Give Me Three Steps, Mister

Relatively obscure in the world of fly fishing magazines and the fly fisherman photog's picturesque panoramas, the Smoky Mountains are known for, among other things, leaving the average (even experienced) angler befuddled. Never fear, however, your local mountain guide and fly fisherman extraordinaire, moi, shall help you become a better Smoky Mountain fisherman in three easy steps. Is this possible? If you're from Ohio or the Northeast, probably not. But the rest of you contiguous staters, pay close attention.

Number one: Stealth.
If nothing else I say sticks, remember stealth. With eight-hundred miles of gin clear water at your beleaguered feet, tread silently as possible. Trout are prey and you are among one of their foremost predators. Shadows, disturbances, splashes, and even a false cast can drain a pool of potential targets with speeds equivalent to a T1 Internet connection. With an overabundance of boulders and other natural cover, your best bet is to enter the water as little as possible -- meaning, fish from the banks as often as you can. Stay low, wear that drab olive and khaki that every store from Bass Pro to your local fly shop sells. They're there for a reason. And mind your casts. False casting scares more fish than you'd think, a nice roll cast, or a short cast with as little floating line as possible will help tremendously. Stealth, stealth, stealth. Hide, sneak, crawl, pretend you're not even there if that helps. Blend in and fish on.

Number two: Fly selection.
Here's where I smile and say, Thank you God for the Smoky Mountains. Matching the hatch is about as important as what you had to drink that morning. Though I will say this is true of almost any high country stream in the country, we're not talking about the rest of the country, here I am again, being terse.

That being said, just remember the time of year you plan to fish. Summer time, all day long, Adams, Wulffs, yellow or orange stimulator,  tellico nymphs, copper johns... have at it. Winter time, big nasties. So, essentially I'm saying don't be too picky about fly selection, you can over-think it. Many do. By the way, I don't fish droppers, I find it tacky. If I fish a nymph, I fish just that, or a dry fly, etc., all separately and alone. Though I may drop two nymphs at a time.

Number three: Patience.
I was probably around four years old when I first saw my papaw dap a ten foot cane pole over boulders and catch 12 to 18 inch brown trout in the Smokies. Not too long after that I was tossing the micro lite spin caster, and on my 12th birthday I got my first fly rod, a beaut of a yellow fiberglass Eagle Claw and Martin reel.

I think I was 14 when I first caught anything over 10 inches in the park, it was a 17 inch brown on a olive wooly bugger. But that just whet the appetite and it wasn't until I was in  my late teens until I could catch anything that size consistently (and consistently means about once every four or five trips to the water).

So keep that in mind, if it's your first time, or even fifth, keep hammering away with stealth-like presentation and be patient. Learning these majestic and misunderstood waters takes time and plenty of failure. Failure is an option when fishing the Smokies, one that only makes you stronger and smarter and a better fly fisherman.

Sure, there are many publications that would say, Hold on, Griz, there's a lot more to it. But I'll say in return, Show me the fish. These three steps are the easiest and by far the best steps to catching more and larger fish in the Smoky Mountains. Keep it simple, stupid. That's a motto beyond many fly fisherman that spend thousands of dollars on gear and wind up like that proverbial idiot, "standing in the water waving a stick."

Until my dying breath I'll contend that if you can master (or even become an accomplished novice) the waters of Southern Appalachia, you can fish absolutely anywhere in the world. That may be a bold statement, but I've seen it. Western waters are no match for the southern mountain fly fisherman's ingenuity and triles by far (trials by fire for you Yankees). 

Earlier when I said that magazines seem to leave out the Smoky Mountains and Southern Appalachians when it comes to their target audiences, I couldn't be happier. Let not the masses tread on majesty, a little ignorance goes a long way.

An Essay of Memories, by Brandon Robinson

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

What's in a name?

