Richard Formato

Richard Formato is an avid catch-and-release fly-fisherman from Wytheville, Va. When not on the water, he operates a small business there. Formato loves to fly-fish in his native Southwest Virginia because of the great water and wonderful people. He also loves to fish the flats and shallows of the Gulf of Mexico and Atlantic whenever work and weather permit. He is on the Department of Conservation and Recreation's board of directors and is a trustee of the Shenandoah National Forest and Skyline Drive.

Recent columns

• What about Bob?
• Notes from the Charlotte Fly Show
• A chance meeting
• A wish for Jack

• Column archive
• Talk fly-fishing

The Pennsylvania stream I fished last week was mistakenly named Mud Run.  Its steep, rocky bed is seldom touched by mud, but the water's slightly mahogany-colored tint is caused by leaching from the roots of cedar trees lining the bank.

Centuries ago sailing captains would send their crews to Mud Run to collect barrels of water to be taken aboard for long sea voyages.  The cedar sap acted as a preservative, keeping shipboard water fresh for months.

I last fished Mud Run some 20 years ago with my angling partner, Tom Newell, rest his soul.  His wife didn't like the sound of the stream's name, and would tell her friends Tom was off fishing Hickory Run.  We would average around a dozen catch-and-release rainbows and brookies on each trip.

Frequently we would encounter a bearded old hermit along the stream dragging a burlap sack loaded with fish.  He carried a stick with a piece of string attached with a little metal minnow tied to it.  He would poke under the bank and vigorously shake the metallic minnow around.  Then in the other hand he carried a short rod baited with a real minnow which invariably hooked one of the spooked trout.  I never quite figured out the theory behind that technique.

Driving down Pennsylvania State Route 534, I entered Hickory Run State Park , where I stopped at the park headquarters.  I asked the young lady at the desk where trout fishing was best, and she pointed out the window to Hickory Run, which ran nearby right along the highway.  "A lot of people fish right there and behind the building."

I took a look at the stream, which sported a series of small dammed-up ponds where I saw a few fish rising.  But I decided to pass on Hickory Run as one of those roadside fisheries where fishermen stepped from their cars in droves.

"What about Mud Run?"

"Oh, you can get there by turning right on a dirt road about four miles down the highway and walking to the stream from the parking area."

Following her instructions, I parked in a muddy field from which I could see a dim trail leading down the mountainside.  I decided to trek down to Mud Run for a preview of fishing possibilities.

The "trail" turned out to be a series of slippery, moss-covered  rocks overhung with rhododendron branches loaded with water from the previous night's rain.  There were places where the vegetation tunnel was so low it required stooping to a squat to get through.  After a mile of this and half an hour later, my clothing soaked through, I finally got a glimpse of Mud Run rushing below a 30 foot vertical bank.  The water looked pretty good, and I hadn't seen a boot print anywhere on the trail. 

Then came one of those decisive fly-fishing moments.  Should I return to my vehicle, don chest waders, and hike back down here to fish?  Envisioning a wader-clad hike back up this trail after fishing, the answer was a sensible "no."

So I drove a short distance farther down the road to where the interstate passed over Mud Run.  Here I pulled over and had a sudden flash of memory, realizing this was the gentle trail Tom and I walked  years ago.  I headed down, and five minutes later reached the confluence of Hawk and Mud Runs.  But where were the deep green holes I remembered?  I waded a long distance, searching for them but saw only shallow rapids and many more refrigerator-size boulders than I recalled.  I then realized what had happened during my two-decade hiatus.  The fierce hurricane-like storms which sweep through the Pocono Mountains had repeatedly flooded Mud Run to change the whole stream picture.

I halfheartedly dapped into the few remaining pockets of water, with no success, not even one tug at my Prince Nymph.  Would this be my last memory of Mud Run?  No, I don't think so.  There's always that mile of slippery rock trail down to a virtually untouched stretch of the stream, waiting for me to return.

Hickory Run is a catch and release stream requiring all fish to be returned to the water.  Mud Run is a delayed harvest fishery containing a population of native brook trout, which I look forward to encountering at a future date.  Both streams can be reached by taking State Route 534 south off Interstate 80 and driving to Hickory Run State Park .