seats in the stadium of trees along the riverbank, slowly filling the valley with their occasional noisy squawks and whistles. Waiting for the game to begin. I know for a fact that these birds are either laughing at me or sending some warning to their trout friends swimming below. Bastards. On numerous occasions, at this very spot I am now standing, I have seen aggressive hawks, majestic bald eagles and a variety of colorful ducks. Couldn’t for the life of me or a billion dollars tell you what feathered creatures are here this glorious morning. Snipe maybe?

I begin to notice the smooth surfaces of the glistening pools of water in front of me are dinging little delicate ripples. The pools become launching pads for a morning hatch. Winged duns are emerging. Wahooo! I carefully tie on my matching fly and then start to cast. As I cast, I carefully spit as neat and polite as possible as not to get the brown tobacco juice on my arm, waders or fly rod. Hard to look cool spitting on oneself now isn’t it? The trout and smallmouth bass begin to roll up to the surface, hitting the hatch, gobbling up the Ephemeroptera hors d’oeuvres, like cute little old ladies at a blue-plate special.

During this entire opening scene of my Saturday morning, the stresses of a 70-hour work week and all that encompasses it are gone. Disappeared. Vanished. All like a wonderful magic trick. Poof! The power of the great outdoors is a magnificent and cherished gift.

In fact, not only does fly-fishing dissolve my stress, just driving INTO the mountains, traveling along the river, seems to start the melting. And throughout my maturation process, I have learned that it is not necessarily about the fly-fishing or the trout. As the great literary Henry David Thoreau penned: “Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.” Though, I must admit, watching a trout rise to my dry-fly and hooking that fish is better than an evening with a fancy dinner, fine wine and raucous sex. Well okay, maybe not the… oh never, mind.

Some consider being in the outdoors a form of religion. And then even more claim that only He could bring the world such glory. As conservationist Tony Blake once quipped: “Some go to church and think about fishing, others go fishing and think about God.” It is my belief that much of the world’s problems could be solved with more people exploring the power of the outdoors. Hard to shoot or kill someone while standing in a stream with a fly rod in you hand, don’t you think? Although, I have been teased and mocked by many trout that, at that moment in time, I wished upon them an execution. Sorry, I digress. As a Christian, I do believe He has given us a beautiful environment to enjoy, and more importantly, to protect. In addition, we are given the tools, which when properly utilized, will help us be successful in life. And one of those tools is a fly rod… bamboo, graphite… really doesn’t matter your flavor of choice.

As I stand here in the middle of the river this cool morning, waving a stick as John Gierach so elegantly writes about, I am grateful for the river and its incredible surroundings. I can attest that my wife and 4-year old daughter, as well as my colleagues and employees in the big city, are grateful for my time on the river, and its subsequent stress relief. And I am sure my future cardiologist will be grateful too.

Whatever your religion, grab a fly rod and experience firsthand the glory and power of the outdoors. You’ll be glad you did.

“In our family, there was no clear line between religion and fly fishing. We lived at the junction of great trout rivers in western Montana, and our father was a Presbyterian minister and a fly fisherman who tied his own flies and taught others. He told us about Christ's disciples being fishermen, and we were to assume, as my brother and I did, that all first-class fishermen on the Sea of Galilee were fly fishermen and that John, the favorite, was a dry-fly fisherman.” - Norman Fitzroy Maclean, A River Runs Through It

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)

The Next Generation of Conservationists
By B. Dan Berger

She may be only 3 1/2-years old but she can cast her little light blue Dora the Explorer fishing rod a good twenty feet. How do I know? Because I occasionally hear the weighted red plastic minnow at the end of her line loudly whack the window of the front door of our small home on the river. It makes me proud and cringe at the same time. I run out of the house and gently turn her around and encourage her to cast away from the house, and I go back and sneakily inspect the window for cracks.

My wife Aimee and I have been taking our daughter Shelby to the North Fork of the South Branch in West Virginia since she was in the womb. We strongly believe children these days have too many toys, computer and video games, and of course, face-time in front of the television. Let me be clear, we too are guilty of all the above. But we also make a concerted effort to balance it all by spending a lot of time in the great outdoors that our Creator has graciously provided us.

Since moving from Florida to the Washington, DC area seven years ago, we have been coming to Monongahela National Forest, staying several times a year in the beautiful cabins at Harman’s. Now that we have been blessed with our own home just a couple miles up from Harman’s, we spend as much time out of the big city as possible; just about every holiday and weekend.

Shelby will come with me to the river and fish for a few minutes and then quickly become distracted by all the fantastically smooth stones and river-rocks under her feet. She will throw them into river until it is time to go. By the way, trout are NOT attracted to the splashing sounds of a child’s Roger Clemens-like fastball.

She will stand with me in the middle of the river and reel in the line on my rod. Unafraid, she will inspect, touch and hold the trout or smallmouth bass we have caught in these Potomac headwaters prior to us releasing it. And then she will quickly turn around and walk noisily through the water to shore and start whipping stones into the river that would even impress the Boston Red Sox. We are thinking collegiate softball scholarship.

And when we do watch television together, Shelby loves the ESPN fishing shows as well as the various episodes on animals or the incredible outdoor destinations on Discovery Channel. We talk to her regularly about the importance of enjoying the outdoors but also the necessity for its conservation. Proudly, she will point out when she sees litter and claim loudly, “not a very nice person has littered our mountains.” We pick up the trash and throw into the bed of my truck.

As adults, we have a responsibility to expose our young children to as many things as possible. And that includes not just learning the alphabet or counting numbers, but learning about the outdoors. One of my favorite memories is watching my daughter chase fireflies, and occasionally, be successful in catching one. Gently inspecting the pulsating-lighted insect, then letting it go. Can’t do that in front of a television.

We regularly visit Dolly Sods and drive through Smoke Hole Canyon, and she is impressed every time as if it was her first trip. The trees, plants, rocks, streams, cliffs, waterfalls and long-range views. She absorbs it all in. As do her parents.

