Some thoughts on the 4th

Another year as a nation.  There will be fireworks, cookouts, and for some of us-a three day weekend.

I am fishing on Saturday, but I am very selective on where I go on holiday weekends.  Holiday weekends usually mean large crowds on the river, and the majority of those are the type who only go fishing maybe three or four times a year.  For them it isn't a passion, but for those of us who do see fly fishing as a passion, we either have to get there early or find another place to step in.

I'm not knocking these folks.  Heck, I think everyone should give fly fishing a whirl, but on the other hand, I want the river to be as empty as is reasonable.  So what do I do?

There is a spot on a river near here that has very limited access and a property owner who is very protective.  So protective in fact that I only fish this spot about four times a year...on holidays, because in the tradition of the southern gentleman, I don't want to wear out my welcome.

I hope that you will have the chance to wet a line this weekend...and if you do, I hope it is not so crowded that you have to bring your own rock to stand on.

Happy birthday America!  I hope you can endure the current trials that surround you and make it for many generations to come.

And thanks and blessing to any of you who have served to protect this nation.

(insert your own fireworks and patriotic diddy here)

Next week we are gonna take a look at the creative and unusual side of fly tying and take a visit to our friends at Fishwest.

Till then...ya'll be safe out there!

Copperheads, Coyotes, and Yellow Sallies on the swing

There is an interesting change that occurs when I go to the smokies.  The route I take from my office to the National Park is one of constant dwindling.  My office is on the fourth floor right in the heart of the city, but as I leave and make my way south the buildings grow smaller.  Development decreases to sporadic outcroppings of fluorescent signs and convenience stores.  There are three routes that could guide me to the park, but I, being the die hard ruralist, take the one less traveled.  I turn off a state highway at a gas station and the city is officially gone.  Farmland with modest homes and small churches dot the landscape.  One church in particular always makes me smile because the sign out front has the pastors name in removable letters...perhaps in this place you should not grow to comfortable with your calling.

My drive avoids the mecca of entertainment in these parts, Pigeon Forge and Gatlinburg.  Not my type of local to be sure, and I find myself in a little hamlet on what has been dubbed "the peaceful side of the Smokies", and comparatively speaking, they are right.  One left turn and the dwindling is more pronounced.  The trees are older, the houses are farther apart, until, you find yourself climbing.  A twisting two lane road with steep hillside to your left and an even steeper drop to your right.  No guardrails...the trees do that job for the road department.

As you crest the ridge and begin your decent, all sign of humanity is gone.  As a matter of fact, as soon as you "cross over", there is zero cell phone reception and very little if any radio to be heard.  It is as if someone saw you coming and flipped a switch.  You are no longer in your world...you are in God's world...and He demands your undivided attention.

I cross a small wooden bridge which spans over the river that has brought me here.  It is running perfectly...just the right flow and few people.  I pull into the parking area beside Jermz' ride.  Though I brought my waders as a just in case, I ignore them and just put on my wading boots.  I know the water will be cold, but waders here just seem out of place.  Without them you are freer to move, to climb, it is a level of connection that is required to get the full experience.

Geared up I walk toward the water.  Someone nearby is grilling and the smell of spent charcoal fills the air around me.  Summer is usually a time for extreme inner tube runs; the "tube hatch".  I look for the flotilla of bright orange and yellow donuts with their loud riders and thankfully the river is empty.  I head upstream and the smell of charcoal switches to the familiar aroma of a cigar.  Jermz is standing on the bank flipping a yellow stimulator over into a run.  We speak the usual old friend pleasantries and get busy.

We move upstream to a spot that has brought some really nice fish in seasons past.  Just three days ago one of our friends pulled a 22" brown out of this run.  We know they are there.  I tie on a #14 yellow sally and begin casting into the shadows of the far bank.  I don't know why, but when I fish the park, I almost refuse to fish anything but a dry fly.  There is something about being in a free stone mountain stream, casting to wild fish that...for me at least...requires a bamboo rod and a dry fly. 

One thing of note happened at this point of our evening that needs some mentioning.  By their very nature, any creature that creates poison; any creature that carries venom within its body from birth to death, is not in a good mood...ever.  Copperheads are one of those nasty little encumbrances to fishing here...and on this day the copperhead thought that it would be a nice twist if it also disguised itself as a root.  A root of which Jermz nearly trod upon.  Roots do not move.  This one did.  Had it not moved I am sure that Jermz would have been moved.  Thankfully the two reached a consentual agreement to part ways.  One left pissed off.  The other left shaken...but not stirred.  I found myself watching the ground a little more attentively, as did Jermz.

