Christmas. For me it is not Happy Holidays. It is Merry Christmas. If you are Jewish it is Happy Hanukkah, and I would expect you to honor your holiday as such...no problem here. but for me it is Christmas.
This Christmas for me is filled with a little dread. It seems that at some point, my 46 year old shoulder made a desision to shred. Rotator Cuff. Painful. I meet with the sawbones tomorrow to seal my fate. Surgery is perhaps looming and I do not look forward to it at all. The biggest reason? Selfish and obsessive as it may be...I cannot fish till Spring at the earliest. This is not good. Four plus months away from the rivers I love so much. This will be the longest gap in my angling life in longer than I care to remember. In the end it will be good, but getting to that point is gonna suck.
Christmas. The kids are giddy, the house smells of fresh baked goodies, the tree is up, gifts seem to appear out of nowhere. It is good. And so, with the fishing set aside for a while, I will surround myself with my family, have a cup of cheer, and look forward to the budding of the trees.
Merry Christmas. Or, if you are so inclined. Happy Hanukkah.
Here are some tunes selected for this amazing season.
12/20/2011
12/02/2011
3 Rivers Angler
A few weeks ago a coworker came into my office to give me some astounding news; a new fly shop was opening for business here in Knoxville. She had written the address of this soon to be opened haven of refuge on a post it note, and I gazed at this pale yellow square as if it were some secret map to Utopia. Then began what could only be described as fly shop stalking. In the course of any given week, I am out doing field review at least one day, which meant, at least one day a week, I was driving by to check on progress. I can, in all honesty say, I saw this business grow from a shell. Construction was steady, and with each improvement, I sent a myriad of texts to my angling friends giving them up to date info. “Rod rack installed along back wall.” I had no name, no info on the date they were to open, but I had this place on my radar constantly.
Move forward to this past week; I was nearing this location for my weekly stalking run, when, what to my wondering eyes should appear? Kayaks. Outside. Over the door a banner...3 RIVERS ANGLER! I pulled into the parking lot and looked inside. It was 10:05. They opened at 10. I had it all to myself.
My experience with true fly shops has been one of two ways. Either, A) it is awesome, full of nice people, and a place you want to hang around, or, B) a shop started by a guy who never fishes, stocked with items you could glean from a Wal-Mart shelf, and as warm and inviting as a funeral home. For me at least...when it comes to fly shops...there is no middle ground...either you is or you ain't.
I started sizing this place up right away, and within my perspective, I held a guarded view. After all, this was my passion we were dealing with and I was not going to be sucked in.
The door handles? Butt sections of old Sage rods. (“Nice touch”, I thought to myself)
I enter the door and before it had a chance to close, I hear...”Hey! Good Morning! Want a cup of coffee?”
What? Could it be? (But to keep from being disarmed by the guy behind the counter, I kindly said sure, and began my tour of the shop)
Waders?- The full monte of Simms.
Rods?- All the heavy hitters. Sage, Winston, Reddington, St. Croix,
Plus a full range of goodies from stalwarts such as Loon, William Joseph, Abel, Simms clothing.
The gentleman returned, introduced himself as Jeremy, shook my hand, and handed me the coffee. Okay, the final test...was it good coffee? The coffee was strong and hot, and though I didn't ask....I thought it was Starbucks.
I then saw...what for me was the grand touch.
When I was a kid growing up here in the land of The Perfect Drift, I watched wrestling...actually around here it is called rasslin'. Now we are not talking about the high dollar steroid infused pyrotechnic entertainment mogal of today. We are talking local guys “rasslin” at the local television station with a modest crowd made up of testosterone fueled teenage boys and old women who always sat up front and cussed like sailors through their snuff.
My favorite rassler during this era was “The Mongolian Stomper”. “The Stomper” wasn't from Mongolia, he actually was a jailer at the County Lock-up. But he was next level and Knoxville to the core. And there, at 3 Rivers Angler, on the counter between the register and the flies, was a framed 8x10 of The Stomper.
I had found a home.
I will let the guys at 3 Rivers fill you in on their back story:
The signs immediately adjacent US 129 on either side of the “Buck” Karns bridge connecting South Knoxville to downtown and the university area read “Tennessee River” and “Ft. Loudon Lake”. The juxtaposition of the two is apropos given that the body of water you’re crossing is less a river and now more a chain of lakes formed by the impounding of waters behind monumental structures stewed in the history of our region’s past. I grew up fishing along the banks of the river just downstream from the bridge and recently returned to my natal home after a 12-year absence. Older and wiser (I hope) and with two young sons of my own, I’m still drawn down to the river as it makes its course through downtown, then past the suburbs and beyond, where it eventually meets the Clinch River dropping down from the north and what was the Little “T” rolling in from the mountains to the south. I love driving along Neyland Drive and Cherokee Boulevard
as doing so provides me the opportunity to ponder the river’s form from ancestral state to her role in today’s contemporary politics. Just above town, where legislators of old decided the Tennessee begins at the forks formed by the French Broad and the Holston, three rivers merge to become one. And if you time your upriver journey right, you might even catch glimpses of our collective past, assuming TVA’s generation schedule obliges.
