Charlottesville Country Living

August 2007

by John Ince, President Charlottesville Country Properties, LTD

Last week was my week at Ocracoke. As it approaches I spend way to much time on the Tradewind’s website, reading the message board and fishing reports and planning my strategy for surf and sound fishing. This year I knew it would be harder as I brought with me my two children, two of their friends, and my lovely girl friend, who I knew I could not abandon casually with the four kids. We rented a wonderful house on the sound at Still Point and enjoyed hot but fabulous weather and terrific body surfing waves. As predicted, fishing time was relegated to baiting kid’s rods with fish bites and squid and removing numerous croaker, pinfish and spot while an occasional big blue fish splashed just past the breakers. I spent a fair amount of time casting a spoon to the blues but never got a hit. Bound and determined to get some real fishing time in, I planned a pre-dawn escape to try for some Spanish mackerel at the point. I rose at 5:30 Thursday morning, put a pack of Pop Tarts and a banana in my pocket, and was on the beach in fifteen minutes. The beach was empty. I passed one vehicle on the way to the point. I got to the point about two hours before low tide and saw the waves breaking on a bar just 50’ off the beach but separated by a deep trough. The sun was not quite up. I thought about fishing the trough but I knew I needed to be in the surf, so I waded in and was immediately over my head. I swam awkwardly with my rod in one hand trying to manage a sidestroke. I’m a pretty good swimmer, but found it challenging since there was a pretty good chop. I finally climbed up the other side and waded in about two feet of water with two to three foot breakers coming in. I had my light trout rod with a gold Hopkins, and I tossed it into the surf still breathing hard from my swim. Immediately my rod bent hard, and I realized this was the first good fish I’d ever hooked into casting a spoon. The fish seemed to be taking out as much line as I could reel in. He gave a good jump and threw the spoon just as the orange sun started up. I said a few choice words as I reeled in then, bang! another one hit it. I tightened the drag a little and drug that one in, a beautiful 17” blue. I looked around, and there I was, all alone on the point, in the surf at Ocracoke as the sun came up just for me. Not many places in the world can give you a feeling like that. I soaked in the beauty for about another half second and cast again. Nearly every cast put me into a 16-20” blue. I kept hoping for a Spanish, but it didn’t happen this time. It will someday. I fished till about 8:30 probably released about a dozen really fun fish and had countless nice fish get off just in front of me. Thanks to Alan for showing me the loop knot on the 30# leader. It lasted through it all and gave me something good to grab in front of my 10# line. I got back to the house at 9:00, and the house was just rising while I’d just had the best Ocracoke moment in my 10 years of visiting the island.

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“If you put the fly where Pete tells you, you’ll be on a fish”

by John Ince, President Charlottesville Country Properties, LTD

I wrote this memoir shortly after returning from Montana in Mid-July of 2008. I last saw Jim Range on Thanksgiving four months later. Jim passed away in January 2009 with renal cancer that hit him like a truck. It was a privilege to know this man just a little.

July 11th, 2008

The rented Suburban was loaded with my two eighty something parents, three teens, my youngest sister, Ann and Jim and me. We were pulling out of Jim’s ranch in Craig, the fourth rainy day in a row, the Missouri River well out of its banks erased any chance of hitting the blue winged olive hatch that was supposed to peak this week. It’s OK. This is a great family time, welcome fires each night in Jim’s fabulous lodge, watching ospreys, eagles and white pelicans soaring over the river. We were heading for the Lewis and Clark museum in Helena to glean some more history from this wily part of Montana.

The gravel crunched and the wheels spun as we pulled out on to the soapy, slippery Montana clay. Just as were about to turn left for four hours of Lewis and Clark excitement, Pete came flying up the road in his truck with his drift boat bouncing along behind him. Jim hopped out of the driver’s seat to talk to Pete then came back to me and told me that Pete says if we want to fish we better go now before the weather turns again. Would I rather just go to the museum or try some drift boat fishing with the two of them instead. He didn’t even crack a smile.

To this point Jim Range had been almost more of a fictional character to me. He and my sister Ann had been enjoying each other’s company for several years now. Jim has been a pioneering environmental lawyer, activist and lobbyist, a Washington insider who hunts and fishes around the world with movers and shakers, enjoying a life any outdoorsman would envy. His Montana ranch on a legendary stretch of the Missouri River had been described time and time again in the tame comfort of my parent’s Virginia farm but the vague invitation to visit had never gotten legs, until now. I’ll admit, I still had some trouble with the image of Jim knocking down a charging bull elephant on safari then coming home to my sweet little sister, but maybe that’s just me.

