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Our State | July | Perfect Weekend Fly Fishing In The Shadows Our inexperienced fisherman heads to the trout streams of Western North Carolina where he gets hooked on fly-casting in the Davidson River. By Ralph Grizzle "After today, you'll never look at a stream in the same way as you did before," my guide Kenny said to me as we quietly waded up the knee-deep Davidson River. With our eyes cast down on the dappled stream, we were trying to discern the outlines of the shadowy figures of trout underneath. They were there, to be sure, but difficult to make out because of the sun's glint. Light shimmered on the gently coursing stream, making it all but impossible to see anything beneath the surface. Knowing the difficulty presented, Kenny instructed me simply to look for dark spots along the river bottom, but I was having little success. We had been at it for 20 minutes or so, and I had not yet seen a single trout. Kenny, on the other hand, seemed to be spotting whole communities of trout down below. "See that one?" he said, pointing. "And that one? Oh, and there's another one." I squinted and strained to confirm what he saw, then answered falsely but assuredly: "Yes. Oh yes. Hm-hmm." In truth, the stream presented no distinct contrasts that I might have taken for a trout or a rock, stick or anything else. Nonetheless, my thoughts were focused on spotting the shadows, then presenting a fly, expertly cast on the water's surface. Whenever Kenny spotted a dark spot lurking beneath, he would abruptly pull to a halt, draw back his rod and gently cast a length of line. What typically followed was nothing less than art: a gentle but amazingly swift tug to set the hook in the trout's lip or jaw, a somewhat subdued but heartfelt expression of jubilation from Kenny's lips, and an arching of the rod as he skillfully, but cautiously, began to reel in his catch. Keeping constant tension on the line and only reeling when it slackened, so as not to snap the delicate nylon, Kenny allowed the trout to tire itself. The graceful creature struggled to loose the hook, but the fight lasted only a matter of minutes until it relinquished. Reeling his catch nearer, Kenny reached behind his back to retrieve a net, lowered himself to the water, scooped up the trout, admired it accordingly - noting aloud whether it was a rainbow, brook or brown - then unhooked it quickly, usually with the fish still underwater, so as not to further stress the creature, and released it to the river. All the while I stood by, dumbfounded and impressed at Kenny's ability to harvest from what appeared to be barren waters. His accomplishment was not only graceful and artful but also quite convincing in letting me know those dark spots underneath were indeed alive, and perhaps more importantly, they were waiting to be hooked. Hooked on Fly-Fishing It is not surprising that Kenny should be so skillful at landing a trout. After all, he has been fishing these rivers for nearly all of his 40-plus years. What is surprising is that he could have me catching trout within minutes of our setting foot into the chilly Davidson River. I am not, I regret to say, the most capable sportsman. I've never pointed a gun toward waterfowl or a bow toward deer. I know nothing of setting traps or constructing blinds. I do not watch the hunting and fishing shows so commonly found on Sunday morning television. Of fishing, I know little. I have fished off a pier near Morehead City, but that required little more than allowing a weighted line to drop into the Atlantic and reeling it in when I felt a tug. I once fished, or attempted to do so, along the Eno River but abandoned the effort after I carelessly allowed the ball of dough I was using for bait (I was fishing for catfish) to roll into the river. I watched with mouth agape as the softball-sized round of dough broke the brownish red water's surface and disappeared into its muddy depths. Furthermore, I seem to possess none of the characteristics that the sport requires. "Fly-fishing demands attention to detail, freedom from both distractibility and impulsiveness, a high tolerance for frustration and lots of patience," writes Philip Brunquell in a book I felt appropriate for my skill level, "Fly-Fishing With Children, A Guide for Parents" (The Countryman Press, 1994). Thus, trout fishing would be something wholly new and challenging to me. And so I approached it with the sort of trepidation that I approached my first driver's education course, eager but a bit nervous. To begin with, I was somewhat less than confident that I would ever be able to cast a fly with any of the rhythm and grace that I have seen in movies and magazines. The fishermen I have seen look as though they could be conducting J.S. Bach's Orchestral Suite No. 3 in D; such is their mastery in casting the fly. I, on the other hand, looked as though I were assessing the durability of a bullwhip when Kenny suggested that we practice casting in the parking lot beside the Davidson. "Work the rod between the imaginary positions of 10 o'clock and 2 o'clock," Kenny told me. "Allow it to stop momentarily on the backstroke, then gently push forward. Do it over and over again until you feel comfortable." Thus instructed, I positioned the rod so that my arm assumed an angle similar to that of a quarterback's who had told his receivers to "go long." I lunged the rod forward in a manner reminiscent of, say, a recently released lunatic trying to subdue a mule or some other large beast by lashing it with a shoestring. My practice casts were so unusual that a couple on the other side of the parking lot