While East Tennessee is probably best known among anglers for its cold-water fisheries below Norris, the South Holston, and Wilbur Dams, to truly grasp the enormity of the greater Tennessee drainage one has to travel into the upper reaches which rise far to the east on the western slopes of the Blue Ridge as they flow northwest across the mountainous barrier of the Smokies. Within a couple hours of downtown Knoxville, both the amount and type of water available for our utilization is immense. It is only now, having come home to raise my own sons in the bosom of Appalachia that I can truly begin to perceive this fact. In my absence I was fortunate to have fished in countless exotic locales. I’ve witnessed lowland Bolivian streams go from a tepid trickles to ranging torrents of dirt, trees, and water. I’ve swung flies to sea run trout in lower Patagonia. I’ve experienced the flooding of the Brazilian Amazon, watched wilder beast leap from the jaws of Serengeti crocs, and spent several years peering into the blue waters of New Zealand’s hallowed rivers hoping for a trigger which might speak to my mind’s eye whispering the presence of some lurking monster.
Flowing water is an opiate to humanity. No matter where you are. Our attempts to tame it attest to our ever deepening dependence. I’m no stranger to this predicament and long ago gave into my primal urges. And so, I returned home to the area and found that while so much remains the same much also changes. In my absence the nexus of Knoxville’s fly fishing community, the Creel, closed and left a gaping hole in the fabric of our angling culture — a culture predicated upon traditions with deep roots which, like our waterways, are definitely worth preserving. To that end, Three Rivers Angler was conceived to simultaneously celebrate the resources at hand while at the same time fostering a dialogue among all actors concerning the region’s past, present, and future. It won’t happen overnight. So there’s bound to be a bump or two. Growing pains, I think they’re called. Nothing that should prevent you from visiting our website early and often, however. And be sure to poke your head in the store, too. But only if you promise to make yourself at home. Because that’s what Three Rivers Angler is. A home. Where you’ll find us hanging out, doing a little business, yet still looking for the time to laugh, lie...and fish.
On opening day, they held a big party at the fly shop. I walked around the store and more than anything, I people watched. What I saw was almost a feeling of relief. Good fly shops are just hard to come by, and when you live in an area that is far from a fly fishing mecca and a shop opens, you are full of high expectations. The guys at 3 Rivers mingled with the patrons and welcomed them. The conversation was vibrant and in the midst of old anglers and a couple of kids that were just learning from their Dad, I saw the one element that can make or break a business like this. I saw community, a fellowship, and a place where you could easily spend a lot of time hanging out.
Yep, there is no middle ground when it comes to fly shops. Good or bad with no in between. I feel that I can say with all honesty, in 3 Rivers Angler....we have ourselves a winner.
Move forward to this past week; I was nearing this location for my weekly stalking run, when, what to my wondering eyes should appear? Kayaks. Outside. Over the door a banner...3 RIVERS ANGLER! I pulled into the parking lot and looked inside. It was 10:05. They opened at 10. I had it all to myself.
My experience with true fly shops has been one of two ways. Either, A) it is awesome, full of nice people, and a place you want to hang around, or, B) a shop started by a guy who never fishes, stocked with items you could glean from a Wal-Mart shelf, and as warm and inviting as a funeral home. For me at least...when it comes to fly shops...there is no middle ground...either you is or you ain't.
I started sizing this place up right away, and within my perspective, I held a guarded view. After all, this was my passion we were dealing with and I was not going to be sucked in.
The door handles? Butt sections of old Sage rods. (“Nice touch”, I thought to myself)
I enter the door and before it had a chance to close, I hear...”Hey! Good Morning! Want a cup of coffee?”
What? Could it be? (But to keep from being disarmed by the guy behind the counter, I kindly said sure, and began my tour of the shop)
Waders?- The full monte of Simms.
Rods?- All the heavy hitters. Sage, Winston, Reddington, St. Croix,
Plus a full range of goodies from stalwarts such as Loon, William Joseph, Abel, Simms clothing.
The gentleman returned, introduced himself as Jeremy, shook my hand, and handed me the coffee. Okay, the final test...was it good coffee? The coffee was strong and hot, and though I didn't ask....I thought it was Starbucks.