Although many of us volunteer and contribute to several important conservation organizations, we all must take the extra step and teach our children about the environment. So, turn off the computer or television and take your children or grandchildren fishing. You and they will create terrific memories together, and get this, they will fall in love with the outdoors and develop an appreciation for the beautiful world around them. And you can proudly know that you have helped to create the next generation of conservationists.

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)

The Golden Trout
by B. Dan Berger

It’s the size of a Buick. I am standing on a vehicle-sized boulder in the North Fork River, and the sun is slightly behind the mountains. I checked because I didn’t want to cast a shadow over the pool of water behind the big ancient rock, possibly scaring any fish that may be hiding there. I had been fishing upriver for just over an hour with some mild success.

The water is rippling by the boulder but the pool is smooth with some small bubbles here and there. It’s fairly deep and crystal clear.

I peek cautiously over the edge of the huge rock. Low and behold, down below me is a large, beautiful golden trout. I didn’t see the beast from the riverbank. The fish is an easy 16 inches long. Then again, I am a fly-fisherman and we are prone to exaggeration. The gorgeous Oncorhynchus mykiss is bright yellow-orange and is about a foot or two under the water’s surface. It’s facing upstream toward me and the boulder, tail moving slowly back and forth, helping to keep itself pointed in the right direction.

I wedge my fly rod between my ribs and arm and tie on a dry fly. I cast it behind the large rock and let it drift into the pool. The fish didn’t move. I do this over a dozen times; different angles, but almost always floating the fly within a foot of the trout.

I pull the zinger that my Orvis snips are attached to and cut the fly off, and place it back in my fly box. I meticulously choose another. And drift the fly over the nose of the golden trout. And do it again. Then again. And several more times.

I put on a different fly, a nymph this time. I drift it so close, almost to the point of gaffing the trout. I put on yet another fly. Cast and drift. Cast and drift. The golden trout doesn’t move toward any of the flies. Not a flinch. This is one snooty fish.

I climb down off the backside of the big boulder onto the left bank. Actually, I slid down in a controlled crash sort of way. I walk upstream about fifty yards, and then carefully and quietly cross the flowing river. I am now on the water’s edge looking back across about forty feet of rushing water toward the gigantic boulder and the calm pool behind it.

I tie on another fly and once again, cast and let the fly drift into the trout. I do this repeatedly until I begin to develop a serious case of fly-fishing elbow. Then tie on a different fly, an emerger. Once again, nothing. I literally used every fly I had in my fly box, over two dozen different tasty morsels.

Getting the picture?

Well, it gets worse. Much worse. All the above occurs for four weekends in a row. Do the math. That’s right, for an entire month of weekends, I am teased and belittled by this golden trout. And my wife has become very worried about me.
Unfortunately when I went back the fifth weekend, my nemesis was not there. Did someone catch it? Did the rain two days prior move him downstream? I will never know. In fact, I was actually a little melancholy for a few weeks, borderline depressed, over not catching that golden trout.

And now, every time I walk down to the river, I think about that fish. Typically I catch and release most of the trout I hook up. But I have come to the conclusion, had I caught that damn golden trout, he would be swimming on the wall of my house.

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)

God’s Mile-Marker
by B. Dan Berger

I just finished a late lunch on the riverbank. It is early afternoon and I have been fishing since early this morning. My belly is full from a tasty ham and cheese sandwich (with spicy mustard) and a still barely cool Diet Mountain Dew. For dessert, a crunchy, sweet West Virginia apple. Lunch would have been much better with a large bag of Fritos but my wife is trying to get me to lose a few “lbs.”

I am standing in the middle of the North Fork – South Branch, a hundred yards east of Smoke Hole Caverns. An interesting place. Smoke Hole Caverns carry a ton of trinkets and stuff you don’t really need, but by-golly, for some unknown reason you seem to want. And fantastic ice cream too (and don’t you dare tell my wife I said that! With my diet and all).

Where was I? Oh yeah, standing in the middle of the river with my fly rod fishing for trout. I use the word ‘fishing’ as opposed to ‘catching’ because I am not catching anything but a cold. Skunked. Nada. Nothing. Zero. Bupkis. Now, I’m a fair to middlin’ fly-fisherman that enjoys making trout rise to a dry fly and have been doing so for several years all over the great U.S. of A. as well as in some foreign countries. So getting skunked by trout should come as no surprise to me or anyone else for that matter. Why? Because I am extremely experienced at getting blanked by trout, in several different languages. In fact, I’m borderline professional at being outsmarted by the Oncorhynchus. However, on the North Fork River I usually hook at least one not-so-bright smallmouth bass because they are aggressive and eat just about anything. Did I mention skunked, nada, nothing, zero, bupkis?

The weather today is fantastic too; I’m guessing high 50s or low 60s, and mostly blue skies with numerous wispy cirrus clouds floating leisurely by. A glorious day by any measure. Except for the fact I have not been able to get a bite or nibble, let alone land a fish. And to top it all off, I actually see several trout and ‘smallies’ in the smooth pools all around me. Frustration is beginning to slowly seep into my mind. Not quite approaching anger but running up real close to its neighbor, aggravation.

I look up from tying on my fourteenth different fly (a nymph this time) and take a glance down the sparkling river at the beautiful North Fork Gap as the sun slowly tries to sneak down behind me. The sun is at just the right angle that it causes something to glimmer on the large hill to the left above Highway 28/55, just above winding Wildcat Road. It is three large crosses seemingly overlooking and protecting the road and river below.

God’s mile-marker.

As I walk, and sometimes stumble over rocks, up and down this part of the river on a weekly basis, I look up and the three crosses are always there. As I drive by, they are always there. They are my reminder of the beautiful world we have around us here in the mountains that we must cherish and protect. And also, that not catching fish is okay too. I don’t know who is responsible for those three crosses, but I sure hope they keep them there. They’re my mile-marker too.

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)

The River’s Revenge
By B. Dan Berger

The cold water is bustling over and around rocks, algae, fish, and yes, my patched Orvis waders. The hectic water is a tad higher than usual because of the slow misty drizzle that started early last night.