I'm not saying I'm the best, or even close, but it's nice to be regarded as a go-to in local fly fishing circles when someone wants to know the local conditions, how to catch a particular fish, what to use, what method to employ, or what's best to avoid. And it's reassuring, to say the least, when your peers roll their eyes when they hear your name, or that you've been catching when they have not. Yes, it's all nice. But there's more to what makes me me than, "Hey, Griz, where you been fishing?"

In their most elegant form, fly fisherman are all, no matter the hard-haggard years on the stream, a novice. Learning constantly what makes the day, what breaks the day, and no matter how much they think they know, they're only right about half of the time. The other half they lie about. And it's just that attitude that drives me bananas. We all know several fisherman that spend two months pay on gear, stand in one spot, and go home telling tall tales of wit and whimsy. In essence, they talk the talk. My papaw, whose old Abercrombie & Fitch cane rod caught more mountain trout than a Winston boron could dream of, said it takes all kinds. And it does. But this isn't a treatise on bad fisherman, or good. Let me get to the meat.

I do more than fish. I like movies, TV shows, ginseng hunting, falling asleep in a hunting blind, hiking in the snow, eating cold pizza, dining out at fancy restaurants (that's a challenge and a drive from the hills), reminiscing over old baseball cards, watching my friends kids play, being lazy, and being an auctioneer. Basically, all I'm saying boils down to this: I'm not a competitive fisherman, I don't trump anyone, and I sure don't care where your honey hole is, what you think you can do, how many pictures you take of your trophies, etc. I just want to fish in peace. No photos, no people, no sharing & caring. Just me, my rod, and a sack of beef jerky. What you do and enjoy, that's great! Keep it up. But don't bore me with continually asking me "how's the fishing?" Now, that doesn't mean that when I'm sitting around with you I won't talk fishing, I will. And I'll love it. I just don't want that to be the crux of our relationship, if we're friends.

By the way, fishing is a bit slow right now, but if I were to be on the water I'd use large nymphs or streamers in the morning. By midday I'd switch to large yellow/orange dries, or an Adams. Stay warm, as water temps have dipped to the mid 50s.


Keep it rural,
Griz

Jumpin' Jehosaphat

Not much to report, as the second verse is indeed same as the first. The water in East Tennessee is still skinny, but benefited slightly from some light rain that bumped up the CFS by a whopping 20 feet.  But, 54 is better than 34, and I'm pleased to see it tick upward.

Fishing isn't that bad, for all the low water talk. Big fellas are spookier than usual, but trout from 7-10 inches are feeding pretty regularly on dries and nymphs.

Fishing with Smoky Mountain Troutfitters owner and head guide Sean McKay was interesting. We decided to hike into a relatively unknown stream, all of our research (reading a thirty-year-old trail book, bravado provided by Guinness) suggested that this hike was "easy" on the scale from easy - to - strenuous. Mistake number one was believing anything written about the Smoky Mountains, number two was, as usual, extremely low water. The trail was easy for sure, if you're one of the few that can take the Alum Cave to Le Conte in three hours. For a fat guy, hauling up and down one mountain, only to see another peak ahead, was a bit shocking. Of course when we finally found our prize, it was perilously empty. We hiked out and landed at Tremont, fishing below the institute. Fishing was fine, but jello legs weren't. On the way out we noticed a bruiser, a stocked fish for sure, pushing the 25inch mark. We weren't even willing to climb down to chase... that's how tired we were.

Yesterday evening, I jumped Newfound Gap to visit with John Dollar and his son Aaron. We shared some stories into the night with some particularly vivid imagery thrown in like only Mr. Dollar can. Great folks, good times. John said they saw some fish but it was slow. It has been, but it will pick up and I can't wait to get over to WNC for a weekend at Wilson or the Davidson. Wish I could've stayed the night -- especially after nearly running into coyotes all over 441 on the way home at midnight.

Hope you like the links, I just figured that out and thought I'd abuse it. Stay wet, folks, and tight lines!

