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>>Donny & Me by Adrienne Rudich
Whenever I have a serious problem, I know where to turn. The Oracle. This wasn't just a serious problem. This was a crisis, a make or break situation. My budding grandson, Donny, had the fly fishing bug--big time. In the beginning, I was thrilled and fell happily to the task of preparing him for a lifetime of joy and happiness in Mother Nature's bosom. I got him his first rod. We bought flies together, read books, subscribed to the magazines and spent countless hours watching videos. He had the fever. Behind the house, we set up a casting course with paper plates at 10, 20, 25 and 30-foot intervals. The day he put the fly on the 25-foot plate 3 times out of 10 I took him, together with four other neighborhood pals, to McDonalds. All you can eat! Then came the moment that I had been subconsciously dreading, "Grandma", Donny said, "When are we going to really go fishing? I mean really catch a fish?" Wow. That really took the wind out of my sails. He lives in a huge metropolitan area; it's not like we can hop on our bikes and head for the creek or pond.

On top of that, Donny was only 12 and didn't weigh 95 pounds. These were serious limitations in terms of a destination. I had to come up with something fast and it had to be tailored to our situation. Failing that I could lose him on the cusp of the sweetest addiction known to man or woman. I could lose him to soccer!!!

"Calm down" soothed the Oracle. "Just find him a ditch with water in it." "But," I cried, "I need a very special place. You don't understand. This boy is only 12 and he's barely 5 feet tall and he doesn't weigh more than 95 pounds. This has to be water he can wade safely. It can't have hardly any current and it can't be deep. Safety is paramount! And on top of that, there have to be fish that he can catch with a fly rod and a fly. Do I make myself clear, Oh Great One?"
"Don't push your luck, Bubbles," replied the Oracle, "you're asking for the moon you know." If you know the Oracle, this is when you shift in to grovel and I did. "Please help me," I whimpered, "I'll do anything you ask." "O.K., how about tying me 2 dozen poppers and about half a gross fanwing royal coachmen?" he leered. I was desperate. I caved. "Write this down," the Oracle commanded. "Fort Lewis Lodge, Bath County, Millboro, Virginia." I did, and I am here to tell you that he was right. The Oracle is a whiz.

The Fort Lewis Lodge is a jewel set on the banks of a bucolic little river in Western Virginia called the Cowpasture. Not to be confused with its nearby kin--the Bullpasture and the Calfpasture. Named for Col. Charles Lewis, killed by Shawnee Indians at the Battle of Point Pleasant while defending the southern pass of Shenandoah Mountain. Built in 1989, Fort Lewis is owned by John and Caryl Cowden. The main building, a renovated barn and silo has 11 rooms and there are two adjacent cabins, complete with fireplaces. Meals to absolutely die for, breakfast and dinner are prepared by Caryl and her staff and served buffet style in an adjacent Grist Mill. Fort Lewis Lodge encompasses 3200 acres of meadow and Blue Ridge mountain as pretty as any natural setting you can imagine.

Centerpiece, for my purposes was the river--and what a river. More than 3 miles of the Cowpasture flows through the Fort Lewis property and it is pure magic. Seldom more than waist deep in summer, gently flowing over folds of shale rock, lined with towering sycamores whose sunken roots harbor pan-fish city. Believe me. The Cowpasture is a fish factory. Smallmouth bass 7-15 inches, plump rock bass (Red Eye, Goggle Eye), fat, palm sized sunfish and one the locals call a fall fish. The fall fish is amazing. It looks like a creek chub, hits like a trout and jumps like a tarpon. The lodge also stocks trout in several sections in April. These fish often hold over in to early summer.

Like all Appalachian streams, the Cowpasture runs high in the spring. But from mid-June to early September it is perfect. The way to fish this heaven-on-earth is to wade it, and wade it we did, each in our bathing suits, felt-soled reef walkers on our feet, chest wading vests over long sleeved bone fishing shirts and wide brimmed hats on our head to tame the warm sunlight. Donny wore a small Mae West. Donny's fist cast with his 8 foot 2 weight and small woolly bugger was handled for him by the Fish Gods. Bang!!! A 9 inch rock bass ate the barbless fly and Heaven had answered this maiden's prayer. I'll bet we easily caught and released 50 fish that morning. It didn't seem to matter what we tied on--nymph, streamer, big dry fly or small popper. It was as though every other cast was met by a strike. Granted, we are not talking about really big fish, but who cares on a lightweight trout rod that bent nearly double with every fish. At the end of the day, my grandson had come of age and experienced the rites of passage in to the fraternity of the fly-fishing. I will go to the great fishing hole in the sky with the indelible memory of him bobbing down the Cowpasture, bank shooting his 2 weight to the song of the birds and the bees with a priceless look on his face as he yelled, "look Grandma--another fish on!!!"

I wouldn't necessarily urge you to pack the kids and the dog off to Fort Lewis. It's more of a couples get away place (fly to Roanoke, 2 hours by rental car). But if you want a perfect one-on-one fly fishing experience with a son or daughter, grandson or granddaughter--who is just starting out, this is where you come. I was desperate for a setting custom made to this youngsters capabilities and experience. It had to be one that would produce fish and catapult him on to the next level of excitement that would never leave him. It did. It has. He is hooked forever. The Oracle had done it again. I'm beginning to half believe him when he tells me,"I possess all knowledge."