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.