The only fish I danced with took the Yellow Sally...on the swing...just as it began to get waterlogged and sink into the film.  I had no emergers of this pattern but when you are having fun...style points don't really matter.

Three hours of fishing found us back at our cars.  Neither of us really wanted to leave.  So we just hung out and chatted.  I always enjoy this part of any trip with Jermz.  We can always find something to laugh about or dig up from out past.  No expectations between us...we just enjoy each others company.  It was during this decompression period that we saw the coyote...actually Jermz saw it first.  A gray wil-o-the-wisp moving quick and quiet not fifteen yards from us.  The wild one stopped our talk and we stared at it skittering around the fringe of the trees.  Wild dogs (coyote, wolf, fox) are amazing in how swift they move, yet their backs never change plane.  Movement for them is deliberate and streamlined.  This one, alone we assume, looked at us in the dwindling twilight, but never slowed down.  A scavenger has no time to waste.

Jeremy and I said our goodbyes and I crossed back over into the world aglow.  As soon as I topped out of the park, my phone came to life.  Messages, both voice and text.  My family was staying with one of my wife's friends.  Storms were looming...again.  She was worried.  I saw not one drop of rain while in the stream, but looking north from my high vantage point I could see lightning dashing from cloud to cloud. cloud to ground.  A rough night was in store but after the three hours in the park, I had a hard time getting very worked up about it.

As I hit the main four lane I received a call from my friend "the Colonel", a man whom, if you have read the perfect drift for any length of time, was the man that got me involved in this amazing sport.  He's bought a new boat for the river...tricked out...ready for big water.  I am happy for him and no doubt I will post a report about a trip in said watercraft sometime in the future.  But, last night, after what I had just experienced, a boat, complete with motor, trolling motor, and new trailer seemed to be missing the point.  After all,  my legs were still damp and the vision of a coyote still lingered fresh in my mind.

The plan for my afternoon

First your Wife gives you one of these....

So you check this....

And it looks like I will be doing this.....

And if he can make it, I might fish with....

So....with five hours till trip time, I am already picturing a very misty, foggy afternoon/evening in the Smokies.  Report tomorrow!

Back in the Game

Okay, the pitty party is over. Now back to more pressing matters.




Event #1. I get into the office this morning and find out that one of my blog pieces, the one about how I got started in fly fishing (a three parter) had been selected for an online blog/ magazine through Fishwest (http://www.fishwest.net/).  The online mag, including the aforementioned article can be found here...(http://explore.fishwest.net/).  So...with a good healthy boost to start my day, I am right back in the saddle.

Event #2  My wife and four children will be leaving the House of Payne for an overnight stay at a friends house.  Which means of course....drumroll please....I will be fishing Thursday evening!  Now...where to go.  Just to keep the karma going in the right direction...I think a trip to Walker Camp might be in order.

And lastly today...

I really want to thank all of you who visit us here at The Perfect Drift.  It has been a dream since I wrote my first story at age six (my Mom still has the book), to be a writer.  Now the focus is more defined and I will continue to work on getting my fly fishing articles published, and continue working on my novels as well as a book that deals with God outside church.  All of these projects are listed as ongoing.  If anyone is interested, I'll give you a heads up.

A final thought...

I want you folks to know just how amazing my wife is.  She believes in me much more than I believe in myself and her support through my ups and downs as a writer are the one thing that can keep me going when I am ready to stop.  She completes me and without her...well I don't even want to think about that...

Once again, it is a true blessing to be able to bring you little snippets of my world, my water, and my random thoughts.  Thank you so much for being here with me as we seek to find The Perfect Drift.

a hard post to make

                I guess every angler who has danced a Parachute Adams over a sipping trout has dreamt of Montana.  We have seen the pictures, heard the legendary stories, watched countless videos; that place is the most hyped (perhaps justifiably so) location in the lower 48.  So how do you react when a particular skill you have professed to have, gives you a shot at the motherland of fly fishing?  Well, for me it started with one of those martyr type processes…”That’d be nice, but no way I am gonna win”.  Then after some sincere prodding by my wife it turned to…”I can write, what do I have to lose.”   That is when it gets tough because after hitting the send button and committing your work, your imagination takes over and you can’t do anything without picturing yourself in the deified streams of Southwest Montana struggling against a huge cutthroat.