Griz

Low water, fun times, and litterbugs

Wow, we've got some skinny water. And while it poses its problems, it's also opportunity time. Sure, there are still plenty of fish to be had, but if you find yourself spooking more fish than you're catching, take time to survey your surroundings.

During periods of low water -- especially during the dangerously low levels we're experiencing --  it's a perfect time to scout. You can easily negotiate waters that may be impassable when the water is at normal-to-high flow. You can spot holds, crevasses, slots, and boulders that are perfect trophy fish hiding spots, make that mental note, and test your knowledge later. I've been doing just that for the past few years, and it's paid off. I have a notebook full of tidbits that chronicle my scouting. Now if I can only find it... Good thing I remember most. I think.

Yesterday, dad and I hit the water. Dad taught me a lot about being outdoors, but now I'm teaching him about fly fishing and it's been fun. He's a micro-light, rooster tail kinda guy. And he's caught some nice browns in the Smokies that way.

 Today, I decided to tackle Little River along Little River Road below Metcalf Bottoms. Some nice fishing if your patient enough to stay low, control drag, and stay out of the water (especially in low water).

 On the way to the Smokies.

Had it all to my little lonesome self. Nice fishing today, too. Above average 'bows, but didn't manage a brown today.

It doesn't pay to litter. Who would do it anyway? Morons.


Have a great week, folks. If you want to join us on one of our wacky adventures (yeah, I said it), contact Sean McKay at Smoky Mountain Troutfitters (www.smokymountaintroutfitters.com or 865-567-2441). Get out, get wet, and stay cool.

Keep it rural,
Griz

Fishing has been great this past week. I've heard reports from Little River and Little Pigeon sheds to the South Holston, and all are promising. With dry fly action being off that proverbial wall, I ask you, what's your favorite type of fishing? If it's fly fishing, do you prefer dry flies or nymphs? If you're a spin fisherman, do you like slow moving jigs, or cranks? Here's my two cents (and in this economy, that's a lot).

Fly fishing: I spend 99% of my rec time with a fly rod in hand. When I began, it was all about the dry fly. The main reason was, it's easy. I was young and it was what I'd always seen pictures of, fish taking big dries on the surface. But then something happened, I put on a nymph. A big, ugly helgramite. And guess what? SLAM. A trophy brown in the Smoky Mountains. Yeah, it was luck... then. But now it's how I hunt the big boys. That doesn't mean I don't dry. Some of the nicest browns I've caught have been off dries. In fact, I guarantee I fish dries more than anything else, unless I'm after smallmouth. So, I guess my fly swings both ways, if you catch my drift. 

Spin rod in hand, which isn't often, I set in with jigs. It's always exciting to feel that first hard knock on a slow retrieve. And my go-to is a crawfish pattern, brown mustard or chartreuse. Crank baits, well, they have their time. But it's too fast for me.

Hope y'all have a great week, and stay wet!

The Benign State of Fall (Pin It Down)

Fall is not my favorite time to fish. It pales in comparison to early spring and winter, but yet it has its charm, the biggest being "it's not summer."



But when does it turn on, so to speak. In Autumn on Western streams, the fish will feed voraciously preparing for spawn or winter (or both). In the Southeast, it can be a bit trickier to pin down. Cold weather doesn't set in until late November, although it's not too unusual to see snow by late October. This gives us a month, sometimes longer, after the spawn before trout metabolism drops off the radar. And this is the time to really pound the banks with meaty flies like buggers, mudlers, and slumpbusters. Given that winter in the Southeast has its own timetable, prime fishing dates are TBD. This is where the specific science of Appalachian fishing comes into play -- fingers to the wind, color of leafs of poplars, and how many cows are left standing in the pasture. Hey, it works. For the fortunate few, these fleeting days can present amazing fishing. So, why don't I like it as much as spring or winter ...? It just doesn't last long enough. So, if you can pin down the benign state of fall, hit the streams. It may be the week of your life -- or the best three hours you've ever seen.

The weather is here...

