The Rites of Spring

I lifted my small thermometer out of the water. Fifty degrees. So, the water temp was either 48 or 52. I know my thermometer is two degrees off, but I can’t remember in which direction. I hope the fish aren’t so obsessive that a couple of degrees will matter, but trout have been known to be unreasonable at times, especially in early spring.

Fifty degrees is supposedly the magic number, the temperature that gets the trout out of their winter doldrums, which of course means that it gets me out of my winter doldrums, too. That’s why I’m standing waist deep (with waders and several layers of fleece) in the Little River, just inside the Townsend entrance to the Smokies. The third week of February is sliding into the fourth week of February, which is about 2 or 3 weeks earlier than I usually make this little pilgrimage, but forsythias are blooming and the 10-day forecast shows daytime highs hovering around 70 degrees. I know I should hate and fear global warming – and during those lingering 90 degree days of September, I will – but right now I’ll just call this early spring the silver lining of an ominous, dark cloud, and in the spirit of playing the cards you’re dealt, I’ll go fly fishing for a few little trout.

And I really do mean “little.” There are allegedly some large trout scattered in a few random corners of the park, but the largest trout I’ve ever caught in the Smokies was 12 inches. After catching several 5 and 6 and 7 inch trout, a 12 incher looks huge, so for those of us who spend time fishing in the cold, sterile waters of the Smokies, the concept of “context” is an essential ingredient to maintaining our composure. In the larger rivers below the TVA dams in this region, a 12 inch rainbow is modest. Not worth a picture. Not worth actually measuring. But in the Smokies a 12 inch rainbow is a prize worth celebrating. If I tell my fishing buddies that I caught a 12 inch rainbow in the Little River, they’ll understand that I had a good day. (They’ll also suspect that I’m lying and will ask to see the pictures.)

I also said “a few,” which will almost certainly be the case today. It’s a bright, sunny day. The sky is blazing blue. These are the reasons I came today, and these are the reasons the fishing might be slow and sparse. Fish prefer cloudy, wet, falling-barometer weather. Most humans, including me, prefer the opposite. If I were really, deeply serious about catching fish, I’d wait for nasty weather, but today isn’t really about catching fish. It’s about getting outside on a glorious spring day and taking a walk in a river, with a fly rod in my hand.

The fact that the fly rod is a light, delicate rod (a nine foot, slow action, four weight), rather than a big, brutish thunderstick is another essential part of the day.  If I’m going to catch any fish today, I’m going to do it properly, delicately, gentlemanly, as befits a wild rainbow in a mountain stream in early spring. There will be plenty of time later for big water, big rods, and big fish accompanied by ugly weather, mosquito bites, and sleep deprivation.  The wild-eyed frenzy of night fishing on the South Holston or the AuSable is still months away. For now, the act of fishing is just an excuse for getting out. This leisurely trip to the Little River requires only a slow pace and low expectations. It’s my annual, first rite of spring.

So, I fished for three hours without a bump or a tug or a splash, and that’s OK. After a day of getting skunked I often say “It was just good to be out,” but the first trip of early spring is one of those rare occasions when I actually mean what I say. In fact, my male ego can probably handle one or two more skunkings in these cold, mountain rivers. One of the best things about trout fishing is that trout live in beautiful places, and it’s always a delight to visit them in their home territory, even if they are sometimes poor hosts who refuse to come out to welcome me.  

So, spring is here, and I celebrated it by getting skunked on the Little River. A perfect beginning. Another season of trout fishing has begun.

But I do hope someone will tell the fish. 

Cat Stairs and Falcon Cliffs (Part 2 of 2)

On our November trip to the Cat Stairs of Greenbrier Pinnacle, Greg Harrell and I approached the base of the cliffs in a steep, dry, boulder-filled ravine. After about an hour in the ravine, we decided to hop over onto the adjacent, rocky ridge that had plenty of exposed, broken rock walls and spines that would provide some fun rock scrambling, which they did. These were fairly typical rocky ridges which usually are not dangerous, just challenging. Although, on this and other similar ridges, there are usually a few places where, if you fell just right, you could break your neck, but the more likely outcome would probably be just a broken femur or tibia. In that respect, they’re no different than the stairs in your house. Just don’t fall and you’ll be fine.  

This small, wooded side ridge led to the base of the cliffs, at which point we went right (south) toward our favorite lunch spot in the park – a nice little nook with a roof and walls and a panoramic view of Mount LeConte across the Greenbrier valley. We bushwhacked along the base of the cliffs, below the Falcon Cliffs, to one of the two massive cuts in the cliff that lead to the top. There’s a challenging little scramble along the edge of this cut in the cliffs that leads to our secret nook, which we’ve named The Best Lunch Spot… because that’s what it is. From here we have a good view across toward Falcon Cliffs.

The name “Falcon Cliffs” is significant. Peregrine Falcons disappeared from the park in the 1940s or 50s as their numbers dwindled due to toxic pesticides in use at the time. In the 1980s the Park Service tried to reintroduce these falcons back into the park, so they closed the Greenbrier Pinnacle trail and set up a falcon “hacking” program (i.e., resettling pairs of falcons near the cliffs, hoping they would re-establish themselves), but the falcons didn’t stay and nest. However, in the 1990s a pair from somewhere found their way to the cliffs near Alum Cave and have been nesting there ever since. Sometime later a pair settled in the Charlies Bunion area, but still not on Greenbrier Pinnacle.

Then in March, 2013, Greg and I made an early spring trip to the Cat Stairs and were stunned when we heard a falcon’s screech. Once we got into the cliffs and had an unobstructed view from our Best Lunch Spot, we were able to see one, then two falcons sweeping and soaring along the cliffs and over the top of the Pinnacle. After they had finished showing off their aerial gyrations, they did something that hadn’t been done in decades – they both landed in a little crack in the cliffs of Greenbrier Pinnacle. And they stayed. And they chased away several ravens and hawks. The little crack was their new home – “Falcon Cliffs” was born.

Greg and I went back several times that spring, and the two falcons were always there, in that same spot – a crack in the cliffs, with a small pine tree clinging tenaciously to a nearby ledge. We never heard or saw babies, but it certainly looks as if the Peregrine Falcons have returned – permanently – to Greenbrier Pinnacle. In each subsequent spring we returned, and yes, the falcons were still there, acting like they owned the place, which is exactly what you want to see because a “territorial” falcon is usually a nesting falcon.

We didn’t expect to see the falcons on this November trip, and we didn’t. I’ve been told the park’s falcons usually don’t migrate, but merely hunker down during the cold months. Can’t say that I blame them because that’s pretty much what I do, too. Every winter I stay here in East Tennessee, but I don’t get out a lot… except in November, when the sun is shining on the ice in the treetops, and the sky is a deep, deep blue, and the temperatures are hovering right around freezing. I know the short, dark, cold days of winter are coming soon, but on a day like today, they seem a thousand years away.