                Then…unfortunately…you do not win.

                A huge dream to be sure and something that would have been epic, but it slipped away with one click of a mouse.  Though I am truly happy for those who were chosen…I must admit that it is somewhat devastating.  The 46 year old father of four says that it just wasn’t meant to be and there are a myriad of other things that need the money.  But the writer in me, the angler in me, the outdoorsman in me, the conservative agrarian in me just feels deflated.  You can tell yourself that you let yourself get too absorbed by it, but it still hurts.

                A quick gut check is in order.  Yep, they are still there; and they’re still tore up about it.

                So what do you do when dreams are dashed and plans are burned?  What do you do when the craft you believe in so much is rejected?  What do you do when the brass ring of your sport goes to the kid on the horse in front of you?

                The answer is really quite simple.

                You thank God for the chance.

                And then you go fishing.   

Walker Camp and The Power of Place

I don’t think this place would classify as a river. During times of extreme rain it is little more than a high running creek. The water most days is an endless series of pools accentuated by small rushes of channeled white water. Its life is narrow and thin as it finds its beginnings atop the higher peaks of the Smokies. But this small stream is a sanctuary, a sacred place. The spirit here is profound and thick and it is amazing the amount of clarity you can find if you will allow yourself the opportunity to settle down to its pace.

The canopy of trees and laurel bushes drape over the water as if to protect it. Dark shadows given by the hardwood can be disturbing to those who don’t understand, but for those who see the bigger picture, these sentinels and the shade that they create speak of ancient times; of times we will never know. The moss covered rocks, the smattering of tiny wildflowers, the deadfall scattered about in wonderful and divine chaos surround this stream. And within this blessed cacophony of nature, I find rest.

I was first introduced to Walker Camp by my friend Jeremy. He didn’t bring me here because of monster trout, or superior angling opportunities. He brought me to that place simply because, like him, he knew I would “get it”. He and I have fished multiple tailwaters throughout the southeast, and though the fishing in those places was good and sometimes downright amazing, the fish were stocked. These expansive southern trout rivers were a result of the great depression and the Tennessee Valley Authority. The small streams of the Smokies were a result of creation itself, and the fish who live their lives here are native. They never knew a stock truck. They never had fins rubbed raw by hatchery walls. They were not relocated to this place; they are this place.


Photo by Jermz


I remember standing at the edge of a large deep pool watching Jeremy moving on upstream, and considering my own mortality as my footprints mingled with multiple bear tracks, tracks that were recent and defined. I began roll casting Yellow Sallies to the head of the pool at the point where the water rolls and foams as it falls from the pool above it. The water of Walker Camp is clear, amazingly clear and seemingly devoid of anything but rocks that perhaps began as boulders before the hydrology of the stream, over time, reduced them to stones of brown, grey, and bronze small enough to cup in your hand.

Then, as if by magic, a fish appears. Its bright orange fins tipped in the purist white show up in places where just moments ago you would look and find nothing. Life is hard in the high elevation streams, and the opportunity to eat is not to be squandered, so when the fish commits itself the attacks are swift and sure. It is easy to miss these strikes because once the moment has passed, the fish disappears and you are left looking at an empty stream bottom once again, astonished.


Photo by Jermz


Here in the steep mountains, you must also be aware of the danger of acoustic shadows. Echoes of thunder may reverberate around you so loud that you can feel the vibration in your clothes, yet the sky overhead is cloudless and blue. Storms at this altitude are harsh, and with the sound bouncing from every peak and rise, the bad weather could be many miles away, or just over the next ridge. On this day, the rain came and I found quick shelter beneath one of the stone bridges that traverse the stream. Soaked to the bone I huddled tight against the walls of the passage way until, as quickly as it sprang upon me, it was gone.

The leaving of the rain always brings heavy fog. Fog that gave this place its name crept slowly downward from Newfound Gap, draping itself around the treetops, settling into the low places. First you feel the air around you cool, then, within the fog you become invisible and the fishing is easier. You are no longer a foreign shape hovering above the water. You are a formless part of a larger backdrop.  Stealth becomes effortless when you have no need to hide.