No fishing this weekend! Instead, I enjoyed some Tennessee football (probably the only exciting game as the schedule doesn't look great), food, and being lazy. Many will be headed to Knoxville and the Tennessee River's banks for Boomsday, the country's largest Labor Day fireworks show. Me? Nah, I'll sit here and enjoy the laziness.

Have a great holiday, y'all! 

A [Fly] Fishing Manifesto

What is it about a man that makes him perceive nature in such a way that he, and he alone, is its sole solicitor, defender and protector? The passion some have for God is as stridently evoked in our fly fishing community -- in our rivers, and on our streams. They, in the vain of proselytizing zealots, create an aura of impenetrable righteousness and foaming hatred toward change. The only difference between the self-righteous fly fisherman and the Holy See is that the former does not wish conversion. Instead they worship at an exclusive altar built by like-minds and egos. Constant is his droning, resisting change and advancements, all while believing himself to be progressive, a healer of his country's (if not world's) backward ways.

And why you'll forgive me ....

It certainly seems like everyone wants to "be the best", the most knowledgeable, or possess some arcane talent that befuddles the average angler. I think there's a severe case of hypertension in fly fishing and our sport is slowly dying. All the "don't dos" and "have to dos" come from the armchair moralists who, while not baffling us with such spectacular feats (dare I jest?), are home watching reality TV, whether they enjoy it or not. I suggest they fish their way and not obsess upon recreating decades passed. If you want to live with one foot in the past and one in the future (a future which further strips away my rights), then by all means do. But I'll be damned if you change me, no matter how much you write in your blog, stamp across your website, or write in some magazine... Keep looking down your nose, you'll find me, smiling and having a good time.

So, what will I do?

I will continue to enjoy my sport each day, regardless of industry changes. I will not complain about "yuppies." I will ignore the online and on-stream communities that bemoan and belittle other anglers. I will not participate in photo contests or make hero videos. I will simply fish. And the rest of the slovenly progressive fishing bastards can get as angry or indignant as they like.

Minute to Win It (A Condensed Version of Nearly Everything That Happened)

Bradley Fork, Smoky Mountains. A 45 minute drive for fine fishing. What keeps me away? This relative after-thought offers fine fishing and a quick chance for the slam ('bow, brown, brook).

Coming down 441, or Newfound Gap, two elderly women jumped out in front of us. I stopped and asked if they were OK, apparently not. Broke down since one A.M., and no one stopped for them. Who wouldn't pick up old ladies? Dropped them off at Smokemont, hoping my decency (really, I thought this) would bode well for fishing. Apparently it did.

Got to the river after 7AM, breath fogging for the first time in what seems like years, I was committed to dries all day; turning over large dries is hard enough on a 2wt, droppers be damned.

Bradley Fork is flat -- an oddity that only North Carolinian's are used to -- an easy hike-in or wade-up for any angler. Especially if you're from the Tennessee mountains. Our streams are so steep you'll skin your nose walking up 'em.

We caught tons of fish, nice sizes too.


I'm recovering for tomorrow. Seems like the fishing and hiking refractory periods are a smidgen longer than they used to be.

Something new?

Heading up to Bradley Fork, a tributary of the 'Luftee, tomorrow morning. I'm going to try my hand at more video and posting pictures. Wish you all could come!

Another thought ...

Sitting here, as most days, I'm thinking about fishing. That's what I do at work, and I work right next to the Pigeon River. The BP, or the Dirty P, as we call it, is as diverse a river as there is. At it's head waters you'll find native Appalachian strain brook trout, mid-ways, down you'll find nice wild bows, a little further TWRA stocks bow, and below that the best smallmouth fishing in the country (not to mention HUGE red horse and gar, and if you've never fished for either red horse or gar on a fly rod, I highly recommend it).

Tennessee holds some nice fishing records. The world record smallmouth came out of Dale Hollow, weighing in at 11 lbs 15 oz. I know I've had some wild times with 6 pounders on the Pigeon.