I am walking along a portion of the North Fork River I have yet to explore with my fly rod. Though I have driven by it often. It goes through private property where I have successfully navigated permission from the surly farming landowner. There are beautiful trout in this section of water. And they are slurping my dry fly with aggression. This is fun!

I slowly walk up river, around some small rocks and boulders. The deep pools and holes are fantastic targets for drifting my fly. I spot a large pool across the tempestuous river and make a foolhardy attempt to get within casting distance. I feel the rushing water’s pressure around my waders become tighter and tighter as I walk toward the middle of the river. The water is getting deeper.

One more step and I can efficiently make a cast and drift my dry fly into the smooth pool. My last step is a blundering mistake. I descend into a hole that is much deeper than it appeared. And dadgum the water is cold!

The numbing water is pouring over the top of my waders and has filled each leg before I can step back out of the river’s small abyss. My brain’s first synapse is: I’m going to freakin’ drown! The slight bit of panic quickly subsides after I realize I am not going to be sucked under or floated to the open waters of the Chesapeake Bay. I begin to breath normally again after my mini heart-attack. Holding my fly rod up high I walk to the riverbank.

I unsnap my heavy-as-lead waders, pull them off and tilt them like a pitcher of iced tea. The frigid water pours out. My thick wool socks and my jeans are soaking wet. I reluctantly put the dripping waders back on and walk across the recently harvested cornfield to my truck. Not how I envisioned this day unfolding, especially after my fantastic start. I quickly drive home, change into warm, dry clothes and get my decrepit back-up waders. This is my best day of trout fishing ever, so I need to hurry back.

As I drive back to the same section of the North Fork, I start piecing together a new strategy to traverse the turbulent water in order to reach that same deep pool. I find a good spot that allows me to reach the target pool without drowning or getting hypothermia.

I go back to my favorite dry fly which has been working all morning like something has possessed fish to attack it. The very last one of its kind that I have in my fly-box. In fact, the last one I have anywhere… cabin…truck… home… anywhere. I do a few short false casts and then prepare to go long. On my last back-cast, the fly snags a limb of a skinny locust tree, and my cherished fly rips off my 5x tippet. The fly is too high to reach and the tree too skinny to climb, especially when I weigh a feather-light 220lbs. Just great.

After losing today’s best fly, I drift a large selection of various dry flies into the emerald hole. Repeated attempts occur. No more bites. Though I can see a pod of three trout occasionally rising softly to the surface, I still cannot get one to bite.

Then nature calls.

I cast one more time and allow my fly to drift over the pool and then watch it tumble and rumble further down the river. Leaving the line in the water I walk to the river’s edge with my fly rod. I gently set the rod and reel on a large smooth boulder and walk behind a tree to eliminate two Diet Dr. Peppers I had gulped-down earlier.

As I turn around, snapping my waders back in place, I watch my rig get dragged into the water. The entire rod and reel has disappeared! I splash into the water and quickly grab my fly rod before it goes any further downstream or breaks against the rocks. I begin to reel in the line, but it resists. The fly has either hooked itself into a log or stick under water, or maybe, the line has wrapped itself around one or more of the gazillion river-rocks.

I slowly keep reeling. A 12-inch rainbow trout jumps out of the water. I had hooked a fish by not fishing! As I carefully begin to fight the fly-eating-flyrod-stealing fish, he shakes off the fly. Lost him. What a day.

The river giveth and the river taketh away.

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)

North Fork Neighbors & Honey-Do Lists
By B. Dan Berger

Let me be very clear, I want to be fishing.

This early spring day is bright and sunny and the river is hissing its soothing white noise. The smell of fresh cut grass is in the air.

At least partially cut grass.

I am at the bottom of our gravel road across from the North Fork River pulling weeds and vines from around the 100-plus small saplings my wife and I recently planted on our property (gotta’ reduce my “carbon footprint” to keep Al Gore off my back, right?). Across the road is a gentleman banging on his old red riding lawnmower in the middle of his yard. The yard in front of his beautiful log and stone cabin is just half-mowed with fresh cut green stripes running parallel to the road.

As a stickler for fully completing projects myself (and having a half-mowed yard would make me lose some serious sleep), I decide to walk over to see if my neighbor across the road could use a little help. As a guy, there are three things that are catalysts for perfect strangers to start a conversation: a campfire, a hood up on a truck, and a broken down lawnmower.

The hulking gentleman is tall, muscular, and bald. He is wearing shorts, work-boots, and a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. In fact, he looks like a Hell’s Angel, only meaner. I quickly introduce myself as his neighbor across the road and shake his big meaty hand and tell him he can use my riding mower if he would like to finish the job. The old adage of “one cannot judge a book by its cover” never had so much meaning to me as at this very moment. The guy was one of the nicest, most genuine men I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. Ever.

Don Evans is my neighbor. He proudly introduces me to his lovely wife, Joyce. The friendly couple indicates they have owned the gorgeous lot on the North Fork River for quite some time. I make this assumption because they talk about losing everything in the flood of 1985. They and their children have used the place for years as a fishing and hunting outpost.

As I look up at their fantastic looking cabin from their half-mowed front yard, they both humbly state, “Through blood, sweat and tears, we built it after the flood.” The woodwork is sharp and beautiful. The stonework is some of the best I’ve seen. All the remarkable craftsmanship was done by the Evans. Skills I do not have and likely will never obtain; though my hero, my late Grandfather, was a Pennsylvania Dutch carpenter and painter, and my own Dad has similar abilities. I am envious of all.

My wife Aimee and I invite the Evans over for dinner the next evening for some pork I smoked, and being Southerners, of course, we also had all the fixins’. A glorious time was had by all, including my 4-year old daughter Shelby who took a serious liking to the Evans. And one thing I have noticed about Shelby in her four short years on earth, she is a terrific judge of character.

Usually I bitch and moan about the “Honey-Do” list being long and unyielding. This is one time I am truly glad I missed a day of fly-fishing for trout. Meeting our North Fork neighbors was a fine blessing indeed.

