Initial thoughts: >> of trout and men
The term "entry point" can have a number of different meanings. When I first began developing these pages with the idea of keeping some sort of chronicle related to trout fishing, this term meant to me, quite literally, the point where I would first set foot into the river. And I still have no reason to change that impression. That is what feels good to me. The entry point has that feeling of anticipation that I get when I engage the river to see what awaits me. Sometimes it will be fish, sometimes just a good feeling. It seems that I get considerably more of the latter, perhaps due in no small part to the lack of frequent confrontations with the quarry on my part. But it doesn't matter in the end, for I am perfectly content with the bargain, knowing that I have no right to expect more than I am willing to give in return. Consequently this is not intended to be a diary of fishing conquests, although there will be some of that, if for no other reason, than to prove that occasionally Mother Nature takes pity on me from time to time.
24 June 2005
Another little addition was a long-awaited jaunt to a little river I haven’t had the pleasure of visiting for a long time: the Thompson River. This little jewel is one of the tributaries of Lake Jocasee. It can be accessed from the lake itself, by hiking in on the Foothills Trail (which I have done), or by hiking down an old, closed:off logging road, where foot travel is permitted. Rhee and I took the logging road. It was a pretty good walk, not very difficult, and interesting to observe the flora along the road as we took our time getting down to the river. And get there we did. We found that just getting there does not mean that you can just go and fish anywhere. Oh no. In tribute to the lack of traffic, there was practically no traditional fisherman’s path on either side of this stream.
The old logging road crossed the river, but we did not. It was late in the afternoon and I didn’t want us to be faced with a long hike back to the vehicle. I did spend a few minutes trying our my little 6’ 6” Redington that has not seen much time on any water. It performed much as I expected it would in a tight casting environment. I was happy. The water was clear, easy to wade. I plan to go back one day when I have more time. This is not for the faint-hearted, because it will resemble swinging from jungle vines to access the few and far between pools. But, for me, it will be worth it.
No, I won’t subject Rhee to another walk like this one. Even though both of us are getting into our prime years, I have not lost my crazy streak; she has. <Sigh>
3 June 2005
It
took a little while for us to get our act together and make it back up
to the Chattooga River at Burrells Ford, but it made for a nice trip.
It was comletely uneventful in terms of getting cooperation from the
trout. I put it down to a far too long absence and perhaps no small
amount of rustiness in casting technique. Could have been my
presentation. Or maybe the water was a mite too high. And it did seem a
little less clear than usual. Wait a minute, let me look through my
list. I'm sure I'll find the appropriate excuse
ah, reason. The fact that there other fishermen out there, and some
were doing quite well (on corn) has no bearing on all this whatsoever.
None.
Just as an addendum: I have, all these years, simply assumed that the worn fins typically found on released hatchery trout were due to their interaction with the walls of the races where they are raised, and thus rubbing them down. Imagine my total enlightment when I was informed by a fellow that, instead, these fins were clipped by hatchery employees to prevent the trout from "whirling" themselves to death! Now, I can only assume just how overworked these workers must be to catch and clip who knows how many thousand young trout. They should demand a raise.
We decided to hike up to a
small attraction known as King Creek Falls. The creek is pretty much
too small to fish, though I don't doubt that a pool here or there may
harbor a fugitive. If one were to catch one, it should, without
question, be released unharmed. Of course, the lucky conqueror should
feel a bit of pride in this accomplishment, particularly if artificials
were used. Casting room is at a most precious premium on streams like
this. The easiest technique is worm-flipping, but it goes without
saying that there is little or no glory in this. The sole exception
being if the fisherman is a young boy (everybody has to start
somewhere).
One other thing my wife finally discovered was that there are snakes in this place. Witness the evidence at the top of all these pages. This is a wonderful example of a harmless creature, the brown water snake, common but not viewed very often. It is quite shy, as are most snakes. Rhee did quite well capturing it on camera with its tongue flicking out to see what lay ahead. Great shot!