Pete Cardinal lives on Jim’s ranch and helps out while Jim’s away but mostly, Pete fishes for trout. Pete has a masters in fisheries biology and an instinct that has made him the most sought after guide in the territory, turning away enough clients to make a living for the rest of the guides in Craig. Pete is the man Jim looks up to as his fishing guru. I try to fish for brook trout in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia with my flies spending more time in the trees than in the water. I am a boy among men, today.

These two great fishermen, on their home waters have one goal today, to put Annie’s brother on some fish. I have the front spot on the drift boat, Pete’s in the middle, rowing, consulting but mostly directing the rookie on where to place the fly. “If you put the fly where Pete tells you, you’ll be on a fish” I’d heard that back in Virginia when this was still fantasy. Jim’s in the back. This isn’t the kind of fishing that excites him. He’s on his cell phone to Washington. There are a couple of other drift boats on the water, fishing mid-stream in the engorged Missouri, nymphing deep with a lot of weight. Pete’s let me know without a word that was not what we’d be doing, any more than we’d be spin fishing with night crawlers.

Pete had rigged my seven weight with two nymphs on 3X tippet, the bottom one on a dropper about twelve inches below the top and a fluorescent indicator about six feet up the tippet. He’d put the boat just upstream of an eddy that brought the strong current back upstream. There was some foam and little sticks and grass showing a good clear line and that’s where Pete wanted me to put the fly. A decent roll cast put it close and within a second the orange indicator made a tiny dip, “NOW!” shouted Pete and I pulled back sharp, sending each fly to wrap itself like spaghetti around a fork on the cottonwood branches behind me. “Good trigger” was all Pete had to say which disappointed me a little since he was known for cussing out his clients for the slightest miscue. I didn’t want any special treatment. I rescued my flies, one of my true talents, and we resumed fishing, my heart beating a little harder and determination making me grit my teeth.

Another roll cast in the next eddy and a good hard smack put me into the strongest fresh water fish I’ve felt on a fly rod. The line in my hand ran out fast, and I was just ready to get on the reel. Jim and Pete were both shouting “give him line, give him line” The nice three pound rainbow jumped ten yards from the drift boat and broke off. Reeling in a limp line is never a good feeling and this time, accompanied by Jim’sadly shaking head and Pete’s muttered, “asshole” it came in so, so slowly and so, so empty. A mostly hidden smile made me understand I was being tag teamed, and Pete tied on two more flies. I was watching the knot carefully this time. Pete put us in eddy after eddy. We usually waited our turn for a guided drift boat to finish a run before we even started it. Pete wasn’t worried about the previous boat spoiling the water. They didn’t know where the fish were. I did notice that each boat that could, was carefully eyeing ours, Pete’s boat being recognized and his wizardry spied upon at every opportunity. I finally landed my first Missouri River rainbow, a two pound beauty brought to the side of the boat and released without being touched. Jim and I each hooked into a few more, one trophy played with me for about five minutes before breaking off.

Working an eddy close to the bank, Jim on his cell phone, suddenly says to Pete, “Did you see that?”

“That’s the second time” Pete answered. We continued nymphing. “There he is again Godammit” Even I could see now. Jim and Pete were completely transfixed on a fairly regular slurping on the surface about fifty yards down stream. Jim stopped fishing and looked at Pete. “I think we can get him” The strategy session began with the approach which required pulling out into the main current, drifting down about a hundred yards and pulling hard against the full current till we could beach the boat down stream of the rising fish. That done, Jim tied on a good sized dry fly. We were all standing on the gravel bank and that single, determined trout was still rising about every 30 seconds, slurping something off the surface about thirty yards out. The bank of the river was covered with brush. A submerged, barbed wire fence showed where the water should have been about fifteen feet from the current high level. The water was deep and strong. You wouldn’t want to lose your footing here. You’d be coming out way down stream if you did. Like clock work the trout kept coming up. Each rise was somewhere within a fifty yard long seam that must have held just what that trout was hungry for. Jim worked his way into the water. It was quickly past his waist as he inched out beyond the barbed wire. The trout rose again, this time way out of casting range, too far upstream. “Guess he’s gone now” said Pete. Jim just kept inching his way out a little further the current making a gurgling sound on his waders and forming a V behind him. The fish rose again, this time straight out and Jim started casting. Jim’s cast was hard and fast. The line did not loop gracefully behind but shot back and forth with power, his rod making a sharp whiffling sound through the air, easily making the distance nearly a third of the way across the Missouri River. The fly touched the water and the fish rose about fifteen yards upstream. Jim cast again to the new spot and let the fly drift. The fish rose again about fifteen yards downstream. Jim cast again but this time kept the fly in the air with false casts till the trout showed. “There he is” whispered Pete. Jim had seen it and set the fly down about a foot downstream of the circle, still visible on the water. There was no doubt that the fish would hit and it did, so innocently, so certain that this fat fly, gently touching down was just another gift from God. The trout’s greedy slurp was met with a resounding strike from Jim, and Jim’s rod bent hard as the huge rainbow leapt into the air. I’d only seen steelhead this large and marveled that Jim and Pete could have this resource at their back door. “I can’t believe it” I said to Pete as Jim fought the fish “that was perfect!” “Oh he’s a top gun all right. This is what it’s all about here”