A loving note to my bride: Don’t get use to it!

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)

They Came, They Saw, They Fished
By B. Dan Berger

It’s a Thursday in Cabins, West Virginia. I am below the gorgeous ancient cliffs at Harman’s Cabins on the riverbank. There are four guys standing along, and in, the rushing North Fork River. And they are each catching many large, feisty rainbow trout.

“They” are the key staff of the respected monthly fishing periodical Fly Fisherman magazine. At my invitation, Geoff Mueller, Ben Hoffman, David Siegfried and Derek Sevick all came down from their magazine headquarters in Pennsylvania to experience some of the great areas we have in this part of West Virginia to fly-fish. Todd Harman kindly provides them one of his cabins along the river, to not only be their fishing outpost, but to also be one of their fishing destinations.

David’s fly rod is bent over like an inverted “U” as he catches his sixth rainbow trout in this section of the North Fork River. He is having some serious fun as he gingerly and carefully reels in the 3-pound trout. Derek is also getting some serious trout action which is really improving his skills. They all have sore arms from all the catching. And they are not complaining.

Earlier in the day, the magazine’s foursome hiked a short way into Seneca Creek where they caught a few native brook trout. This is one of a few places in this part of the United States where we can still catch native “brookies.” This of course, is another excellent reason Seneca Creek should be further protected with a federal Wilderness designation. Sorry, I digress.

That evening it softly rained and we sat around the porch of their cabin and drank copious amounts bourbon and beer and told fishing stories (some of you would call this fibbing, and even more would likely call them plain ol’ outright lies). I join in and talk about the 4-pound brown trout I caught on the North Fork River last year. I only mention this to brag.

After hearing their stories and experiences, all of which I believe have elements of truth to them, I feel a ping in my stomach. It is the ping of jealousy. Geoff talks about going fly fishing around the country and then writing about the experiences. Huh? That’s work? Seriously? Actually, I have had the pleasure to read some of his “work” and it is truly excellent. For a managing editor of a magazine, Geoff is young, affable and bright. And to top it off, he is a fantastic fly fisherman. Even more jealousy rumbles in my gut.

The next day it drizzled a fine cold mist. So much for TGIF, huh?

On this cool spring Friday morning, we trekked up and down a little coldwater stream seeking out native trout. The trout are being caught with mild success in the many pools that are in this spring creek. We are the guests of Jerry Burke, one of my conservation mentors. He and I are kindred spirits. We both have a passion for the outdoors, especially hunting and fishing. We also have a similar Teddy Roosevelt philosophy to the environment… we must protect the land and the resources that God has created, yet allow us to use them in a very careful and judicious fashion.

Jerry knows this bustling creek like the back of his hand. The trout fishing started slow until he gave us tips on which flies to use and how to properly use them. Geoff lands a beautiful 2-pound rainbow. And then so does Ben. They both expertly land their trout and quickly release them gently back into the cold water. Smiles, borderline smirks, appear on their faces like they each found a $20 dollar bill in the grass. Scratch another location off their West Virginia list of places to fish.

We now consider going to the “Catch & Release” section of the South Branch in Smoke Hole Canyon. Unfortunately, we receive a report that the recent rain has caused the water to be extremely high and fast on this section of the river. So we decide to take a pass on it. Maybe they can wet a line in Smoke Hole on their next visit.

That evening we sat around a small bonfire at Harman’s and again told tales and yarns of our respective careers, families, and of course, our outdoor exploits. The verbal jabs and hilarious insults fly as only beer and bourbon can create amongst new friends and old colleagues.

Saturday brought more rain so the magazine folks decide to take off back to Pennsylvania to make darn sure they got back in time for Mother’s Day that Sunday. Missing Mother’s Day for fly fishing… now that would be a story! Not that funny for them but funny for the rest of us.

Grant County and much of the surrounding area are truly special as remarked by the guys from Fly Fisherman magazine. They enjoyed our beautiful mountains, rivers and streams, and of course, the fishing. As stewards of this area, we have a responsibility to make sure future generations can enjoy a similar experience. Remember folks, conservation is not a four-letter word.

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)

A Daughter’s Gift
by B. Dan Berger

All week long my 4 year old daughter Shelby, heading into Father’s Day weekend, keeps informing her mother and me that she is going to catch and cook trout for her dad to celebrate the occasion.

Now, as a huge fan of fried trout, blackened trout, grilled trout, broiled trout or any other preparation for that matter, I happily went along with the plan. And of course, because it involved fishing for trout.

So on Saturday before Father’s Day, we all load into my truck and drive down to a portion of the North Fork River that I know holds some good trout in deep dark pools. After we spend some time fishing (and Shelby throwing Michael Jordan-like free-throws with rocks), with not even getting a single nibble, we decided to call it a day. To say she was disappointed is like saying you have just lost your wallet.

To comfort her hurt feelings and disappointment, I tell Shelby that we can go to the local trout farm on Sunday and catch our dinner like we did earlier this past spring.

Back in April of this year we drove out to Mountain Meadow Farms in Scherr to catch some trout. Note that I say CATCH some trout. For us parents of small children, there is a huge difference between fishing for trout and catching trout. A gargantuan difference. Especially considering 4 year olds have the attention span of a gnat.

When we arrived that past spring day, we were met by owner Rick Ours, a friendly gentleman who was working outside on his large log and stone cabin when we drove up. A cabin that has one of the nicest wrap-around porches I have ever seen.

We were the only folks on his two ponds so far that spring morning. Shelby and I caught some nice sized fish which Mr. Ours kindly cleaned and bagged. As a proud father of a daughter himself (Jessi), he took Shelby to look at the trout fingerlings he was raising in a large tank. She marveled at the vast number and small size of all the baby trout swimming around. Mr. Ours then allowed her to feed the trout in his two ponds by throwing big scoops of fish food. She giggled with glee as the trout roiled to the surface, flashes of silver gobbling the pellets like piranha from a National Geographic television show.

This Father’s Day is sunny, comfortable and flat-out gorgeous. On Sundays, Mountain Meadow Farms opens at 1pm after church, so we plan on hitting the road immediately after lunch.