I then saw...what for me was the grand touch.
When I was a kid growing up here in the land of The Perfect Drift, I watched wrestling...actually around here it is called rasslin'. Now we are not talking about the high dollar steroid infused pyrotechnic entertainment mogal of today. We are talking local guys “rasslin” at the local television station with a modest crowd made up of testosterone fueled teenage boys and old women who always sat up front and cussed like sailors through their snuff.
My favorite rassler during this era was “The Mongolian Stomper”. “The Stomper” wasn't from Mongolia, he actually was a jailer at the County Lock-up. But he was next level and Knoxville to the core. And there, at 3 Rivers Angler, on the counter between the register and the flies, was a framed 8x10 of The Stomper.
I had found a home.
I will let the guys at 3 Rivers fill you in on their back story:
The signs immediately adjacent US 129 on either side of the “Buck” Karns bridge connecting South Knoxville to downtown and the university area read “Tennessee River” and “Ft. Loudon Lake”. The juxtaposition of the two is apropos given that the body of water you’re crossing is less a river and now more a chain of lakes formed by the impounding of waters behind monumental structures stewed in the history of our region’s past. I grew up fishing along the banks of the river just downstream from the bridge and recently returned to my natal home after a 12-year absence. Older and wiser (I hope) and with two young sons of my own, I’m still drawn down to the river as it makes its course through downtown, then past the suburbs and beyond, where it eventually meets the Clinch River dropping down from the north and what was the Little “T” rolling in from the mountains to the south. I love driving along Neyland Drive and Cherokee Boulevard
as doing so provides me the opportunity to ponder the river’s form from ancestral state to her role in today’s contemporary politics. Just above town, where legislators of old decided the Tennessee begins at the forks formed by the French Broad and the Holston, three rivers merge to become one. And if you time your upriver journey right, you might even catch glimpses of our collective past, assuming TVA’s generation schedule obliges.
While East Tennessee is probably best known among anglers for its cold-water fisheries below Norris, the South Holston, and Wilbur Dams, to truly grasp the enormity of the greater Tennessee drainage one has to travel into the upper reaches which rise far to the east on the western slopes of the Blue Ridge as they flow northwest across the mountainous barrier of the Smokies. Within a couple hours of downtown Knoxville, both the amount and type of water available for our utilization is immense. It is only now, having come home to raise my own sons in the bosom of Appalachia that I can truly begin to perceive this fact. In my absence I was fortunate to have fished in countless exotic locales. I’ve witnessed lowland Bolivian streams go from a tepid trickles to ranging torrents of dirt, trees, and water. I’ve swung flies to sea run trout in lower Patagonia. I’ve experienced the flooding of the Brazilian Amazon, watched wilder beast leap from the jaws of Serengeti crocs, and spent several years peering into the blue waters of New Zealand’s hallowed rivers hoping for a trigger which might speak to my mind’s eye whispering the presence of some lurking monster.
Flowing water is an opiate to humanity. No matter where you are. Our attempts to tame it attest to our ever deepening dependence. I’m no stranger to this predicament and long ago gave into my primal urges. And so, I returned home to the area and found that while so much remains the same much also changes. In my absence the nexus of Knoxville’s fly fishing community, the Creel, closed and left a gaping hole in the fabric of our angling culture — a culture predicated upon traditions with deep roots which, like our waterways, are definitely worth preserving. To that end, Three Rivers Angler was conceived to simultaneously celebrate the resources at hand while at the same time fostering a dialogue among all actors concerning the region’s past, present, and future. It won’t happen overnight. So there’s bound to be a bump or two. Growing pains, I think they’re called. Nothing that should prevent you from visiting our website early and often, however. And be sure to poke your head in the store, too. But only if you promise to make yourself at home. Because that’s what Three Rivers Angler is. A home. Where you’ll find us hanging out, doing a little business, yet still looking for the time to laugh, lie...and fish.
On opening day, they held a big party at the fly shop. I walked around the store and more than anything, I people watched. What I saw was almost a feeling of relief. Good fly shops are just hard to come by, and when you live in an area that is far from a fly fishing mecca and a shop opens, you are full of high expectations. The guys at 3 Rivers mingled with the patrons and welcomed them. The conversation was vibrant and in the midst of old anglers and a couple of kids that were just learning from their Dad, I saw the one element that can make or break a business like this. I saw community, a fellowship, and a place where you could easily spend a lot of time hanging out.
Yep, there is no middle ground when it comes to fly shops. Good or bad with no in between. I feel that I can say with all honesty, in 3 Rivers Angler....we have ourselves a winner.
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