Jim had the fish on for about ten minutes then released it in the shallows. It was the only rising fish of the day, the only fish worth going after for these two fishermen. It made their day of fishing worth while and turned mine into a deeper understanding of the levels of trout fishing. Like any pursuit, there are beginners, journeymen and then there are those who have made it an art, who understand the ebb and flow of the entire world that surrounds their passion and have mastered a small part of it. To witness the art has shown me a higher bar to reach for and a reason to pursue it.

Drifting back down to our take out point at Craig, there was a sudden screeching overhead. Just over our heads, not fifty feet above was an osprey with a fat, 14 inch fish in its talons. The fish was still writhing, hoping to escape its certain fate. A bald eagle had just descended on the osprey and an aerial dogfight ensued right over our heads, wings were beating each other and screeching was coming from both of the huge birds matched nearly equally in size but with the eagle having a clear advantage since it’s talons were free. Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, the osprey’s mate charged onto the scene diving between the two fighting raptors. Now, out numbered, the eagle beat a retreat soaring away into the Montana wilderness. The two ospreys, known to nest nearby, flew off to feed their young.

“You don’t see that every day” said Jim.

“No you don’t” said Pete, then after a long pause, “I don’t know what all the fuss was about. It was just a white fish.

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Fishing Around Charlottesville, VA

by John Ince, President Charlottesville Country Properties, LTD

As a flat topped ten year old in Newport Rhode Island, the first time I threw a wiggling nightcrawler underneath a bobber into a reservoir, I was smitten with fishing. The thrill of watching that bobber plunge underwater and the pride in bringing home a stringer of yellow perch to my mom inspired a life- long passion that has resulted in some amazing excursions and an immersion into the natural world that surrounds every place I have called home.

I moved to the Charlottesville area in 1982 from northern California where fall and winter meant steelhead and salmon runs up the Russian River. Trout were the native species in the watershed and ling cod, red snapper, and halibut could be found in the cold ocean from jetties and boats. It was big fish fishing and I knew I would miss it.

There are a couple of things you have to get used to here. First, we tend to call almost every body of moving water, a river. It may look like a small stream to you but it’s a river here. They earn their reputation in spades after a couple of days of rain when they turn into whitewater monsters and kayaks sprout like mushrooms on car tops around town. While there are some stocked reservoirs around which provide our drinking water, it is the rivers that provide fishermen like me the most enjoyment. The rivers here begin in the mountains and the fresh cold headwaters and spring creeks are home to native brook trout. Fly fishing for these brilliant fish has become my favorite past time, my Zen place, my place to commune with what I consider the real world. There are several access points to these wild streams and each begins the same way; the asphalt turns to gravel, the gravel to dirt, the dirt to ruts and suddenly there is rushing water beside you, cascading down the mountain with waterfalls, pools and riffles. Casting is tricky with a very narrow tunnel of clear air between the overhanging trees and brush on each side. I have discovered however that if you lose your last fly you can nearly always find another on any hard to reach branch overhanging a good pool. The dry fly fishing can be excellent with brookies and browns up to fourteen inches but usually much smaller. The wonder is in the place, mossy boulders, fern covered banks, huge timber and not a soul do you see, all just thirty minutes from my office in Charlottesville.

