Found Friends and Flagg Ranch

Steve and I left The Gibbon satisfied that at least on some level, we had accomplished what we set out to do...catch fish.  All that remained was to head back to the southern end of this vast wonderland to meet up with those who selected us, those who were to be our companions for the week.

Personally, I had no idea what to expect.  Here I was, roughly 2,000 miles from home, knowing no one but Steve, and I let my mind go in every direction imaginable.  I consider myself a fairly personable individual, but in the situation I found myself, I hoped that it would be a good chemistry.  Logistically I knew that if these folks were jerks or worse, I would just have to suck it up and endure whatever torturous situation came my way and just look forward to the flight home.

My concerns were historically valid.  I have been on many fishing trips with many different people over the years, and though some were quite good, all it takes is one odd ball in the bunch to make it unbearable.  On a trip to the Nantahala one winter, we even had a guy go so far as sit on another guys bed and chat as if he were telling a bedtime story.  Goodness knows I didn't want to endure that if it could be helped at all.

We arrived at Flagg Ranch just a little bit past the time we were expected.  It was not our intention to be fashionably late, it was just that we were fishing, and the way we had it figured, if they had a problem with us being tardy because we were after trout...the problem was much bigger than tardiness.

Main building at Headwaters Lodge/ Flagg Ranch

The folks at the lodge were extremely nice, gave us the directions to our party and we were on our way to whatever was in store.  As we passed the location of our cabins, I looked down into the tight neighborhood of log dwellings and spied a few guys sitting in rocking chairs.  So far so good.

Then came the fateful moment of meeting.  That moment when you can no longer turn back, the moment in which you allow yourself to be committed to whatever may come.  The guys honestly couldn't have been any nicer.  All concerns melted away with the first handshake.  The next few days looked much brighter and the tour group began taking shape.

Author Wilfred Peterson is quoted as saying: "A man practices the art of adventure when he breaks the chain of routine and renews his life by reading new books, traveling to new places, making new friends, taking up new hobbies, and adopting new viewpoints."

I can't say that I adopted any new viewpoints, and I read a book that I have read many times over, but if the art of adventure can be found in new places and new people, I was set.

That evening, as the sun dropped low in the sky, Kirk Deeter, Chris Hunt, Bruce Smithhammer, Rebecca Garlock, Dave Sweet, Brennan Sang, Rich Hohne, and Dave Sweet gathered with Steve and I.  The ice was quickly broken and the gradual development of group dynamics.  It didn't take very long to see that things were going to shape up very well.

It occurred to me as we sat talking, that the collective knowledge gathered round that small cabin would fill volumes of fly fishing books and that I had a golden opportunity to learn much from these amazing people.  The level of success these people have enjoyed in their sport was nothing short of impressive.

Friends most times come from local relations, work, etc., but on this night friends came from all over the country.  The pleasurable evening would prove to be a precursor for what would become a fellowship of people who were passionate about their sport, their craft, and friendships would be strengthened.

And the unification began by killing fish.