stopped what they were doing to gawk at my towering frame propelling the rod forward with unmitigated vigor. I provided about 10 minutes of amusement for them and anyone else who cared to join in. "Great," said Kenny, who had, I noticed, moved several paces away from me, presumably to give me room to cast but just as likely so as not to be associated with the sweating, lunging, feverously crazed man who was casting in a parking lot of all places. "Now," he added with a grin, "let's go fishing." Not So Fast Now before we head to that tranquil bubbling brook, let us consider some of the inherent, albeit remote, dangers of trout fishing cited by Jimmy Jacobs in his excellent resource, "Trout Streams of Southern Appalachia" (Backcountry Guides, 2001). The two front-of-mind dangers, Jacobs writes, are bears and poisonous snakes. Jacobs quickly dispenses with bears, noting that in his 25 years of frequenting mountain streams, he has never seen one of the furry beasts. Even so, authorities have documented at least one unprovoked bear fatality in Southern Appalachia. And this attack was tangentially connected with fishing. It occurred just last year in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park when Glenda Ann Bradley, an elementary school teacher, age 50, was mauled by an adult female bear weighing 112 pounds and a yearling female weighing 40 pounds. Bradley had gone on a short hike while her companion and former husband, Ralph Hill, fished nearby. When Bradley failed to return after an hour or so, Hill went looking for her. He found her lifeless body being guarded by the two bears, which rangers, who were dispatched to the scene, shot and killed. There have been no bear attacks in the park, or elsewhere in Southern Appalachia, since. Of snakes, Jacobs writes that violent encounters are equally infrequent. Moreover, while North Carolina is home to six poisonous snakes, only two venomous species are to be found in the mountains -- the timber rattlesnake and the northern copperhead. Apparently somewhat more threatening are bees and wasps. In 1996, according to Jacobs, angler Charles Berry died from 100 yellow jacket stings while fishing the Middle Prong of the Little River in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. But it is inanimate objects that pose the greatest danger. Not a year passes, Jacobs writes, without a dozen injuries and some deaths as a result of falling from, or falling because of, rocks. Even so, the prospect of rocks putting a serious dent in your fishing holiday is somewhat overblown. With proper precaution and proper outfitting, fishermen can avoid slipping and breaking bones - or arguably worse, their fishing rods. Felt-soled boots with carbide spikes, for example, practically adhere to algae-slimed river rocks, preventing the fisherman from taking a bath. A fishing vest is so sufficiently endowed with pockets that you can carry with you all the necessary gear, thus eliminating needless navigation back and forth to your car over the treacherous rocks. Even properly attired, I became anxious as we approached the stream. It was the rocks that concerned me most. The water temperature on this sunny March day was a chilly 36 degrees. Knowing that I possessed none of the grace required to stay high and dry, I pictured myself emerging sodden from the stream. While the experienced fisherman regally wades into the stream, I, no doubt, would jerk, stumble, curse, dip butt first, then totally immerse myself. Dripping and with no change of clothes, I would be forced to forego my day of fishing and ride, presumably strapped to the roof of the car, 45 minutes back to Asheville. With this thought still dangling, I followed Kenny to the riverbank. Cautiously making my way to the water, I entered the stream as apprehensively as someone might wade ankle-deep into the chilly Atlantic in early spring. To my surprise, the felt-soled boots seemed to grab onto the rocks, and the waders with neoprene socks kept me warm and dry. Moreover, far from appearing gawky, I cut a dashing figure, if I may say so, looking as if I had just stepped off the page of an Orvis catalog, which raises a point. Fly-fishing is an indubitably attractive sport. The marketing departments of fly-casting equipment know this. Their catalogs typically feature images of a solitary figure standing knee-deep in gently rushing water framed by rhododendrons and laurel, casting a fly rod and netting a sublimely regal trout. Those marketing departments make fly-fishing look as if anyone could do it with ease. I certainly looked the part or at least like someone who had just spent a heap of money on boots, waders and whatnot, but I knew I would be hopeless without my guide. I can't imagine how anyone would learn to fish for trout, enjoyably at least, without the services of a guide. First, there's the issue of where to wet your hook. In his book, Jacobs notes that North Carolina has more than 4,200 miles of trout streams. That's a distance that would stretch halfway across the continent and back. So where, in god's name, would the novice choose to begin? Of these, 2,100 miles are designated as public waters. Some of these streams make for good fishing; others present more challenging casts and are harder to get to. Next, there's the issue of what to put on the hook. This can be a contentious matter among fishermen and a perplexing one for the novice. Would the novice, for example, suspect that common black ants rank among the most popular insects in the trout's diet? We know this because black ants are the most frequently found insects in the bellies of trout that have been caught and surgically