Every time we drive down the gravel road to these fee-fishing ponds, literally “over the river and through woods,” we see bountiful wildlife. On each visit we have seen turkeys, deer and rabbits, all of which bring a smile to my daughter’s face. Just like driving through Wild Kingdom, minus of course the lions, zebras and elephants. The beautiful drive to this trout farm is alone worth the visit.

As we get out of my truck, we are greeted by the sounds of a beautiful voice and strumming guitar. The music abruptly stops and the door opens and we are approached by the talented Jody Ours. Mrs. Ours warmly welcomes us to her business and then permits us to go catch some Father’s Day grub. My wife and I grab one of her buckets and a net as Shelby excitedly skips down to the bottom pond.

As my daughter reels in her sixth trout, a small herd of deer come strolling out of the woods above the top pond, as if on cue. Time with my young daughter in the sunny outdoors, trout fishing, and deer chomping clover nearby… what a glorious day!

Mrs. Ours expertly cleans and bags the fish as my gregarious daughter looks on and peppers her with dozens of questions. All of which she affably answers.

We go home and fry up the trout fillets in corn meal and spices. Add some garlic-rosemary roasted potatoes and broccoli with cheese sauce and you have a Father’s Day feast (and an ice-cold beer).

After supper, my daughter walks over and gives me a big hug and kiss and says “Happy Father’s Day!”

Yes Shelby, it was.

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)

Healing Waters
by B. Dan Berger

A few years ago, the soothing sounds of the gently rushing river likely saved my sanity.

I was experiencing the most intense pain that has ever been bestowed on me, combined with a significant underlying grip of anger. However, standing in the middle of the North Fork River fly-fishing for trout and absorbing the beautiful colors and stunning rock structures of North Fork Gap helped me realize how truly special this area is.

Actually, I believe it was a combination of my beautiful young daughter, who by far, is the absolute love and joy of my life AND time on the river. The fun and excitement of catching a trout on a dry fly and watching my daughter chase and catch butterflies, believe it or not, are powerful experiences. It is a mixture of past memories, current familiarities, and the promise of future smiles.

Fishing allows a person to think things through, to dissolve stresses, and in some cases (and more importantly), not think of anything at all. And of course thinking of fishing keeps you from contemplating about bad thoughts and feelings. This is especially true of fly-fishing for trout on the North Fork River. Not that I don’t occasionally dust off my spinning rod and toss a salmon egg or spinner bait into the river, I just enjoy the complexity of fly-fishing. Fly-fishing is a combination of art and science. Seriously. Really.

People who don’t fly-fish sometimes have difficulty understanding or appreciating this fact. Then again, many fly-fishers are arrogant, snotty SOBs, so that is understandable. And many more of us try to make fly-fishing sound as complicated as possible as a way to explain to our spouses the reason we need to do it so often (and to also help explain why we buy more fly-fishing gadgets than we really need). Fly-fishing is the chess game of the outdoor-sports world. If I say it enough times maybe my wife will begin to start believing me, huh?

Okay, back to the art and science of fly-fishing.

Fly-fishing is an art because it takes a lot of practice to be able to cast a fly to a small targeted area of the water. In addition, once you can toss the line in a couple of different technical ways, it is a beautiful thing to watch. Ever see the fantastic movie A River Runs Through It? A fluid cast and the gentle landing of the line and fly is as stunningly gorgeous as the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Well, maybe not THAT gorgeous. Then again, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

As a science, fly-fishers must learn to “read the water.” We need to look for pools where trout will likely be hiding and feeding. Are they behind that boulder? Or under that log? Are they off to the side of that riffle? Or behind it? You are now an amateur marine biologist.

And the science of the sport continues to flow on. You now must look at the aquatic insects. Pick up a rock and glance under it and search for the Jurassic-looking nymphs. These bugs can be Mayflies, Stoneflies, Midges, Dragonflies or a host of others that are in the North Fork River. Of course, when they begin to fly out of the water, the “hatch is on.” When this occurs, it can be difficult to see what the quick flying insects are. You now must attempt to match your dry fly or nymph to the insects you have identified. You have become a practicing entomologist.

Now get this. You must combine all the art and science above into an attempt at catching a trout. And even if you do everything right, there is still a very good chance you won’t catch anything. Did the line cast a shadow under the water and spook the trout? Have they been gorging themselves full of bugs and such? Then there are even more scientific questions to ask yourself. Is the water too hot for trout? Too cold? Too fast? Too deep? Too shallow? You are now a working hydrologist.

As I stood in the North Fork River several years ago attempting to tie on a dry fly, fighting back against heart-wrenching agony, the art and science of fly-fishing dissolved my pain and anger. Not completely, but enough to appreciate another glorious day. I remember taking a deep breath and glancing up at North Fork Mountain. I gazed appreciatively at the rock structures of “Shelby’s Cliffs” that run along the top of the ridge. It was at that very moment, I began to recognize the power of these healing waters.

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)

Shame on You
By B. Dan Berger

The drizzling dawn is slowly pushing through the curtain of fog and mist in North Fork Gap.

I am standing on the bank of the North Fork River, gently wrestling with my beat-up fly rod, attempting to tie a dry fly onto my line. For me, not enough coffee in the morning makes tying good knots difficult, and too much coffee makes tying good knots difficult. And I’m not sure which it is this morning.

About 20 yards upstream from me is a large 40-ish year-old gentleman (I use this term with much reluctance) hooking a piece of pink power bait onto his spinner rod’s line. Incredulously, he throws the empty pink-labeled bait jar into the ankle-high grass. Sigh.

I say to myself, “maybe he will pick it up on his way back to his truck when he is done fishing.” He launches a long fantastic cast. And he does this repeatedly into the smooth flowing river with not much luck.

I too whip my fly rod back and forth, looking like someone waving a long skinny stick at the heavens. I don’t have any luck either. But man, it is rapidly becoming a beautiful morning here in Wild & Wonderful West Virginia. The sun is burning off the drizzle, allowing the top of North Fork Mountain to peek through.