Which makes me think of other records.

The record brown trout, from the Clinch River (arguably the countries finest tailwater) is 28 lbs 12 oz.

Even an unusual record. A mere 6 oz cutthroat was pulled out of the Obey River in 1969. Now, either the boys stocking had a sense of humor, or that little guy swam a damn long way.

From a from a 90lb carp to a 75lb paddlefish, there are almost too many fish in Tennessee to list. I'm glad I've traveled all over, but the minute I'm home I think "I could've caught better in the backyard." Well, but then it's all about experiences, really, and I can't catch Apache or Golden Trout here. So, all's fair in fishing.

Here's a short video I shot of Sean McKay of Smoky Mountain Troutfitters and me fishing (well, just Sean and a picture of me). I guide for Sean when I can, and this fall looks to be great. It's smallouth on the Pigeon. We know there has to be a world record smallmouth in this river -- we've seen 'em. Now, to entice them...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jA5wBTc8bCg&feature=player_embedded

check out http://www.smokymountaintroutfitters.com

Things we think about ...

Chasing some small stream 'bows at Tremont yesterday morning, I had to laugh. Not at the size of the eager little turds, but at what I was thinking about. TV. I've never watched too much, but my wife loves shows. Good ones at least, so there are never "reality" shows on in our house, unless it involves cooking. So... here are some musings on TV entertainment.

Best shows: The only time I really watched a lot of TV was in college. And that was only because I had to stay home and study, and didn't like to study at all. So TV was a great way to bide my time. Here's my list of shows that I really came to enjoy.

Frasier. Could there ever be a dynamic like that on TV again? Kelsey Grammer and David Hyde Pierce played snobby socialites to perfection. No show has ever made me laugh so hard. I've even bought all 11 seasons on DVD. Can't get enough, wish there was a reunion show in the works.

Seinfeld. We actually had a finale party my senior year in college. Well, three of us did. Seinfeld reminded me of everyone in my life; I thought of myself as Jerry, not that I was funny, but I seemed to date girls that were way too good looking for me. Just like Jerry. But even he was more of a failure with them, and that made me glad to watch.

X-Files. Probably my favorite. Not only did I watch religiously, but I even dated a girl only because she looked like Scully. The conspiracy buff within was made whole by X-Files, and the show was even pretty deep when you began to see the big picture.

Nowhere Man. Didn't last long, but it was superb. Again, another X-Files type show that didn't quite hit the big markets. If you're unfamiliar with the show, I'll give you a quick rundown. A documentary photographer named Thomas Veil took a photo of a war crime -- when "they" find out, he loses everything and no one seems to know who he is. He secures the hidden negatives and sets off to find the truth. It was a great show and I'll always think about what could've been.

Honorable mentions: Twin Peaks and Everybody Loves Raymond. Loved 'em. But not as much as those mentioned above.

Anyway, I promise not to talk too much about TV or movies, unless I have another day on the water where I think about it. It's funny what comes to mind when fishing alone. Maybe it's reminiscing, maybe it's thinking back to simpler times in your life. I don't know. I don't get too deep about things, even with nymphing lines.

"Everybody's Workin' on the Weekend...."

I've decided to come to the office on Saturdays. After a week long mental debate, I think taking Sunday/Monday for a weekend will be much more pleasant, especially for fishing.

So, what days do you like best for fishing? I know for many of us, the weekends are sacrosanct. But I can't take the Saturday/Sunday fishing routine. If I work Saturday, my wife and I can still go to the movies or dinner at night, and I can fish Sundays and/o Mondays. Then again, what about a Wednesday/Thursday weekend?

And while your busy mulling over the best days to fish (save weather, stream conditions, et al), how do you like the new look at the blog? I'm not tech savvy, so it took a long time to change.

Have a great weekend, y'all. See you on the water soon, fish on!