incised. Though not particularly aquatic, if at all, black ants fall, or are blown, into streams where they are consumed by trout. And what about all the requisite tangential skills that one needs to effectively fly-fish? It's essential, for example, to be able to tie a sturdy knot, to cast without tangling your line, to navigate rocky stream beds without taking a bath, and, should you be fortunate, to loosen the hook from the trout's lip. To avoid the many potential frustrations, hire a guide. Guide services will cost you about $250 for a day out on the stream, and you'll learn a great deal to make your subsequent trips enjoyable and bountiful. You typically need only bring yourself. Boots, waders, rods and the rest are included. You'll have to purchase flies and leaders, but these are minor expenditures. Most guide services even provide lunch. Into The Stream, At Last I was fortunate to be in the capable hands of Kenny Palmer, a guide for Asheville-based Hunter Banks Company, the largest fly-fishing and hunting outfitter in Western North Carolina. As instructed, I met Kenny one March morning at Hunter Banks' retail shop, where he fitted me with waders and boots, and provided me with the $20 annual license. We drove to Pisgah Forest, near Brevard, to a trout stocking facility on the Davidson River. Kenny gave me brief but thorough lessons on casting, and within about 30 minutes of our arrival we were in the stream, and I, to my considerable delight, began to catch trout. Kenny initially parked me underneath a bridge, where I had to roll cast, a graceful lobbing of the fly upstream. Later, we ventured to the wider parts of the stream, where he worked with me on dry-casting, which requires that you propel the light line toward rising trout or toward the shadows underneath. I hooked rainbows and browns, none weighing more than a pound, and reeled them in with relish and aplomb - particularly after Kenny informed me, on the first go, that I was holding the reel upside down, an oversight that I quickly acknowledged in a manner that suggested I had known this all along and was simply experimenting with a new technique. Part of the reason I succeeded so quickly was that we were fishing in hatchery-supported waters, of which there are 1,100 miles in North Carolina. From March until August, the hatchery releases about 2,800 trout monthly into the Davidson River. Other streams are stocked in equal abundance. With such a profusion of fish, you would think anyone could hook a trout. Let me assure you that it's not that easy. We saw a half dozen or so other fishermen in the stream who were catching nothing. Some apparently were using the wrong fly or fishing in a barren pool. I, on the other hand, felt sufficiently smug as Kenny and I reeled in fish after fish. We spent a full day on the river, and I was reluctant to leave, even as the sun descended beyond the high peaks to the west. Despite my initial doubts, I caught 20 or so trout, releasing them all back into the stream. In the process, I became a fetching fly caster, at least in my own mind's eye. Best of all, my anxieties about trout fishing and walking on water, something I am now able to remind my wife I am capable of, had all taken flight. I was enjoying myself. Lessons Learned Several weeks after my outing with Kenny, I was mountain biking at Bent Creek, just off the Blue Ridge Parkway in Asheville. I descended a high ridge down a bumpy logging track to the dusty state-maintained road that ran alongside Bent Creek. Making my way back to the parking lot where I had left my car, I noticed Bent Creek glinting beside me. I glanced at the creek and found myself looking, as Kenny had told me I would, for the shadows that lie beneath. And here's the thing: Trout fishing demanded that I look deeper. Deeper into the streams, of course, and forgive me for getting philosophical about this, but also deeper into my life. Standing knee deep in a river casting for trout does, in fact, require patience and freedom from distraction. Unfortunately, these are qualities, or characteristics at least, that I am often unable to engage given the breathless pace of life. Fishing for trout, at least on that one memorable day on the Davidson River, forced me to engage the virtuous characteristic of patience. There was nothing else I could do, or would have wanted to do, but slow down and take note of the life I had until now failed to notice in the shadowy depths of the stream. Sidebar: Want To Go? Trout are cold-water fish, and thus limited to the higher elevations found in the western part of the state. There is, of course, good trout fishing all across the highlands of the state, and Jimmy Jacobs' "Trout Streams of Southern Appalachia" (Backcountry Guides, 2001) is a good resource for ferreting out the best spots. The internet also is abundant with resources about trout fishing. One good source, www.troutnc.com. Hunter Banks Co. maintains a web site at www.HunterBanks.com and can also be reached by calling 1-800-227-6732. For Asheville area information, see "Perfect Weekend: Asheville" in the December 2000 issue of Our State. Sidebar: About Trout North Carolina has only three species of trout, the brook trout or speckled trout as it is known locally, the only native trout to the state; rainbow trout, native to the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada range in the Western United States and introduced to North Carolina in the late 1880s; and the brown trout, native to Northern Europe, imported from Germany and Scotland in the late 1800s and first stocked in North Carolina in 1905. |
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