Once the terrain softens and mountain rivers like the Moormans, Conway, Roach and Middle combine to become the Rivanna, The Rapidan, the James and the Shenandoah, the rivers become floatable by canoe or kayak and the fishing centers more on our prize game fish, the smallmouth bass. Fly fisherman can be very productive with poppers and wooly buggers but so can kids with spinning rods and lures or bait like live minnows and mad toms (catfish fry). The smallmouth are finicky and present more of challenge than their beefier brethren, the largemouth bass which frequent nearly every farm pond and reservoir. They are also known to fight much harder and love to leap into the air time and again to throw the hook.

As these waters that drain the Piedmont and flow to the Chesapeake Bay reach the Tidewater, the salt water fish that spawn in the fresh water provide an excellent fishery. Striped bass, also known as Rockfish come up the James River all the way to Richmond as do several species of shad. Recently several dams that have prevented shad from reaching Charlottesville have been breached to allow this historic fishery to return and last year saw the first hickory shad and American shad caught in the Rivanna River.

The beaches along the Atlantic are legendary for surf fishing, something entirely unknown to west coast fisherman. Fabulous and delicious salt water fish migrate up and down the coast with the seasons all within easy casting distance of the shore. Make sure you have a good stout 11 foot rod that can cast four ounces of lead for you might well hook into a fifteen pound striper, a ten pound bluefish or a 30 pound red drum. More than likely you’ll be catching dozens of little spot, croaker or pinfish…but you never know. That’s the fun of it.
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by John Ince, President Charlottesville Country Properties, LTD

It crossed my mind when transporting horses to Scottsdale Arizona years ago that if we got stranded in that beautiful desert we would be in desperate straits quickly with thirst and starvation eminent for man and beast. Conversely, here, in this part of Virginia, a loose horse could happily wander into any field and fatten itself up on some of the nicest pasture in America and more than likely find a cool spring from which to drink. Virginia’s Piedmont is natural horse country where a horse can survive for nine months out of the year on nothing more than the grass that can’t help but grow.

Most horses get a little more attention than that but few would likely prefer the palatial facilities replete with chandeliers, NPR and mineral water their owners so generously provide to a good romp and carefree, headlong gallop with their herd across acres and acres of their favorite food. Horses can be very happy in Virginia. It’s their ideal environment; beautiful rolling fields of good grass, four distinct seasons with a mild winter and a profusion of activities to keep them feeling useful. Fox hunting, show jumping, polo and equitation, Dressage, endurance, steeplechase and trail riding, English, western or bareback… It would be hard to find a more versatile sport or past time. Our obsession with horses can take many forms, from the professional who makes a living educating and exhibiting their client’s horses at the highest levels to the single mom or angst ridden teen who finds a perfect solace in the company of this magical animal.

Many people thinking about moving to the country have a dream of having a horse or two. It can be like dating. You can meet a nice horse, get on its back and ride around a ring giggling, wondering how good you look together, then you try another. It’s quite a process and so full of characters, both human and equine, that stories will be made by the score and you will become more and more interesting with your cocktail party anecdotes and barn yard humor. Or… you might feel something spark inside you the moment your eyes meet, you sense the thoughtfulness between the two of you and as you slide into the saddle, your legs feel the warmth of its flanks and your hands feels the softness of its mouth through the reins. Together you decide to walk, trot and canter, to hop over the fallen log without a thought, to stop and admire the view, to sigh. Those who have felt the sense of accomplishment, the thrill of victory, the determination and occasionally the disappointment of a horse realize the beauty of pride without ego, of elegance without vanity and of a being capable of bringing out the best in its human partner.

It’s not hard to keep a horse. You can board at any number of places from cheap pasture board where the horse all run together and find their own order for as little as $50 a month, to full board with turn out and all the vet, farrier, training and lessons thrown in for as much as $2,000 a month. Different strokes for different folks. You can also find a nice little place out in the country with a few acres or more and keep your horses yourself. It’s a pleasure keeping horses for many people. Feeding, mucking, grooming, mending fences and knowing when to call the vet and when the little nick or lameness will respond to your expertise all become part of your life and your daily schedule. It’s a nice place for the nurturing type and perhaps a good prescription for lonely empty nesters.

If you have thought about getting a horse, don’t rush. Do your research and take the time to meet the most respected people in the business. Ask vets for referrals and ask your friends. Unfortunately there are some unscrupulous people out there so get second opinions and always get a vet check. Owning horses can be a delightful diversion or a consuming obsession and it’s not for everyone. They keep you tied down and have no consideration of your hours or vacation schedule. They also live a very long time, easily into their 30’s when well cared for and happy so be prepared for a lifetime commitment and perhaps true love.
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