I cast my fly, the bright yellow hackle glowing like a beacon through the mist. It drops softly on the surface, and I am not looking for a strike, the visibility is to poor for that. I am just waiting for the moment when the fly vanishes. Then I know of the take.

I loose sight of the fly, hear a splash of water, and raise my rod tip swiftly to the sky.  Setting the hook, I feel the transference of energy up the line, through the bamboo, and to my hand. Violent and urgent, the trout struggles against the unknown, until finally it is pulled from its world into mine. Gold lines meander across the green of its back, the orange of the fins, the dark mouth. It is healthy and large for this stream.



Photo by Jermz

"Nice."

Startled I wheel around to see Jeremy who had been behind me for God knows how long.  He is soaked and crouched under a mountain laurel leaning the tip of a cigar into a flame.  The earthy smell of the blue-gray smoke mingles with the decay of the forest floor and does not seem out of place.

"Amazing.", I say, lifting the brookie up for closer examination.

"I knew you'd like this spot." he says with a sly smile.

No more than thirty feet from where I am standing, the steady rumble of traffic echos through the trees.  Windows rolled up tight, air conditioners on, they traverse this magnificent place oblivious to the amazing fish I hold in my hand; a fish whose lineage here goes back to the very foundation of time.  Jeremy snaps a quick photo and I lower the trout back into the pool where it glides from my hand as soft and delicate as a whisper.

In the years since that first trip, I have gone here many times with Jeremy.  We don't speak much while on the stream.  Most of the time we don't even see each other till its time to go.  Now, I am making preparations to take my four year old son to Walker Camp.  The first trips with him will not place fishing on the agenda, that is still a year or so away.  I feel that before he looks at the place as a location to fish, he should first see it in its entirety.  Bugs, animal tracks, the unique stones, imaginary creatures- these are the things that make a place more than a means to an end, they will hopefully make Walker Camp a familiar friend, which in itself is the beginning.  For me Walker Camp is more than a fishing hole, it is a place to be protected and sustained, and I hope to teach my son what it means to have more than a passing investment in a blessing such as this.

I take very seriously the responsibility of keeping our native trout waters healthy and safe.  It is of utmost importance to people like myself, my friend Jeremy, and hopefully my son to protect these sacred locations wherever they may be found.  The impacts of air pollution, litter, poor personal practices by visitors, commercial irresponsibility, and the ongoing struggle against climate change, are daunting.  But there are those who are its watchmen.  A great deal of thanks are in order to people like the Fisheries Management staff of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, and the Little River Chapter of Trout Unlimited who work diligently to insure that the clear waters of this important tributary are preserved in the manner in which it is so worthy.

Each year the Little River TU chapter holds Troutfest and much of the monies raised go to protect and maintain the myriad of fishable streams within the park boundaries.  When I go to these events it is almost like a family reunion, because we are all linked deeply to streams like Walker Camp.  When we discussed these waters during the festival, you can see a similar look in the eyes of those in the discussion.  Just as Jeremy said to me long ago..."they get it."

With Crossed Fingers

The chance for a dream come true is so close I can almost taste it.  If...and this is a big IF I am lucky, I may have a chance to fish in a place most fly anglers dream of, and in a way that I most certainly could never afford.  This is just so big...HUGE!  Here is the caveat...I have to be chosen.

In my "dashboard", I have a blog post I am working on that could open the door to the land of Oz for me.  I have tended to this writing much like a farmer tends his crops.  I have weeded, pruned, and watered this thing for days now.  The goal is to have it ready to release sometime Monday afternoon.  Honestly, the thoughts of pulling the trigger on it makes my stomach roll. 

Here is the elephant in the room...

If I am selected for this trip, getting there will be my own fiscal responsibility.  I have an average job and four kids so my monetary planning has been a struggle to say the least.  But...where there is a will, as they say...

So...

I will provide more details Monday.  In the mean time, if you are a praying person, it might be selfish of me, but a little word lobbed up on my behalf would be nice.

Tomorrow will mark my 46th trip around the sun.  How blessed I am to see this birthday roll around, and how blessed I am to have discovered such a passion as fly fishing here in the land of The Perfect Drift.

stay tuned folks...this could be epic...

Happy Friday!!!!

Hope ya'll get to hit the water this weekend.  See you Monday!