This is my accounting of the backpacking and fly fishing trip I took on Memorial Day weekend. I wrote it in a different style than normal. Hope you enjoy!

My camp on the river that shall not be named.

It is Memorial Day weekend, and the lower stretches of the watershed along the paved road are glutted with tourists and local families and teenagers and fishermen. Once I turn off the main roadway and onto the gravel Forest Service road, I enter a different atmosphere. For the first three miles I see no one else at all. I roll down the windows to feel the air cool as I climb higher into the mountains. I turn off the radio which had been blaring the latest Brad Paisley country song. I love the sound of a gravel road under the tires of my truck and the deep silence of the ancient mountains beyond, broken only here and there by a lonely song bird. I’m always surprised at the silence of the deep woods. There are many more songbirds in my tiny backyard. A large pileated woodpecker flushes and leads me down a hollow toward the river for a good half mile. To the chorus of the tires and the gravel and the birdsong is added the melody of flowing water, my favorite music.

I don’t see the well-concealed trailhead the first time I pass and end up on an impossibly narrow dirt road, trying to squeeze by another truck whose driver appears unhappy to see me and my big Dodge. I finally find a spot wide enough to turn back toward the river and park at a bridge. I find the trailhead on the right side of the bridge and there meet a golden retriever attended by two humans, a father and son out for a short hike. They will be two of only five people I will see during my three days on the river. Not bad for a holiday weekend, one traditionally viewed as the beginning of summer in these parts.

My pack feels lighter than in the past. I use an old Kelty Trekker external frame pack, both for its efficient load handling and its versatility in strapping on gear. I worked hard this time to eliminate extraneous gear, and I’ve just bought a pair of waist-high waders which weigh about half as much as my old chest-highs. The work is paying off, although I already miss my pipe and my journal. I don’t plan to go far, maybe a mile or two. It’s getting late, I’m not familiar with this trail, and I don’t trust the pack to feel light for long.

Soon I’ve put a good bit of distance between myself and the small group behind me, and I am alone. The day is cloudy and muggy. Rain is in the forecast. I sweat freely as I will for my entire stay. The mountains hold humidity like a giant greenhouse.

A fallen log and a pretty stretch of stream. The mountain laurel was in full bloom during my trip.

If you let it, a lot can go through your mind when you’re alone on a mountain trail. I think about time, not so much mathematically, but how it feels. When I’m in these mountains, time weighs on me. The air feels heavy with it. These mountains are old, ancient, some of the oldest mountains on Earth. Everything about them feels old. Even the giant millipedes which occasionally appear along the trail seem old, much older than the smaller critters in my yard. I can imagine these mountains being the same, unchanged, just like this since the beginning. Not at all like the rough, constantly changing, adolescence of the Rockies. I love the Rockies, but these Southern Appalachians are my home. They call to something ancient in my own blood, perhaps some remnant memory of my ancestors’ lands in Ireland and Scotland. At least I like to imagine it so. Harry Middleton called these Southern Appalachians the “Spine of Time.” It’s a good name. The silence, still only broken by the ever-flowing river and occasional songbird, speaks of ages gone by. I’m amazed at how the silence presses in around the river itself. Like the river is a heartbeat in the middle of a sleeping, giant body. These mountains have seen so much they no longer feel the need to speak aloud. They have made their peace with the world. They are like an old man who has seen much, not all of it good, and have accepted it, for better or worse. I can imagine God communing with these hills from the dawn of time, and I hope they are happy to have me join the fellowship for a few days.

Almost all the hemlocks along the trail are dying or dead from infestations of the hemlock woolly adelgid. It fills me with sadness. I am perhaps not even a barely noticeable flash in the life of these hills. Perhaps even so are the hemlocks. When they are all gone will the mountains even remember them? Will we? Do the hills notice me? It doesn’t even matter, really. My love for them is unconditional. I imagine the hemlocks’ love is unconditional as well, and they are sad to be leaving the mountains.

I shake myself out of whatever mental state those last two paragraphs are evidence of, climb over a hill and look down on the campsite where I’ll spend the weekend. I look for fifteen minutes or so for a suitable tree from which to hang my food away from the bears. I practice a new technique called the PCT Method, and I am pleased with it. Then I set up my little tent, only later realizing that I’ve set it on a slight left-to-right slope. This slope will give me a sore back tomorrow and a fitful night of sleep tonight.

I have enough time for an hour or so of fishing, but I decide to lounge around camp instead. I am sticky with sweat, so I build a small fire to warm by later and take a dip in the river that still holds the chill of early spring. I dry by the fire, a much more comfortable man, and prepare my supper of the infamous Ramen noodles. Shrimp flavor. I use the remaining hot water for a small cup of coffee, which I enjoy with a cigar brought along for just this occasion. A Rocky Patel Sun Grown.

This my first solo backpacking trip. I’ve done lots of solo camping but never backpacking. There is a difference. I hear voices. One can often hear voices in a mountain stream. I hear them more clearly when I’m alone. I like to imagine it is the voice of the mountains speaking to me, and if I listen long enough, I might learn what they are saying. Mostly I just hear my name or “Hey!” or something vaguely like people talking over the next ridge. Soon my cigar is a nub and all light is gone. I let the fire burn for a few minutes longer, savoring the firelight as it dances around the perimeter of my camp. I lie down for my fitful sleep, and I wake up many times thinking I hear something walking outside, yet another symptom of backpacking alone in bear country.