17 February 2005
First trip of the year. Rhee and I decided to take off today and tomorrow. Today was dedicated to the Chattooga River; more specifically and perhaps even boringly, the Burrells Ford bridge. Sunny, about 40-something degrees and a slight WNW 11mph wind to keep things interesting.
I have always wondered if the state had started stocking the river this early or not. Talking with one fellow, it seemed apparently not. This seemed buoyed by the fact that there were almost no other fishermen in evidence. After a few pleasantries, I decided to "suit up" and check things out. The water was clear as gin and a bit on the low side. Not exactly typical for this time of year.
It was also pushing 2:00 pm, not exactly the best time of day to start, but I have never been a slave to any kind of fashion, so in I went. Tried first with a favorite gray partridge hackled nymph but had no takers. Switched to a black Letort Cricket, weighted, had one interested follow but nothing developed. After a while, Rhee came down to the other side that I was attempting to reach, using the Christmas present wading staff (what a welcome addition!), and after a little discussion we moseyed up the river a few hundred yards. Sampling the water in a few spots also proved unproductive and killed about an hour.
The sun had dipped below the tree level enough to put things mostly in shade, so we made our way back to the bridge, figuring that we would not be staying too much longer. "Honey, I think I’ll give it another try under the bridge before I call it a day, ok?"
"Ok, sweetie. I think I’ll just wait in the car."
Tying on a weighted black and brown Woolly Bugger, and slipping on a strike indicator (just for my weak eyes), I started working the pool. Son-of-a-gun! The rascals wanted it on the bottom and not moving too fast, either. The strikes were subtle indeed. The strike indicator did nothing more than sort of stop in the current. And half of the time, at least, I found myself hung on a rock. Fortunately, I was able to free the fly each time. I say fortunately, because it was the only one like it that I had in my box.
Five victims later, I realized that I had better give Rhee a heads up, or it might be a very quiet ride home, indeed. She came on down to watch me pick up three more to fill out my limit and shoot a few pictures. After cleaning the catch, and taking a couple more of carefully posed shots (y'know like the big fishing magazines like), we packed it in.
Now this is the kind of day that doesn't come along often enough, in my book. But I’ll take it whenever the fish gods let it happen. Thank you.
7 June 2004
This past Friday and today found us up on the
Whitewater River
, and I do mean "up". More details
soon, probably tonight with any luck. Can't wait too
long or I'll be on another trip before I know it.
24 July 2004
Addendum: Well, it has been done. In fact, several trips have come and gone. I think I'll add some to the page linked above.
15 May 2004
On another almost spur-of-the-moment trip decision, we
felt like trying out another river, just to see what it
felt like. Each river is different, much like people,
and the Cullasaja in North Carolina above Highlands is
no exception. We stopped beside the road heading toward
Franklin, NC as soon as we could find a spot to pull
off. Rhee decided to stay in the vehicle while I
engaged the river. It was different. On about the third
cast I connected with a rainbow trout using a small
weighted gray nymph. Unfortunately, I lost that fly to
a "tree" trout and the action ended there as it was the
only one I had. Nothing else drew any interest, so
after an hour we went on. This river may warrant
further investigation.
15 April 2004
Well, I feel better now. Not because I have my taxes
done and it is April 15, because that ain't so. But I
have two fishing trips under my belt,
”Stocking
Time”
and
Opportunism
. And plans for additional trips, now that some other
things are out of my way, are being made. Ready,
Danny?
The river never stops calling. We hear its song in our sleep...
7 March 2004
Alright. Now it's March and I am still unbaptized in
trout water for this year. Grrr... and I don't care if it
most of it is because of the crappy weather. Actually, it
is mostly because of the crappy weather forecasters.
These people are absolutely unbelievable. Who else does
anyone
know that can be wrong 90% of the time, and
still keep their job!
