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

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• Talk fly-fishing

Cathy and I spent the last week in May in Highland County , mostly on the Bullpasture River.  It's a fickle stream, some days producing nothing, and on other days a bonanza of trout. 

The Reel Ladies outing that month was held at Vista Valley on the Bullpasture, where the water had just begun to clear after a night of mountain thunderstorms.  Some of the ladies from the Waynesboro chapter had never hooked a trout before and it was a revelation to observe the faces of these "virgins" when a big rainbow stripped line from their reels.  I am told that 30 percent of fly-fishers in this country today are women. And from the enthusiasm of this group I would expect that number to grow.

The follow day, when things had quieted down, Cathy and I returned to Vista Valley .  We were talking to Oscar, the owner, when he pointed toward the meadow and said, "Look there."  He indicated a large snapping turtle plodding toward the river.  We casually observed it, then waded into the rapids for some morning streamlashing.

"Listen to that. It must be Oscar coming down," Cathy said.  I heard thrashing in the brush and what sounded like footsteps.  The next thing I saw was that big snapper taking a four-foot dive and splashing into the water opposite us.  I had never before seen my wife sprinting through rapids in her chest waders.  We quickly moved far downstream where some hefty rainbows ate our streamers, racing back and forth through the pools.

The following day, for a change of pace, we drove north from McDowell up U.S. 250 toward Monterey .  The road parallels a small creek called Crab Run, which I had casually noticed when driving north.

On this day I took a harder look down at some promising holes, and decided to pull over and see what Crab Run had to offer, if anything.  Cathy took one look at the huge boulders leading down to the stream, and elected to sit in my vehicle and read.

I jointed up my No. 2 Diamondback and tied on a green caddis nymph "on steroids" given to me by a friend.  He assured me that this lumpy little fly had slayed them in the spring creeks of Montana .  Rock-hopping down the bank, I roll cast into an eddy swirling around a boulder with a decent sized green hole below it.  On my fourth cast something took it, and I couldn't believe the bow in my little rod.  Something pretty sizeable had grabbed my nymph.

Playing it away from the boulder, I finally managed to land the fish.  It was a hefty 9 inches, and looked nothing like the brook trout I had expected to see.  It's steely sides and brilliant dark spots made it look for all the world like the native cutthroats I have caught out West.  It was a dead ringer for them, except it lacked the brilliant scarlet "cut" across its gills.   I'm hoping some fish biologist can tell me what I caught, which was definitely a variety of trout.

Later in the week, after fishing Ramseys Draft, we decided to spend one more day fishing the Bullpasture Gorge.  Wading around a bend, I suddenly was looking 60 years into the past.  This was the very hole where as a teenager I stood on that same rock outcropping dozens of times, spin casting  live minnows out into the stream.  That was during World War II, and instead of trout fishing in June, the young men of Virginia were wading onto the beaches at Normandy .  Squinting a little, I could almost see a 14-year-old image of myself casting from that rock.  There are always places like this on trout streams which never change with time.

Shaking off the past, I realized that trout were rising all around me, taking small white flies off  the surface.  I tied on a No. 20 Light Cahill and dropped it on a ring from a recent rise.  Immediately I was rewarded with a splash and a hookup with a small rainbow.

That continued for a while, and I suddenly saw a huge brown rise on the far side, across some deep water.  Desperate, I stripped off more line and began double-hauling, hoping to reach that brown 60 feet away.  Again he showed a golden side brilliant in the sun, exciting me to exceed my casting ability.  I heard a snap, felt pain coursing down my shoulder, and realized that that brown trout was safe for today.  And that snap also marked the end of my Highland trout fishing week.