04-15-2008, 12:51 AM
Nobody told me about the mud; how it oozed and squished with each step; how it made brand new boots look old in just minutes; how it foiled my best attempts at stopping on a slope. I came to hate the mud.
Nobody told me about the rain; how cold it could be as it fell through the misty sky to seek out openings in my outer wear; how it made my hands ache as I tried to cast a fly to a likely looking spot. I came to hate the rain.
Nobody told me about the current; how it could pull my feet out and make me dance like Fred Astaire. I came to hate the current.
Somebody did, however, tell me about the stream in Cherokee, N.C.; the cold, clear, riffle-filled stream that at times teemed with trout; the stream that originated further up the mountain in some unseen springs that always flowed; the stream with the constant roar of rushing water that made me curse kidney stone surgery of a few years back. I came to love the stream.
My bro Tom has been telling me about the stream for years. I've been listening to his descriptions and looking at videos and photos, but none did the stream justice. It was beautiful. Just like in the trout magazines.
After making it through the mud fields and dealing with the cold rain, I settled on a likely looking pool below some scattered boulders. It looked good to me. Fumbling with my fly box, I pulled out a No. 12 Adams and tied it on. Tom said he'd had good luck using ultralight gear and a small Mepps spinner. In fact, his first four casts earlier in the season with a Mepps resulted in three fish caught and a good, solid hit.
I didn't care. I was determined to catch trout on a fly and nothing was going to stop me. Not mud. Not rain. Not current or cold. Not even a lure that was a proven producer.
After several unproductive casts I changed flies and put on a small black nymph. Maybe the fish wanted something moving along the bottom. Still no luck. In the meantime Tom kept getting bumps and some pretty solid hits on his Mepps.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught glimpses of him quietly releasing fish. Some were small trout, along with other small, trout-like fish locally referred to as whiting. He didn't want to disturb the serenity, so he wasn't making any noise as he made his catches. Ordinarily neither one of us is quiet when we get hits or catch fish. The stream was having an effect on him too.
Eventually I switched to an ultralight and Mepps outfit too and started getting hits. Caught a few whiting, but no trout. Perhaps it was the wrong time of year. We plan on going back in the spring. Maybe the fishing will be better. I'll let you know.
Nobody told me about the rain; how cold it could be as it fell through the misty sky to seek out openings in my outer wear; how it made my hands ache as I tried to cast a fly to a likely looking spot. I came to hate the rain.
Nobody told me about the current; how it could pull my feet out and make me dance like Fred Astaire. I came to hate the current.
Somebody did, however, tell me about the stream in Cherokee, N.C.; the cold, clear, riffle-filled stream that at times teemed with trout; the stream that originated further up the mountain in some unseen springs that always flowed; the stream with the constant roar of rushing water that made me curse kidney stone surgery of a few years back. I came to love the stream.
My bro Tom has been telling me about the stream for years. I've been listening to his descriptions and looking at videos and photos, but none did the stream justice. It was beautiful. Just like in the trout magazines.
After making it through the mud fields and dealing with the cold rain, I settled on a likely looking pool below some scattered boulders. It looked good to me. Fumbling with my fly box, I pulled out a No. 12 Adams and tied it on. Tom said he'd had good luck using ultralight gear and a small Mepps spinner. In fact, his first four casts earlier in the season with a Mepps resulted in three fish caught and a good, solid hit.
I didn't care. I was determined to catch trout on a fly and nothing was going to stop me. Not mud. Not rain. Not current or cold. Not even a lure that was a proven producer.
After several unproductive casts I changed flies and put on a small black nymph. Maybe the fish wanted something moving along the bottom. Still no luck. In the meantime Tom kept getting bumps and some pretty solid hits on his Mepps.
Out of the corner of my eye I caught glimpses of him quietly releasing fish. Some were small trout, along with other small, trout-like fish locally referred to as whiting. He didn't want to disturb the serenity, so he wasn't making any noise as he made his catches. Ordinarily neither one of us is quiet when we get hits or catch fish. The stream was having an effect on him too.
Eventually I switched to an ultralight and Mepps outfit too and started getting hits. Caught a few whiting, but no trout. Perhaps it was the wrong time of year. We plan on going back in the spring. Maybe the fishing will be better. I'll let you know.