Rainbow that was fooled by the St. Vrain Caddis.

I rise early the next morning. I down a quick breakfast of granola bar and hot coffee, anxious to hit the stream. I start with a parachute hare’s ear because that’s just what I always do. My plan is to hike down the trail for a mile or so and fish back to camp, but first I toss a few casts in the pretty pool just below camp. I quickly catch two small rainbows. A good sign.

I hike down the trail and start at the bottom of a long run with good depth. I catch nothing. I fish a long stretch with few bites, and reluctantly change flies. I try a yellow St. Vrain caddis, my only reasons being I had seen a solitary yellow stonefly and I wasn’t yet ready to try nymphs. I begin getting more strikes and bring a total of four more trout to hand, missing as many on the strike. I don’t know how much you know about fishing mountain trout streams this time of year, but I must tell you that this is an exceedingly poor showing. It is one of the toughest days of mountain trout fishing I’ve ever experienced. Normally, this would upset me. Normally, I would at least have changed flies more often. Normally, I would have tried nymphs. Normally, I would have gotten desperate. But this trip feels different. I was content to simply cast to likely spots with my dry flies. I got enough strikes to keep it interesting, and the few trout I did catch were decently sized for a mountain stream, and all jumped repeatedly. Plus the warpaint shiners provided plenty of entertainment. The stream was full of them. I must have caught two dozen. I caught one monster that must have gone 5 inches. Many of them got to ride a false cast.

At least my equipment was handling beautifully. I now have a new favorite small stream rod. My South Bend #290 performed as well as one could ask of a rod. It’s a 7′ 6″ bamboo. I was using my new Lamson Guru reel and a Scientific Anglers Mastery Trout line. The line is new to me, and I was impressed with its suppleness and easy shootability. I had a lot of time to admire my gear between fish.

I have a few hours before dark. I see a husband and wife walking down the trail, past my camp and then back. We wave but do not speak. I guess no one wanted to break the silence. I take another swim, smoke a wonderfully mild, chocolatey Sancho Panza cigar (a gift from Matt Walker), watch a trout rise to what I think are caddis flies in the Camp Pool, and read a few chapters in Mark Spragg’s Where Rivers Change Direction. I think of casting to the trout, but I decide against it and just watch. He splashes after caddis every few seconds near a big bolder with a deep pocket of lazily swirling water behind it. Spragg’s memoir is an evocative account of his childhood on a ranch in Wyoming. I think of dryer air, higher and younger mountains, hungrier trout, and good friends around a Yellowstone campfire. So many of my memories are of fishing.

The Camp Pool.

I move my tent a little to level it out, and this night passes much more comfortably. I wake once to the sound of light rain lazily pelting the tent and the flash of lightening in the distance, over the big ridge to my left.

In the morning everything is dripping wet. I quickly down a granola bar and some dried cherries to break my fast. I take longer to savor my coffee while I build a new leader. I had been knowingly using one that was too long, about 10′. The reason was because I had one that long already tied, and I was too lazy to tie another. Until now. I want one about 7.5′, and I plan to toss a big parachute hare’s ear with a hare’s ear soft hackle trailed behind. I hear a whistle and turn to see a gentleman walking down the trail with a spinning rod.

He comes over for a chat. He’s from a local town and has fished the river for many years. He says the drought hurt the fishing badly and says that is likely the reason for my pooer showing of the previous day. I appreciate the confidence boost. He tells me of days twenty years before when 20″ browns were fairly common in the river. Those times are gone, but he says one still turns up from time to time. He says nowadays he is lucky to catch a fish at all on some days. He asks if I’ve ever fished the headwaters. He says there are specs (brook trout) up there. We part ways with a wish of good luck. He goes downstream and I go up.

One of the small rainbows I caught on my last day.

I immediately begin hooking fish on the dropper soft hackle. They are all small but lively and fat. I miss several larger fish, none of them “large,” on the dry. In all I catch about ten and miss twice as many in a half day of fishing. Still not great, but better. I hike back to camp, and, before taking off my waders, I try that fish in the Camp Pool. He rises and I fight him for just a moment before the hook pulls loose. Then I break down the rod, take off my waders, break camp and pack out. On the way I come upon a ledge overlooking an impressive chute of rapids. I somehow missed it on the way in. It would make quite a ride for a kayaker. I’m glad there aren’t any there.

Then I’m back at the truck, and soon I’m driving through the mash of people that is the lower watershed. People are blowing their horns at tourists standing in the middle of the road. A truck tailgates me around the narrow highway. It’s hot. Not a mountain hot, but an asphalt and bright sun and early Southern summer hot. But, for awhile anyway, I can deal with all this again.

Take care,
Nathan

A beautiful stretch of stream with my South Bend #290 in the foreground.

Tags: backpacking, bamboo fly rod, brown trout, dry flies, fly fishing, rainbow trout, Tennessee

This entry was posted on Wednesday, June 3rd, 2009 at 7:00 am and is filed under Fly Fishing, Photography, Trip Reports, hiking and backpacking. The author is Nathan Kennedy. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.