The following contribution to The Sevier County Fisherman is by Brandon Robinson of onebugisfake.com (you can follow Brandon on Twitter @OneBugIsFake). Brandon sheds light on the eschatological mystery of Smoky Mountain fly fishing and family -- passion and pursuit. When it's in your blood, it's never gone, no matter the waters you fish.
"There does not exist in this
world, a place that owns as much of my soul as the Appalachian Mountains. As far back as I can remember, when my family
ever took a vacation, we went to Eastern Tennessee or Western North Carolina. People oft use the tired phrase, “God’s
Country” but surely though, as the Creator was divining our world and his: He
gave that area to showcase what awaited.
I am certain that when I get to heaven, it will be lush and fertile,
with old-growth forests, and cool clear streams. I’m willing to bet the Creator has a “See
Rock City” birdhouse on his front lawn too.
As an adult, when I travel to the Blue Ridge or the Great Smoky Mountains, there is an ancestral stirring deep within me. As if long forgotten kin are speaking to me. The feeling itself is indescribable, but as comforting as a mother’s embrace. My grandfather used to call me “Smoky”. A crude joke aimed at my parents, derived from his knowledge of my conception. Maybe that’s the reason those hills talk, maybe the call is from something else. Legend has it, I am Scotch-Irish. My mother’s a Montgomery (Scottish), my father a Robinson (Irish). In the early 1700s there was a large Scotch and Irish population that migrated to the Southern Appalachians, feeling what I can only imagine was a similar attraction to these mysterious mounds of rock. Perhaps the blood in the soil, perhaps it’s the ghost in the trees; something knows when I come home. Every trip back proves to me that this is where I want to be when the end of my run comes. When my last breath has been expelled, don’t worry about family plots. Mix my blood with that of my ancestors. Just make sure it is near a stream.
Photo by @Reds_Cottage
The first vacation I can
recall was when my Father was still Active Duty at Charleston AFB. We went to “camp
out” in a cabin trailer in Franklin, North Carolina. This was of course, my Mom’s version of
camping. My Dad’s stepdad (my Grandstep-father?) Papa Ben gave me a bow and
arrow set that trip. Apparently I was a natural with the arrow because even at
just seven years old, I remember that as being the first time where I felt his
love and pride in me. I would only feel
thin tolerance from him for years after that, and would be an adult before I
felt anything else. He was very excited
that I found fly fishing, and we bonded over the lifestyle. I felt the love and pride from him again
before he passed on. I don’t know what
happened to that boy and arrow but I never really picked it up again. The
bullet-shaped practice tips didn’t seem deadly, so I might have tried to test
my skills on a moving target… and was caught.
Mothers tend to frown on such behavior, especially since by “moving
target” I mean my sister.
A few years later, we stayed
in some chalets in Maggie Valley; this time with the Montgomery tribe. The stand out memory then involves hiking
with my Dad. I remember literally trying
to walk up one of the mountains, and searching the streams for arrowheads. I was convinced I found one, and I can still
see it my mind’s eye. It was a
triangular river rock, with a rosy granite hue when it was wet. I remember my Dad light-heartedly trying to
dissuade my conclusion, but gave it up when he saw the determination behind my
proclamation. This was the same guy who
had me completely believing in the legend of the Cherokee outlaw who was still
on the lamb named, Chief Falling Rock. I
really wasn’t a bright child, and I remained vigilante watching for Falling
Rock.
My Dad’s father (Grandpa
Robbie) used to take me to Sam and Andy’s in Knoxville, and sometimes I wore my
University of Florida clothes to needle my grandfather. The burgers there were
amazing. When I graduated high school,
my Gemaw told me she would take me on a trip anywhere we could drive to as a
graduation gift. You can guess where I
chose. That is when I walked about three
hundred feet of the Appalachian Trail and found what I think is the most
heart-stopping view in the world. There
is a sign to the right as you leave Clingman’s Dome pointing out a footpath
that leads to the famed trail. Take it
and it will meet up with the actual Appalachian Trail. Hang a left at the junction look for a small pathway
on the right. It leads to a rock jutting
out from the absolute apex of the mountain’s side. Stand as close to the edge of that rock as
you can on a clear-ish day and look straight ahead. Your peripheral vision has nothing in its
field to anchor you to and you begin to feel like you are floating.
As
a kid I was in the water, it didn’t matter the season, I was enamored by the
mossy granite streams and could not be kept out. There was a certain calmness that came over
all the parents that allowed the kids to get away with things never imagined at
home. We couldn’t break the forcefield
of the bathroom with a wet head, lest we get pneumonia but could play in the
streams and creeks until our lips turned blue.
I built dams and eddies, skipped rocks, and splashed stones. Some things will never change, and my inner
child “Trevor” is ecstatic that there isn’t an adult anymore to force me out of
the water. I don’t build dams anymore,
but I still harass nature, doing my best to make fish late to their
appointments. The mountains of the
Pisgah National Forest gave me my first trout, first trip out. A treasure I might add, that Texas waters
resisted for months after. Fly fishing
deepened the affinity for the region, though my love for those hills goes back
further than that. When I have kids,
they will experience it too. The magic,
the cool damp “smoke”,and just maybe their long forgotten cousins will speak
to them as well. I just hope they can
hear the whisper."
Thanks, Brandon. You're an honorary Appalachian for sure, just don't wear the Florida gear!
Griz
