A River: Run to it >> a reprint from the Clinton Chronicle
Location:
Clinton, South Carolina.
Objective:
catch trout on a fly rod. I suppose most folks wonder
why anyone would consider a free-time activity like
fly fishing for trout when the closest such natural
environment in this state is a good two hour drive.
That's roughly the equivalent of two hundred miles
round trip, since you have to count the return leg.
You can take up golf, or tennis, and not have to
drive that far. Doing the math let's figure an
average of 50 mph, hmmm, that makes for a short day
on the river. Unless you happen to be a member of the
dawn patrol and like to begin at daybreak. Now, let's
see, that means leaving the house at 4:00 a.m. or
so?
But, if like me, you don't particularly care for golf or tennis and you like to sleep a bit more in the mornings, you could simply cut that time in half by driving down to Columbia, the state capitol. Yes, really. You didn't know there was trout fishing available in the very center of the state, even more to the point, probably the hottest part of the state in the summer time? I refer to the tail-waters of Lake Murray dam, of course. Well that works because the water below a dam is pulled from the bottom of the lake, not the top, providing oxygen- and nutrient-rich water, which yields surprising results in terms of fish growth. Another such spot exists in the tail waters below Lake Hartwell. There is one itsy bitsy matter to observe with these two resources: water levels can fluctuate drastically when the power utilities decide to run their generators. A fisherman quickly learns to mark the water level by watching to see if any rocks are suddenly disappearing. At that point, said fisherman quickly follows suit in the opposite direction, if he's smart. Personally, I prefer not to have to contend with that factor.
I have spent whatever time I have been able to devote in this area to fly fishing for trout in our South Carolina Mountains. Although we have more than 250 miles of trout streams, we are definitely in the minority for that category. In fact only Alabama has less area suitable for trout fishing than we do. Surprised? On second thought, there may be some readers who are unaware that there is such a thing as trout fishing in the South. But not you, I'm sure. South Carolina fishermen owe a lot to those pioneers who worked to re-establish trout populations in those streams that had low enough water temperatures throughout the hottest part of the summer. And that is another drawing card, the cool water that is. Because trout can only live in very cool water, humans invade their home on a regular basis. And I am one of those invaders (color me alien). In the summertime, I wade without the benefit of waders. It doesn't get any better than that. In the wintertime, though, your time in the river would be quite short if you attempted to "wade wet."
Why fly fish for trout? They can be caught by other means, right? Sure they can. It is all a matter of mind set, you see. To answer the question, "Why?", you really are asking, "Why am I doing this in the first place?". If you just want fish to eat, it is probably a lot cheaper to buy them at your local grocery store. But nah. I am a sportsman and want to experience the hunter-gatherer thing while putting food on the family table, but I want to do it right and have fun at the same time. So, ok, it sounds a lot more romantic to go after trout than bream, crappies, bass, and catfish, etc.... Not that there is anything wrong with those fish. I like them too. But for me, the ultimate is trout. Call me a purist if you want, I'll accept that. Besides, it looks so cool to use a fly rod, with that long line carving graceful patterns in the air, precariously balancing on one foot while the other one searches for another rock, just like in the movie "A River Runs Through It." Learning to use a fly rod is not that difficult really (what do you mean, "Hah!"?). It is the weight of the line, controlled by the power in the rod that delivers the "fatal attraction" to the intended recipient. By contrast, casting lures with spinning or bait casting equipment more closely resembles flipping apples stuck on the end of a stick. Yeah, that's fun too, just not the same.
So here I am, the Wise Old Opinionated Fisherman (or
WOOF for short), carefully easing myself into the
river, anticipating and experiencing the feel of
re-entry into another world. Into this world devoid
of things false and deceitful, I come with dark
deceit lodged in my heart to fool an unsuspecting
trout. This is a world where I am introducing the
equivalent of a ham sandwich that will suddenly begin
dragging the trout around by the mouth. Moving
carefully, for to do otherwise would invite all
manners of personal disaster, the fly rod begins its
siren song in my hands, "whish, whish" and I release
the line to light upon the water and let the fly
begin negotiating the twisting currents, praying all
the while. Oh, oh. Must have given the siren the day
off. No takers. This is probably more typical of many
of the pilgrimages I make to these chapels in the
mountains. Why do I go, then, if I can't enjoy a
reasonable expectation of success? Simple. I like the
places where trout live. A river has personality. A
river is peaceful, soothing, and the air is fresh,
clean, and there is no noise of machinery like
railroads, planes, motorboats, jet skis and the like.
I am reborn. My spirit regains its buoyancy,
irrepressibility (is this a real word?), peace and
solitude.
Solitude is such a misunderstood commodity. I am not lonely when I am alone on the river. In point of fact, I am not alone, period. Living things surround me. I can't get away from them. I don't want to. I can sit on a boulder and watch the current carry with it anything and everything. Looking carefully on and beneath the surface, I can watch the endless drama of life unfold before my very eyes. The cycle of life in an aquatic world is right there. Insects, the basic diet of trout, are fascinating to watch. They live by the millions on the rocks down there. The water brings food to them. The water provides shelter. Some of them build temporary housing out of tiny pebbles and sticks and leaves and their special kind of "glue." Sometimes known as "trout candy", or more traditionally as stick bait, these constructions provide a place for their owners to develop and mature. When ready, they emerge from confinement, rise to the surface, split their skins, and float on the surface while their glistening wings dry. This is a magic moment for all trout fishermen and me. The trout line up like they are at a buffet. Eat all you can eat. The river is dimpled with their risings and slurpings. It's worse than a department store sale. The surface of the river comes alive with activity. It doesn't last long, though. And it is definitely a "you had to be there" kind of thing. It is also, unfortunately, impossible to predict its occurrence.
The whole insect thing aside (since I'm not here to discourse on aquatic entomology), my privacy is often violated by other beings like squirrels, birds, and even deer. On one memorable trip with a friend, we were comfortably ensconced above a bridge picking up the occasional suicidal trout, when movement caught in the corner of my eye in the upstream direction caused me to look away from my fly presentation and travel (normally a thing to be avoided). There was this animal making its way downstream toward us, and it had me thinking coyote or wild dog or something maybe with sharp teeth? Waiting until it came close enough to make out details, and finally realizing that it was a whitetail deer, I decided that, although better than something with sharp teeth, it had sharp hooves, which are just about as bad. And so, I moved. I waved my arms. It saw me and stopped. Turning and jumping up the closest bank, its intent to avoid confrontation mercifully permitted us to breathe a sigh of relief while at the same time we appreciated the brief glimpse of its beauty and grace. We also appreciated our own beauty and grace not being damaged in this brief encounter. Later, I was also grateful that we do not live in Kodiak bear country. We lingered a short while longer before finally concluding that we had enough fun for the day. We took our bounty home. And it was delicious. Oh yeah, that's one more reason that I fly fish. They just seem to taste so much better. Maybe it's because they were caught on creations I concocted on my own fly tying table. I don't know, but that's a subject for another time.
The bottom line here is: Would you drive 100 miles, one way, to go spend a few precious hours fishing? And we're talking trout? Darn tootin'. Just give me gas money....
W O O F