After about 30 minutes, the fellow frustratingly reels in his last cast and attaches the hook to the rod’s line guide. And get this. He turns and walks down the path back to his dark blue Ford pickup truck, leaving his empty bait jar exactly where he had left it. Sigh, The Sequel.

I lean my fly rod up against a wispy maple tree and quickly walk over in my shabby waders and pick up his empty glass jar. I ramble down the well-worn path toward the man’s truck. As he loads up his gear into his truck-bed, I politely tell him he accidently left behind his bait jar and gently place it on his truck’s rusty tailgate. He literally looks at me as if I have three eyes and can breathe fire. And at this point, I wish I could.

He grumpily informs me that the jar was empty. Huh?

I suggest that he please take it with him and throw it away at home and try not to litter the riverbank for others. He snatches the jar, slams his tailgate closed and gets in his truck, mumbling words that would make even the most hardened criminal wince. He starts the engine with a deafening roar and speeds off, his tires spitting gravel everywhere. As he gets on the road he weakly throws the jar back into the trees as he quickly drives off. Sigh, Part III.

I am not sure why there are a small handful of inconsiderate people in our gorgeous part of the world that insist on ruining it for the rest of us. They cannot possibly view litter (theirs or other’s) as something to visually behold. As a self-styled conservationist, I ponder this kinda’ stuff often.

So, when enjoying YOUR mountains and rivers, please take your trash with you. In fact, pick up a piece that some nincompoop left behind. (I have always wanted to use nincompoop, my late Grandfather’s only “curse” word, in a written sentence. There, I have successfully done it. Twice).

And I truly hope the “gentleman” comes fishing soon because I look forward to speaking with him again.

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)

Just Flirting…
by B. Dan Berger

I truly love all we have here in Wild & Wonderful West Virginia, especially Monongahela National Forest and the fishing waters in and around the North Fork River. When we discovered this area several years ago, it was exactly what I was seeking for my family and me… trees and mountains, rivers and streams, fishing and hunting… in one word, perfect. However, I am blessed with a job that entails some travel and speech-giving in very interesting places. And this last weekend of June was such a trip. I had a work-related conference in Big Sky, Montana.

I know, I know, some of you are saying, “You call that work?!?!” Like I said previously, I am blessed (and very thankful).

When you pick up fishing periodicals like Fly Fisherman Magazine, you read about Montana having some of the best trout fishing in the world. From what I can tell, the world is a very big place, so now I must experience this first hand. Prior to going out to Big Sky country, I make arrangements for a couple of days of fly-fishing.

It is 7am Friday morning and my bud David Barrosse and I are at Wild Trout Outfitters in Big Sky which is owned by an affable gentleman named J.D. Bingman. This is the kind of fly shop where you immediately feel welcomed, and could sit around and tell fish stories for hours on end (especially with a cold beer in your hand). J.D. puts us with guide Nate Stevane, a friendly young man born and raised in Montana, for an all-day float trip down the Madison River.

Because of a late spring thaw and some recent snow, the Madison is running high and fast. Yes, I said recent snow. They received 18 inches of snow the week prior at some of the higher elevations. Doesn’t Mother Nature know it’s flippin’ summer??? For this weekend however, the weatherwoman called for sunny days with highs of about 78 degrees and lows around 40 degrees.

We are in a drift boat, and we float to various bends in the river and then get out to fish at each turn. Nate expertly sets up my rod (and David’s) with a fluorescent orange indicator, two slip-shot weights, an artificial salmon egg, and a trailing nymph. For goodness sakes, I have never thrown a line with so much crap on it. The line looks like a colorful necklace my 4-year old daughter made in preschool.

It takes me several casts to get the feel and rhythm. And when I say several casts, this also requires Nate to untangle the repeated bird’s nests I have formed out of the line. On a couple of occasions he has to literally cut the line and retie the flies and line to clear up the mess I have created. Frustrating and embarrassing all at the same time. Sweet.

Once I get the feel of my back-cast loading, my flies get hammered by trout in the murky water. David and I are having a blast. Every once in awhile you could hear one of us make a brief shout of excitement in the vain of “oh yeah!” or a blood-curdling screech of “dadgummit!” (and I must be honest with you folks, some other small four-lettered words may have been muttered when a fish was lost). Fishing on the Madison with snow-peaked mountains behind you looks like the old Marlboro cigarette ads from long ago. I don’t smoke, but I might start.

I hooked 24 trout, landing 14 of them. We floated close to six miles, and the trout we caught were primarily rainbows and a few browns. The smallest was 12 inches and the largest was a fat 20-inch rainbow. The day ends back at the fly shop where we join the other guides and fishermen and share beer as well as tales of “the big one that got away.” It always seems to be the fish’s fault or equipment malfunction, but never the operator.

The next day we are again at Wild Trout Outfitters breathtakingly early (7am is early when you may have had copious amounts of red wine the night before and may have contracted what some call the “Napa Flu”). Today I am with my good friend Jimmy Williams.

This morning is shaping up to be as beautiful as the day before as J.D. assigns us to a different guide, a young man named Aaron Wert. He is originally from Minnesota and has been out in Montana for over a decade, having come out originally for college, skiing, and fishing (but not necessarily in that order). He never left.

On this beautiful day we are going to wade three different waters. First, we are going into Yellowstone National Park to fish Grayling Creek. Then we are going to drive and fish the Madison River “between the lakes.” And lastly, we will go back into Yellowstone to fish the Gallatin River. Phew.

As we are putting our waders on and getting our rods ready near the Grayling, Aaron straps a spray can onto his belt. He informs Jimmy and me that it is bear repellant. Huh? Where I come from, especially when it comes to grizzlies, I want the largest caliber weapon made by man, not what looks like a can of Silly String (there’s a stupid rule about no guns in the park).

We walk through the beautiful woods toward the Grayling and are told to make noise and talk loudly as to scare away any bears and moose. Moose? Aaron tells us that moose are mean and will attack and stomp you to death. Being killed by a grizzly would be bad but would make for an extremely interesting story and subsequent eulogy. Getting stomped to death by Bullwinkle, not so much.

