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. Please. 

One Day in November (Part 1 of 2)

For several years I’ve been telling people that my favorite month for hiking in the Smokies is November, but that hasn’t always been the case. For a long time, May was my favorite. In May the weather has warmed up nicely, wildflowers and Mountain Laurel are showing off, the heavy tourist traffic is still a month away, and temperatures are warm but not muggy. The older I get, the more January feels like a near-death experience (with no warm glow and bright light to walk toward), but May is an invigorating breath of warm, fresh air.  I love May.

And the snakes love it, too.

I’ve had a couple of close encounters with rattlesnakes in April and May that were not so close that I have quit hiking in those months, but they were close enough to make me be a bit more cognizant about where I put my hands as I hop over logs or on top of rocks. They were also close enough to move November to the top of my “favorite months” list. By November cold weather has become well-entrenched in the mountains, sending the snakes underground where they belong, but it’s not so bone-chillingly cold that it sends me underground, too. November is usually crisp, clear, and nippy. In other words, ideal hiking weather – if you can manage those first ten minutes of hiking when you can’t decide whether or not to wear a coat. If you don’t start with that extra layer, you’ll be a bit too cold for about ten minutes, but if you wear one, you’ll have to stop and take it off ten minutes into the hike. That’s usually the biggest challenge you’ll have on a November hike.

Unless it snows 12” overnight.

In spite of my best efforts, I spent most of October acting like a responsible adult, so I was determined to head to the mountains every weekend in November, starting with November 1 – the very first Saturday in the month. That was the year that on the night of October 31 the temperature below 1,500’ hovered just above freezing with a steady drizzle, while anything above 1,500’ got snow. A lot of snow. LeConte got almost 2 feet of snow. It was a record for snow on LeConte in a 24 hour period. Not just a record for November 1. A record for… ever.

Now I like snow as much as the next guy, but I don’t own any snowshoes, and wouldn’t have been in the mood to use them even if I did. It was November 1 for cryin’ out loud! Many years we haven’t even had our first frost by November 1.

So I decided to go fishing.

Trout tend to prefer cloudy, nasty days, and this November 1 certainly qualified. I love trout. I love to fish for trout. I think trout are as pretty as a freshwater fish can be. I have paintings of trout in my home. But their greatest character flaw is that on bright, crisp, blue-sky days they hunker down beneath and behind rocks and sulk; on cloudy, rainy days they come out to play. So I drove to Greenbrier to fish the Middle Prong, and against my better judgment, I dared to be optimistic.

At the Greenbrier entrance the snow on the roadside and tree branches was a few inches deep. By the time I reached my upstream (and, therefore, uphill) spot, the snow was about six inches deep. The air temperature was now about 35 degrees so wet globs of snow were falling off trees onto the road and into the river. This was one of those moments when I had to decide what kind of person I am. Am I a manly man who will venture out into unpleasant conditions because that’s what manly men do, or am I the kind of guy who is afraid of a little snow? I think there’s a strong chance that I’m neither, but I really want to be a manly man with more testosterone than is good for him – or, more accurately, I want people to think I’m a manly man. Of course, people who know me know that’s not true, but those people weren’t here. Instead, there were complete strangers driving along the gravel road, watching me get out of my truck, take off my boots, put on several more layers of clothes, and slip into my waders. [To be continued]

The Joy of Failure

 

So, a fly fisherman dies, and he wakes up in the afterlife, lying next to a beautiful trout stream. The sun is glistening off the water, and because it is a crisp, clear day, he can see the wavy reflection of the mountain peaks in the smooth, swirling water. He sees a trout rise gently to a floating mayfly in the middle of the river, so he picks up his fly rod, ties on a #12 Quill Gordon, wades out into the river, and casts to the rising fish. On his very first cast, he hooks him. The trout shakes his head for a few seconds, then makes a long, hard run across the river and stops and pouts for a moment, a strong clue that this is a brown trout, the fly fisherman’s favorite fish. After a 5 minute game of tug ‘o war in which it was never clear who the winner would be, the fish finally relents and comes closer to his captor. This was the fly fisherman’s favorite moment – when he could see his prey floating effortlessly in the water, a long, shiny, buttery-brown creature, angry but defeated, his fins waving ever so slightly to maintain his balance. The fisherman reached out with his net, which panicked the fish and initiated another two or three minutes of battle. Finally, the exhausted fish came to the net – a flawlessly magnificent 22” brown trout, deeply colored and cold to the touch.

Then he sees another fish rise upstream. He wades. He casts. He catches the fish, again on his very first cast. Another trout – a lively, acrobatic rainbow – well over 20”. Of course, the fly fisherman is thrilled! Eternity will be exactly what he had hoped for – an endless string of days full of big, dumb trout.

That night as the fly fisherman lay in his bed in his cabin by the river, he dreamed of flowing water, mayflies, and rising fish… big fish. In the morning he awoke with the sun and hurried to the river. The trout were rising to a steady hatch of delicate mayflies. This second day was a duplicate of the first: more big fish, always caught on the very first cast. Never a wasted cast. Never a missed fish. It was easy, almost too easy.

And the third day. The same. Exactly the same. A 20+” fish on every cast. It was too easy. The fly fisherman began to wonder if he would ever again not catch a fish.

At the end of the third day, as he stepped out of the river, he saw an old man – the river keeper – walking along the river bank toward him. As they approached one another the old man asked the obvious question: “How’s the fishin’?”

The fly fisherman replied, “Great! Fabulous! A fish on every cast! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

The river keeper nodded his head and replied, “Yeah, that’s what everyone says… at first.”

Then, as his adrenaline and enthusiasm began to settle down, the fly fisherman continued, “But you know, I’m starting to get a little… bored, I guess.” Then, as he paused to swat a mosquito on his neck, he said, “I didn’t think there would be boredom in heaven.”

The river keeper gave the fly fisherman a puzzled look, and replied, “Heaven?”

****

Success is great. It’s what we all yearn for. And yet, as much as I hate to admit it, challenge and failure add spice to life. Without the agony of defeat, we’d never fully grasp the thrill of victory. We only know and understand success when we have something – failure – to compare it to. Many activities in life – including fly fishing for trout; no, especially fly fishing for trout – are frustrating because they are hard, and success is rare and fleeting. And yet, while an endless string of successes might seem like it would be heavenly… I don’t think so. Indeed, it might be just the opposite.