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.
