On our way to shoot a wedding in Ohio, we made a pit stop in Central PA. After nervously checking the water levels and weather forecast all week, we happily loaded the car and snuck out of DC late Thurs night under clear skies. An hour into the drive, a nasty storm hit hard and would not quit for the remainder of the night. With a little wifely encouragement, I begrudgingly stopped by the fly shop the next morning, expecting to hear confirmation of what I had already seen in the water on the way over — “the river was blown out”. Surprisingly, we opened the door of the shop to find two fishermen with already wet waders eagerly picking out replacement flies. You mean, people had not only fished that morning, but had caught something that would break off a fly? We got pointed to a couple of access points where the wading would be “safe”. The wading was certainly as safe as the fishing was poor. I like to think the owner had good intentions of not drowning a few out-of-towners. But I’ve also been around this sport long enough to have a few suspicions about protecting fruitful holes. Luckily I had fished the Little J a few years ago in better conditions and we were fortunate to stumble our way to an alternate access point before calling it a day. And that’s about the last part of the story I can take credit for. We felt extremely blessed to get into steady action for the next several hours. It wasn’t the purist sulphur dry-fly fishing we had hoped for, but more like the miracle that we needed.