For example, last week we had snow here in Clinton (a
minor miracle in itself) and while we were able to get
around with little difficulty through the 6 inches or so
of white stuff, I knew the situation in the mountains
would not be quite so easy. I stayed home. This week, the
temps hit as high as 80+ and it was like a whole 'nother
world. Saturday was looking good, I'm telling ya. Until
the weather geeks got into it. "Oh, it's gonna rain
beginning Friday night with strong, gusty winds, blah,
blah...". Well, Saturday morning greeted us with a few
gusts, and the rest of the day turned into the prettiest
bluebird weather of the entire week. Wow. Sunday? Got
church duties, oh well, but after? The day started
getting darker. And darker. Now it is evening, the wind
sounds like a train going through the trees (thank heaven
there are no leaves yet) and a few big, fat drops of wet
stuff are hitting here and there. Did somebody miss their
widdle forecast by just a few hours? Like maybe
24 of them?
In one of my favorite books,
Trout Madness
by Robert Traver, he mentions reading about the Ituri
pygmy tribe in Africa whose members cure eye infections
by urinating in the bad eye. Hmmm, if I ever meet up with
one of those red-eyed weathermen...uh huh!
7 January 2004
Oh my gosh. In typing this date, I just realized that it
was exactly 34 years ago that I reported to
US Navy
boot camp in Orlando, Florida. In a big way, I could
consider this as probably the biggest single interruption
of my fly fishing time ever (bet you wondered what the
USN was doing on a site like this). Although I was able
to get with my school buddies, Danny and Gary, on the few
occasions I had enough leave built up between changes in
duty stations to come back to Tennessee, the majority of
my time was spent dreaming of when I could go back to the
places where it all began for me.
On the Watauga River flowing down through the town of Elizabethton from below Wilbur dam, the three of us would make occasional forays or pilgrimages, if you will, because it was conveniently close to home, and there were all the stories of BIG trout, evidenced by mounted trophies in local hardware stores. It had a swinging bridge off a trail behind the old Horseshoe Chapel (no longer there), an old iron bridge, and periods of high water flows creating a most dangerous situation if you happened to be wading out of earshot of the warning siren. It paid to keep one eye on the water level at any rock close to you.
We had the usual good luck/bad luck days, because some things never do change, you know? That's what makes trout fishing, after all.
1 December 2003
Being a Monday, and the first one in December, I am back
at work after a few days off over the Thanksgiving
holiday weekend, and looking over my work on this page.
Daydreaming myself back into a pair of chest waders I can
picture myself up to my whizzle stick in some cold,
moving water. If you have never experienced this, just
imagine gravity being slowly neutralized the deeper you
wade. It isn't gravity but buoyancy, of course. Yet it
feels almost like sitting in a rocking chair. You have
this sudden desire to sit down. But if you do, the urge
will quickly pass as you realize that this is
not
a good idea. Particularly if you should exceed the upper
limits of those fancy chest waders.
29 January 2004
This is a memorable day for me. Today I completed moving
this site to my new
host
after !finally! picking out a domain name that (a)
someone wasn't already using, or (b) some lousy domain
name-purchasing company hadn't tied up for resale
purposes. Do these yucks think that they are doing us
wannabe web designers some kind of favor? I wouldn't pick
one of theirs now, no matter what. I do like the way that
1 &
1
has treated me and does business. Give them a click. It's
worth it.
But now I have my own. And its name is one I can personally identify with, combining two of my life-long desires: fly fishing for trout, writing about it with a sense of humor, and having an outlet to, well, publish anything I want. Two out of three isn't too bad, is it? Well one little entry is the first bit of writing that lead to the creation of this site as a means of putting out a whole bunch of repressed ideas. They were not repressed from a lack of desire, but from a realization that I would never have the money to consider publishing in the print medium, aka books. So this web site is like a dream come true. I can compose, write, and edit to my heart's content. It don't get no better than this.
Also, this week I have submitted my first ever article in our local newspaper, The Clinton Chronicle, which I would link to it if it happened to have its own web site, but some things may have to wait. Living in a small town does have its advantages. Unfortunately, one of them is not having readily available trout fishing.
