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

It seems appropriate that this, my last column, should be written about the Little Stony.

It is a stream of many beginnings and endings, beginning as a trickle out of Mountain Lake in Giles County and ending in the New River. Thursday I pulled into the Cascades parking lot and was greeted by the lusty roar of the Little Stony, swollen from two days of steady autumn rain. The Cascades area is named after the waterfall, but today it appeared that the entire stream was one long cascade.

Walking up the trail I could see the stream’s milky green and white surface, and thought to myself, “This is going to be a day of special fishing challenges.”

First of all, I would have to look for back eddies and still pools next to the bank, as trout wouldn’t relish fighting this ferocious current.

Secondly, I would pack my rod and waders and walk above all the mountain freshets feeding the stream to its height at the lower end.

Third, and most painful, my leader would need two or three split shot clamped onto it.

Split shot is probably my least favorite piece of flyfishing paraphenalia. Standing in swift water, you balance one of these little metal orbs on your forefinger, drop your 6X tippet into the split, and then, theoretically, clamp it between your teeth.

Meanwhile, you have sprinkled the water at your feet with half a dozen of these shots that slipped out of your hand or off your forefinger. (At least they're non-toxic.) When you cast your normally graceful fly line, the weighted-down version flops around like a piece of kite string. And just to add insult, the split shot seek out all the rock crevices they can possibly hang up on.

Then why use them?

Simple.

Without their weight, your nymph would be tossed around on this turbulent surface and never get down to where the trout are. On a near-flooded stream like this you either use them and catch fish, or you don’t use split shot and and you don’t catch fish. And when the water temperature is this low, the fish seek out the bottoms of deeper holes where your nymph needs to be.

When I began fishing the Little Stony back in the '80s, it was primarily a native brook trout stream. Over the years the rainbows have moved upstream, nudging the brookies higher and higher. Now I’m catching them even as high up as the second footbridge. So its tenure as a purely native brook trout stream ended long ago.

My aim today was to climb above rainbow territory and fish up near and beneath the 60-foot waterfall. Where I walked the trail through a deep ravine, it was shaded from the sun and I could feel the cold seep through my jacket and quilted shirt. The thought occurred to me that some of this moisture on the trail may soon turn to ice. Five minutes later I stepped onto the planks of the third footbridge and skated three feet before I realized what was happening. The log handrail wasn’t much help, as it was also coated with clear ice formed by spray tossed 20 feet up by the small waterfall below. I wondered how much icier it would become before I returned.

You often hear the saying, “You can’t be too careful.” Well, I believe you can be too careful when fishing a stream like this on a December day. If I had turned back at the parking lot or at this icy bridge, I would have missed out on some inspiring brook trout fishing. The cold wind and the ice were typical of the price one pays for solitude, and today I did not see another person on the trail. But the price was worth the quiet contemplation, as it usually is.

Up near the falls I spotted a natural stone divan next to a clear, deep eddy reflecting sunshine. It was a perfect place to sit comfortably, shuck my walking shoes and pull on hip waders. Looking at the gentle swirl of back-current next to me, I resolved to fish this spot on the way back down. Approaching one of my favorite fishing spots on the Little Stony, a quiet sluiceway beside a chert cliff, I was appalled to see it had turned into an unfishable millrace. The water temperature here was smack on 40 degrees. I dropped my #16 Pheasant Tail Nymph into a pool higher up, wondering if it was possible to get a strike in this frigid water. A nice little 7-inch brookie answered my question.

About that time I heard an unmistakable, deep-chested sound coming off the mountainside. It was a sound that had often awakened me as a kid when Howard Sigmon’s pack was running a fox on Long Ridge.

Straining to see through the thick green of rhododendron, I spotted the thicket moving across the creek. Then a small redbone hound stepped out onto a flat boulder, ribs showing, baying pitifully at me and taking small steps toward the tossing current.

“No, no” I yelled. “Don’t try it!”

About then his twin joined him on the rock, yelping for help. I could see them suffering the same fate as those pathetic dog actors in early Disney films, tossed around in the rapids of some Western stream. I’ve never given mouth-to-mouth to a hound, and hoped I didn’t have to this day.

Fortunately, they decided not to take the plunge, much to my relief, as the stream here was like water spouting from a 20-foot diameter fire hose, and six feet deep. There was nothing I could do to help them. As I walked upstream away from that pathetic sound, I spotted a game trail leading up the ridge not far away from the dogs. It was reasonable to assume that if they were smart enough not to dive into the maelstrom, they could also figure out how to take that trail up and across the ridge. I hope so.

My next stop was beneath the 60-foot waterfall, beneath which the deep pool had frequently yielded me a brook trout or two. In summer the apparent wind from the waterfall has a pleasant cooling effect, but on this freezing December day everything was different. There were miniature whitecaps on the pool and an icy mist was blowing up under my fishing vest. After a couple of half-hearted casts, I felt my hat wobbling from the force of the wind, and imagined what might happen if it blew off and went skittering away on the current. A lot of body heat would get lost out of my head.

It signaled me it was time to head back down the mountain. There is a sign in the rest room informing you that since July of 2002 one person has died and two were seriously injured when scaling the rock walls around the falls. It’s illegal and there’s a minimum $100 fine if you’re caught at it. I hope the local lifesaving crew doesn’t have to carry any more stretchers down this rocky 2-mile trail.

Stopping at the stone bench where I had donned my boots, as planned, I dropped my Pheasant Tail into that deep back eddy. On the second cast something grabbed it and gave my skinny #2 rod a shaking. Looking down at the little 8-inch brook trout I had landed, I couldn’t remember seeing a more vivid orange than the hue of his white-tipped spawning fins. What survivors these little fellows are, swept down from the North during the last ice age 10,000 years ago, and eking out a lean diet in mountain streams like this. And today in spite of expert opinion, they were striking my nymph in 40-degree water. And against all odds they were fat and healthy specimens.

Instead of $2, the one-day entrance fee is now $3, and well worth it. The Forestry Service does an immaculate job of maintaining the trail, and I wonder how they move the stepping stones too large for two mules to drag. One welcome change is free admission for those holding a Golden Eagle, Golden Access or Golden Age card, which I have. To reach the Cascades, take U.S. 460 to Pembroke, turn at the Cascades sign next to the Dairy Queen and drive to the parking area at road’s end.

Looking back on the two-and-a-half years of writing my “Trout Professor” column, I find it one of my most richly rewarding projects since writing the book, “Trout Streams of Virginia.” Both works have brought me valuable friends, trout fishermen and women, who I have concluded are the cream of the human crop. They are the best of the best, and I deeply appreciate the positive response my columns have produced from them. It was the most satisfying reward I could have.