Keep it rural,
Griz

Shout Outs

For all my new blog friends:

Check out Seven Bridges Road by John Dollar. John's a Western North Carolina dude (right over the hill, as we say) and an outstanding fisherman. He takes great pics and videos, too. An all around great blog to follow.

Then mosey on over to 365 Fly Fishing by Austin Campbell, he's a Yankee transplant in North Carolina, but we've accepted him as an honorary Son of the South. He's been pursuing his passion in a blog, one solid year of fly fishing, either on the river, on the road, or in theory. And Austin ties beautiful flies, too. I had the pleasure of fishing with Austin and John Dollar late last year, a great day that ended in frozen feet and home brews.

Then have a gander at Compleat Thought by Kyle Perkins. Kyle is a Colorado kid who his holds true to his Western sensibilities in fine form. Kyle talks about everything from videos, to felt, to movies. (He's also a pretty darn good fisherman.)

Then there's Tyler Legg at http://www.tarheelflyfishing.com/. Tyler's destined to be the next superstar in our sport. When I was his age I was too busy acting a fool on the river and wasting time, but his calm and cool talents are already being noticed -- and he ain't even in college yet, folks.

All right, just wanted to send up some shouts. I hope to read everyone soon!

Keep it rural,
Griz

Busted flat in Cherokee, lookin' at the rain ... Or, goodbye, Tooby Tuesday

Apologies to Mr. Kristofferson and the Stones.

Early to bed, early to rise. Or not. Late to bed and groggy on the road, but as long as I make it Bryson City by 7AM, I should be fine.

And I did, but what was the beginnings of a fruitful day of fishing turned into a busted trip (who hasn't had one) and a few dollars less than I had when I cussed the tourist traffic. Seriously folks, you can drive faster than 15mph, even on curves.

Made it to Deep Creek only to find I didn't bring my camera, which is usually preamble to fine fishing reports -- if that was only always the case. Regardless, I was pleased to see only two cars in the lot and no fisherman in sight. I've always wanted to fish for the wary browns in the lower sections of Deep Creek, so I began. At 7:30AM, on a Tuesday. I missed the first strike of the day -- a slow roll of disinterest -- and while I was busy chiding myself, I caught something orange out of the corner of my eye. And I'll be damned. Tubers. This early. 7:30AM on a Tuesday. After a short 3 mile hike, well above where tubers are allowed, guess what I saw? That's right. More tubers. Dismayed and watching the skies slowly fade to gray, I decided the hell with it, let's go to Ravens Fork, the Cherokee Tribal waters now a trophy section. But I'd need some flies appropriate for these monster stockers, and a tribal license.

Smoky Mountain Fly Fishing, located for years in the heart of downtown Cherokee, is closed. What? The sign politely told me I could proceed another 18 miles into Sylva for Hunter's new fly shop. No thanks. Now I'm not even angry, I'm laughing. The first sign of insanity. And just when I decided I'd just drive there, the skies opened up. Well... there's always the casino.

40 bucks, a new friend, and a complimentary drink later, I left for home. It was actually a pretty fun day. I wouldn't say I'd do it again, but at least I wasn't at work.

Anyway, moral to the story? No, this isn't your zen station salad. Just fish when you can, play when you should, and don't complain about the rain. Fish love it. And so do casinos.

Oh, and what's with all the Chinese comments on my blog? I can't read that stuff, you communists. So stop it.

Keep it rural,
Griz

Second Verse, Same as the First ... ?

How many of us in the South are still whining about the weather? Hands up. I count... all of us. Well, all of us anglers, anyway. I see you pool puppies and lake wakers are still somewhat happy.

The CFS are up slightly due to some unexpected (and who knows where from) rain in the mountains yesterday, but the temps are soaring. Hovering around 75 degrees in the lower els, the water is perilously close to fish kill temps.

North Carolina streams that boast large fish rely on more stocking that Tennessee waters. Not that I'd harp, I wish Tennessee's management was similar. But stocked fish turn to floaters more quickly than their heartier native cousins. And that's what we've been hearing a lot about -- floaters in the Davidson and other surrounding streams. It's only a matter of time until the natives go belly-up as well, thanks to what's going to be the hottest Summer on record for the past... who knows how long.