So what is the first thing I see when we get to the bank of the Grayling? Huge moose prints. And I mean HUGE. I begin to see that everything in Montana is freakin’ big. Big Mountains, big rivers, big trees, big fish, big bears, and now apparently, big moose. I start doing some thinking and decide I will not be waiting for Skippy the Guide to spray a moose or bear. By my calculations, all I have to do is outrun just one of them. Jimmy or Aaron? I believe can do it, especially if I trip Aaron and make him fall. Just joking. Kind of.

After 2 hours of fishing, we caught nothing on the Grayling. Not a tug or bite to be found, though quite a beautiful piece of water. As we walk back to Aaron’s truck we must cross a small stream which is maybe 6 feet across. It is crystal clear and looks shallow, so I take a step in. I plummet down almost five feet but catch myself just in time. Jimmy is behind me and takes a step into the quick moving water. He falls and goes under, his waders filling with 50 degree water. As Jimmy is about to float away he grabs a small willow tree on the bank and hugs it for dear life, slowly pulling himself up. I still grin and laugh at the memory of his waders, inside-out, attached to the drift boat we were hauling behind the truck, flapping in the wind.

As we fished the Madison River we caught a few rainbow trout and some whitefish. At one point, Jimmy hooked a large trout, and in his apparent excitement, aggressively yanked the fly out of his mouth and broke his rod. Luckily Aaron brought several.

The Gallatin is a gorgeous little river that starts and grows in Yellowstone. We walk upstream for a couple of miles getting a couple of bites here and there but not catching anything. Until.

Until Jimmy found a hole behind a small island in the middle of the river. I am 30 yards downstream from him. He catches a nice rainbow. Then another. And another. Then he catches a monster 20-inch brown. And he catches another rainbow. Then he catches an 18-inch cuttbow. Aaron is stunned and claims he has never seen anything like it.

And being the Southern gentleman that he is, Jimmy gives up his spot to me (not convinced I would have done the same, though I like to think I would have). I too catch six trout out of the same riffle. In total, we hooked 18 trout and landed 12, all in a space of maybe 30 feet in just over an hour. On this day we must have waded and walked a good seven or eight miles. And worth every step.

I still very much love West Virginia, so please tell her I was just flirting with Montana.

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)

West, By God, Virginia
by B. Dan Berger

I just got finished feeding breakfast to my dog Dallas, my decade-old black lab, as the sun slowly lights up North Fork Mountain. Her little grey whiskers sparkle with water, food crumbs and dog spit.

I hop into my pickup and drive along the North Fork River toward Petersburg. There are no other eager fishermen parked along the gravel pull-offs. This is a rare occurrence.

I park in front of my favorite breakfast joint, Family Traditions, a place my fishing pal introduced me to a long while back. Though still early, the restaurant is already packed. As I walk in, the loud buzz and white noise of numerous conversations going on at once abruptly stops. People look up from their eggs and bacon or cups of coffee and give me a quick glance. I am reminded of the old westerns when a cowboy walks into a noisy saloon and all the other roughnecks look up and give him a wary eye.

Only one table is remaining so I quickly commandeer it. I fight back the urge to make my future cardiologist richer by ordering cholesterol-laden eggs, sausage gravy and biscuits (my usual breakfast order). Instead I get a hearty bowl of oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar, and of course, a cup of steaming coffee. I gulp everything down, pay and leave a tip, all in about 20 minutes. Gotta’ go, I have some serious fishing to do today!

I drive out to my pal’s fishing stream just outside Petersburg to catch, or attempt to catch, some native trout. This stream is absolutely gorgeous and I am the only person fishing. Sweet solitude.

I find fishing this water challenging, frustrating and rewarding. It is what we fly-fishers call “technical” fishing. When loosely translated, means: I can’t flippin’ do it worth a darn. After a couple of hours of drifting a nymph, I hook three fish and land just one. This is one of my best days ever on this beautiful strip of water. My stomach grumbles.

I jump back into my truck and head back through Petersburg, my fly rod jutting out my back window, vibrating in the wind like an old witching stick. I roll by our home in Cabins to grab a tasty turkey sandwich for lunch and some more bottled water, and prepare for an afternoon of fishing.

Todd Harman was kind enough to grant me access into the back of their property at Harman’s Cabins to wade some pools in the North Fork River that lie within Monongahela National Forest.

As I walk back deeper into the Forest along the river, a beautiful hawk is gracefully flying twenty feet above the water doing reconnaissance. He spots me and quickly flies up and sits on one of the top limbs of a large sugar maple. The hawk glares at me as I walk by.

I wade around a bend where a large meadow opens up. In this velvet green field are a large doe and two fawns. They all perk up and look directly at me. The deer have either heard, smelled or seen me, or more likely, a combination of all. They sprint to the tree line, running with that hopping motion, their white tails sticking straight up like warning flags.

Again, I see no other fishermen on the river. More sweet solitude.

I put on a dry fly and start casting a line into a bubbling riffle. I do this for a couple hours with numerous different flies in numerous different pools. I have no bites and no luck. The laughable frustration I’m feeling reminds me of the old country song, “If I Didn’t Have Bad Luck, I Wouldn’t Have Any Luck At All.” A woodpecker can be heard tapping nature’s form of Morse Code into the trunk of a nearby tree.

I change my fly to a weighted nymph. On my second cast, I hook a medium-sized trout. Now that’s more like it! In half an hour, I hooked three good fish and land two of them. They all get gently released.

The hollow I’m in gets quickly swallowed by shade as the sun drops behind the steep cliffs at Harman’s. I stroll back to my truck and I notice the hawk is no longer there. Every ten yards or so, a tree limb reaches down with its finger-like branches and grabs my 9-foot fly rod bringing me to an abrupt stop each time.

