Man Blog: Fly Fishing

There is something very refreshing about moving water. Some of my earliest memories are of watching water-striders find shelter from the currents of the Au Sable River by diving in behind gnarled roots and cobbles along the river's shore. I would sit for long stretches of time watching the colorless water flow by while my Dad moved slowly down the stream, tactfully placing artificial flies from riffle to riffle in hope of fooling a fish to rise. I'm quite certain that my time along the river influenced my career path as a geologist. I'm also certain that it is why my head jerks uncontrollably to attention, like a retriever hearing a fresh can of tennis balls open, when I hear the squeal of fly line peeling from a reel. I say all of this to reinforce the excitement I felt as we planned to visit the Smoky Mountains for vacation. My Dad and I have fished along the Little River on a few occasions and have found the large cobbles and rapids to be technically very different from the gravel bottomed shores of Michigan streams. However, there are stretches that offer open casting and long stealthy drifts, such as Metcalf Bottoms between Townsend and Gatlinburg. Dad landed a nice Brown there last time we visited. I have a picture of it somewhere, if I can find the camera and get the film developed. Not having the opportunity to get my fishing gear out in over a year, I really looked forward to heading back up there.

I read the local blogs, the hatch reports and stream levels. The weather was supposed to be perfect with rain over the weekend and clear all week. Plenty of sun to stir the bugs from the bottom with large hatches of freshly winged food for the fish to feast. And, it was summer. Almost every article you can read about fishing the Smoky Mountains reminds you to leave your cumbersome waders at home and wade in the cool water to beat the heat. Game ON!

On the way into town I stopped by the local fishing store for a license and the scoop on the best bugs. The key is to look in the bin of flies and see what there is the least of. It's like a Wii system, if the fish want it, it sells out. If the store keeper takes you to the fly bin and starts handing you bugs from the top of a heaping pile of purple hackled hootinannys, he's a bad liar. In this case I'm getting the last of the hottest hits, mostly terrestrials like ants and inch worm patterns. The store keeper points out some hot spots on the map, miles from where I have time to get to, and we are back on the road. By the way, Wilda really marveled at the likeness of the grass hopper imitators. The kids just liked being out of the car.

Tuesday morning, 0645. Just me, a twinkee and fresh coffee from the convenience store. Nothing like getting back to nature to bring out the health nut in me. It's a very pleasant drive up the mountain, especially in the morning. You would have never known it was peak tourist season. I think I passed one or two other cars along the 15 minute drive. The canopy is thicker than I remember, very lush with early summer shades of green. Looking out into the forest the shadows are dark on this side of the hill. The sun will be up on the river soon, and with it, bugs. Gotta get there before all the people show up in their tubes and rafts to shut down the fish. Still though, it's very quiet this morning.

I arrive at Metcalf at about 0710. The parking area is empty. I wave at the Ranger, an older gentleman who mumbles something I can't decipher with the windows up. I smile and drive on. Perfect. Good spot to park. I'll walk down stream and wade out at the bridge to work the area we were successful last time. The sun is cresting low on the mountain. The river babbles its harmony with the chorus of morning birds. I grab the keys out of the ignition and see on the instrument panel it's....53 degrees. HOLY CRAP! Now my mind is really running. The water will be warmer than that. Right, no waders. Way to go genius. Well, no worries. I'm in the Smokies, it's all good. Let's fish.

Gearing up, I carefully site down my rod to align the eyes and seat the reel flush in the base. Peel out the fly line and stitch it through the eyes. I pick out a nice parachute sulfur, something seasonal with a bright white tassel on the top for easy identification in the stream. I walk up to the bridge, pretending I can't see my breath and point my toes toward the water. I can't will them in. My mind is thinking of all the lovely observations along the river's edge that keep me from committing to the water. OK, let's go.

WOW....its COLD. I'm pretty sure I let out a hoot and heard the Ranger laugh. After a few moments I catch my breath and focus on some riffles under the bridge to cast my line at. I wade out up to my knees, looking for approaches...Now, after a while, I got used to the water. And, I did bring a nice rainbow trout to hand from under the bridge. I waded up stream to the area Dad and I had worked together last time out, and thoroughly enjoyed my time out that morning. However, gentlemen, it is with renewed perspective that I offer this observation: When the purists of the sport demand that all fishing be done with Dry Flies, I am forced to consider that, perhaps, we have misinterpreted the masters.