I haven't been fishing much. I don't like to stress fish, or myself for that matter, in this hot weather. But if you do go...

7x even 8x would be preferable. Be stealthy, wear muted colors, and fish the fast water with the longest casts as possible. Fly selection won't matter much, stressed fish aren't as picky. But if I were you, I'd stay home and let them recover. I mean, I have to recover too. Man, we need a week of rain and 10 degree drops.

Have a great one!

Ain't that Quaint, or Isn't That Quisn't?

As I sit in my office, my back turned to Clingmans Dome, I think "ain't that quaint." We seem to be in a standoff, my mountains and me, and that probably won't change for a while. It's a classic love story. That which offers intrigue and desire can be the same object that seems too big to conquer, no matter how well you think you know it.

While the Ohio plated convoy passes through, I sit in resentment. These folks see only what is passable by minivan, never knowing the ethereal beauty possessed in even the shortest walk or breathed in during briefest of engine stops. In short, I'm part of the select few that realize what lies beneath my girl's gorgeous exterior surpasses even the hardiest mountain mans idea of grandeur. It's a seasonal love affair, and I hate it. No, that's not right. Actually I need it.

So, if you're with my girl this week, don't get too attached. She always comes home to me, she just likes to have fun.

And if you commune, be sure to commune in the high country. Fishing will be good, but it will be better early and late. Dries with small droppers, you pick the pattern. You'll do well.

September is right around the corner, then the next thing you know it's winter. And we all know that winter fishing, for those of us who are lucky enough to live where that's applicable, is the best fishing of all.

Once every blue moon

Social media is a wonderful annoyance. No other form of media can make me so ill so quickly, but then, I could be alone with no on-line friends, basking in the misery of talk radio. Been there, still go, but let's not talk about that.

Let's talk about the weather, women, sex, and fishing.

It's been hot. Damn hot, or, as Robin Williams said in Good Morning Vietnam,

"The weather out there today is hot and shitty, with continued hot and shitty in the afternoon. Tomorrow a chance of continued crappy with a pissy weather front coming down from the north. Basically it's hotter than a snake's ass in a wagon rut."

Walter Cronkite couldn't have said it better. And I'm over it. But the one thing that has been pleasing is the amount of rain. July was the wettest in many years, and the streams are looking to be in prime shape for Fall fishing. August has seen rain too, and that means September should be dry. Or so the old folks say.

I've been a bit of a wuss, and a broke one at that. With bills piling up as quickly as the heat index, I've taken to fishing lightly. Forced, anyway. Oh, sure, I get out some in the evenings, or early mornings, but I lack the desire to stay all day, hike, and face heat stroke. I'm sensitive to the heat which means that being from the Southeastern mountains, that are more like a tropical rain forest than anything else in the U.S., the father land isn't always too kind to this devoted son. But I persist. And regardless of what those scrawny westerners say, I'll take humidity over high desert any day.

I just got back from a trip, a family jaunt, more or less, during which I'd planned some fishing. Well, I got to fish, but on a stocked pond for large mouth and blue gill. Not the fun I'd intended, but that's what family is for.

Euripides said that one loyal friend is worth ten thousand relatives. That wouldn't sting if it wasn't true.

And about women and sex... well, you got this far, didn't you? Pervert!

Griz

Ever-so-often

Classic encounter #2,239

Perilously close Yankee: "So, whatcha usin'?"

Me: "Brains and muscles."

Yankee: "Hahaha, yeah. I've not seen many fish."

Me: "Probably because you're fishing right behind me." (at least 20ft away)

Yankee: "Well, I had one hit my Blue Wing Oliver."

Me: "Trout will do anything for you, dear, anything."

Yankee: "Say?"

Me: "Have a nice day."


Don't hassle me, I'm a local.