The afternoon’s walking, wading and fly-fishing have made me hungry. As I recall, I don’t have much to eat at the house for dinner so I drive down the road to Mallow’s Roadside Café. I walk in, and as baseball-great and misguided philosopher Yogi Berra use to say, “It’s déjà vu, all over again.” When I enter the restaurant a noticeable hush occurs as the patrons look up from their fried chicken or hamburgers to see who has come in. Because of the strange looks I continue to receive today, I’m beginning to think I have been walking around with my zipper down all day. I check just in case. Nope, all clear.

All the tables and booths are taken accept for one next to the door. I slide in and order meatloaf, a baked potato, green beans and an iced tea. It is all quite good. After I pay and leave a tip, I drive back home to watch the very last of the sun slip behind the dark green mountain ridges.

Sitting on the patio with a cold adult beverage in my hand and my dog next to my chair, I watch as dusk rapidly engulfs North Fork Mountain. Dozens of bats are flying back and forth, honing in on insects that will be their meal. I truly enjoyed the day of fishing and exploring (and eating) in Grant County. Though I’m still considered an outsider, and likely always will be, I have a sincere appreciation for the people of this area, and more importantly, their history. And the reason we all love this region and its sweet solitude can be simply summed up by what some of the friendly folks have said to me: West, By God, Virginia!

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)

Grizzly Adams of West Virginia
by B. Dan Berger

He gets out of his muddy silver pickup truck, no shirt, long Appalachian beard, and a West Virginia University tattoo on his shoulder. He is large and imposing. Biker? Mountain man? Grizzly Adams?

Jim Sisler is not what he seems. He is one of the friendliest men I have met since moving to the mountains. Jim is an award-winning history teacher at Moorefield Middle School.

As the son of an educator myself, I have a fondness for the men and women that educate us as well as our children. Besides parents, teachers are the greatest positive influence on our children. In turn, their impact is felt throughout our community, state, and country.

Interested in purchasing a piece of dirt that I can hunt on or a hunting club to join, my fishing pal and I were driving around Grant and Hardy Counties looking at land when we came upon Jim’s truck. We all get out of our trucks and Jim slips on a t-shirt with a big trout on it. I like him already. I get introduced to Jim and get a strong calloused handshake in return.

Leaning on the back of Jim’s pickup, I listen to them talk about the hunting and fishing they have done throughout these beautiful mountains over the years. These two gentlemen have clearly known each other for a very long time. In fact, it is determined they have known each other for over twenty-five years.

The two expert outdoorsmen talk about the area… the deer they have stalked, the turkey they have hunted, and the fish they have hooked. And the conversation, as hunting discussions usually do, turns to what needs to be done to make the hunting better. As an educated redneck, I am enthralled by their stories.

Standing in the shade of a persimmon tree, the thread that binds the three of us this sunny warm afternoon is our mutual love for the outdoors. And we discuss the importance of protecting land from developers so future generations may also enjoy the experiences. Despite a few greedy developers that want to divide everything into “five acre estates” and pave over what is left of our Wild & Wonderful West Virginia, there are still many folks amongst us that have a conservation mindset. I, for one, believe God has a special place for people like that.

Jim shows us the large deer stand he built for his brother. Wow. It is the Holiday Inn of deer stands! That’s one lucky brother. He modestly says it is just “chainsaw built,” as is his huge hunting cabin. They are both fantastic.

Proudly, Jim talks about his children and their accomplishments as well as his students. He is gregarious, insightful, and considerate. I never thought my respect for teachers could ever be increased, but that changed with my summer encounter with Jim Sisler.

And if you can read this, thank a teacher.

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)

Power Lines Threaten North Fork River
by B. Dan Berger

On this relatively cool overcast morning, I am a few hundred yards downstream from the entrance of Harman’s Cabins, fly-fishing for smallmouth bass and any lingering trout that may have survived the summer or my fellow fishermen. My four year old daughter Shelby is with me.

I read again recently in our beloved newspaper about the proposed power line that will run through stunning North Fork Valley. As I stand here in the low, slow-moving North Fork River, I try to envision these massive structures running along Highway 28/55 and subsequently, the river. I am having much difficulty.

I also attempt to visualize the same scene from the top of North Fork Mountain after a hike up, looking down at the large electric serpent snaking below. In my humble opinion, if this proposed power line route is approved, it would be a travesty for our county.

Now, I must be honest with you folks. In full disclosure, my family and I live in a small home along the road in question. And yes, it frightens me that my property’s value will drop. It also frightens me that the reason we and others chose to live here, the beautiful mountains, the gurgling river, the gorgeous views, will be forever ruined. And forever is a very long time. As in forever.

As a lifelong outdoorsman and a Teddy Roosevelt conservationist, I have seen small communities and struggling counties that are located in other beautiful parts of our great country become major outdoor-related tourist destinations (so-called ecotourism). This, in turn, brings economic development, more visitors, increased revenue for local businesses, more jobs, better education… the list goes on and on. But the common thread with all of these areas is the fact they don’t have anything ugly running through the middle of them.

And a large power line is ugly (unless of course you are the powerline’s mother. Sorry, just being silly). I understand the need for additional electricity for the people in Northern Virginia and Washington, DC, but their proposed route for this powerline is not wise for OUR county’s economic or environmental future.

The kind folks at the Grant County Convention and Visitors Bureau are doing a wonderful job in beginning to aggressively promote all we have to offer in our fantastic part of Wild & Wonderful West Virginia. Their focus is wisely on our area’s mountains, Fall colors, rivers and streams, wildlife, fishing, hiking, hunting, the arts, crafts, festivals, camping, etc. I don’t see anything in their brochures or on their website about: Come Visit and See Our Big Ugly Power Lines. Don’t believe me? Go see for yourself at their new terrific website at www.grantcountywva.com.

As I gently unhook my second fish and release it back to the cool tumbling water, I can feel sadness and anger seeping out my pores. The older I get, and hopefully wiser (though my wife has serious doubts), I realize the only constant in life is change. But I just can’t see this proposed change along the North Fork River being good for our local people, businesses or visitors. The math just doesn’t add up. Then again, I could be wrong. I never really liked math.

(Copyright B. Dan Berger)