It’s been awhile since I posted a Novice article. I guess it’s time for another. As I recall, this one was supposed to be the story of how we introduced friends to fly fishing. It seems to me that the first unlucky guys we attempted to introduce to fly fishing for trout were Dewayne Ricketts and Ronald Jennings. The idea was to take a backpacking trip to the Smokies, catch some trout and partake in the typical male bonding. We wanted to introduce the guys to fly fishing on some of the big, easier streams and then go into the Cataloochee Valley for some serious backcountry stuff. With that in mind, we chose to stay in Gatlinburg for a night and fish the West Prong of the Little Pigeon for a couple days.

As is typical for the Smokies in early summer, there were a few thunderstorms in the forecast. Nothing to worry about. We drove up from Huntsville without incident, but had trouble finding an available hotel room. The only thing we could find was in the too expensive Hampton Inn. We checked in and immediately put on our wet wading gear and headed for the stream. Things started out nicely as I hooked and landed a small rainbow very quickly, which made me feel like a real pro since I was demonstrating how to fish to the other guys. Then we separated with Jonathan acting as Ronald’s guide and me acting as Dewayne’s. Now I had given the guys some instruction on the lake at my apartment complex, but as they soon found out, casting on a mountain stream is much different. A comedy of errors ensued. Ronald wasn’t pausing on his backcast and quickly tied himself and his leader in knots. While trying to untie the knots, he allowed his line to trail off downstream. Fine on a wide open Western stream, big trouble on a small Appalachian stream. Once he got his leader straightened out, he had to untangle his bellied line from every rock and twig in the stream. He did this repeatedly, apparently unaware of his faults. I felt sorry for Jonathan.

Dewayne was faring slightly better. He got a few decent casts into a nice plunge pool, and even missed a fish. Then he made the mistake of allowing his line to trail behind while taking a new casting position. I spent the better part of fifteen minutes untangling his line for him, almost dying of cold while going under to retrieve his badly snagged fly from a limb in a deep run (at the time we were so poor that we couldn’t afford to just break off and tie on a new one). After that, I told him it was my turn. I promptly hooked and landed another rainbow, too quickly really. I wanted to cast for awhile before acting as teacher again. This idea of introducing friends to fly fishing suddenly seemed like a really bad idea.

I took this photo as we crossed a bridge over Little River during the flood of '03.

Then we heard thunder in the distance, and almost immediately a light rain began falling. No problem. We pulled on our rain jackets. The rain came lightly on and off for the next hour or so, the guys started fishing better, and things were looking up. I was fishing a shallow run on the left side of the stream when I suddenly noticed that the run wasn’t shallow any more and mud was washing in at the head of the run. I looked around and was shocked to see that the stream had taken on a different character. In fact, I didn’t see any where that we could cross. We were in a flash flood! How it sneaked up on me like that, I’ll never know. It was like one minute we were fishing a gentle mountain stream and the next it was high and muddy. Apparently a lot of rain had fallen up above us on the mountain. The biggest problem at the time was that we were all on the left side and we needed to be on the right side. I quickly began searching for a suitable place to cross. The water rose and muddied by the second. Finally, I found a wide spot that looked shallow. As the unofficial leader of the expedition, I had the job of feeling my way across in front of the others. At first, it wasn’t bad. The water was swift and muddy but only knee deep. The other guys came behind me single file. About mid-stream, the water quickly deepened. I couldn’t see what was down there because of the mud, so I shuffled slowly to avoid falling. By this time the water was waist deep and so swift it threatened to carry me away. I leaned into the current and even began sort of a bear crawl across the stream, using my hands to grab hold of bottom with my nose and chin just touching the raging water. The other guys followed suit. Ronald was the first to fall. Luckily Dewayne grabbed him before he washed away. Then we started holding onto each other forming what amounted to a conga line, shuffling along to the beat of the raging water. In this manner we made it across, although I’m not sure the damage to our manhood wouldn’t have been less had we been washed away as opposed to hugging each other all the way across the creek.

It rained all day, and all the day next, and all the next. The streams were washed out far too badly to fish. We spent our days dazedly walking the streets of Gatlinburg, running from awning to awning to stay dry. We went in a fly shop and asked when they thought the streams would be clear enough to fish. Their laugh was our answer. We went to the backcountry office and talked to a ranger about the possibilities of camping in Cataloochee. He laughed, then got serious. “If you boys go out there, you be careful. Streams are flooding everywhere, roads are washing out, and we just rescued a bunch of idiot hikers today.”

“But do you think we’ll be able to catch any fish?”

Jonathan took this photo as we neared a curve along Little River. The water was rushing across the road in some spots.

He just looked at me, obviously trying to figure out if I was joking or if I was really that stupid. And still the rains came. The hotel bill was becoming enormous as we stayed two nights, three nights. Still the rains fell. The small creek next to the hotel had almost reached the pool. We went to Pizza Hut for supper. The streets were deserted. It looked like an invading army was on the way and everyone was clearing out. We were the only customers. We ate pizza, sang a round of “Brokenheartsville”, and took a walk down the empty streets. The West Prong was up to the bridge at the Ripley’s Aquarium and carried with it logs the size of telephone poles. The stores were sandbagging their entrances. Buses were evacuating people from the far side of the river. We heard stories that the road was flooded near Pigeon Forge. Finally, we decided we didn’t have much chance of catching a fish.

We checked out of the hotel and headed home. Along the way, Little River covered the road in a few spots. The power of these mountain streams during a flood is amazing to behold. In all, 9 inches of rain fell over those three days. At Little River Outfitters, we asked about a good place to pick up lunch. They recommended a little BBQ place down the road. When we arrived, the restaurant looked like a little island in the middle of the not-so-Little River. So we drove on to Maryville and Taco Bell. Our first big group fly fishing trip came to a close in this manner. But it was only the beginning of our struggles with nature, and it didn’t just affect fishing. Just to clue you in, Jacqulyn and I were drawing up plans to honeymoon in New Orleans just before Katrina hit. You know what happened to Hawaii!

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Here I am in all my ridiculous glory! At least I have a fish in hand.

We scheduled a make-up trip for the fall. This time we traded Ronald for Jonathan’s friend Ben. Ben is the stuff of legend. For the backpacking trip in Cataloochee, he packed all form of tabacco products known to man: dip, pipe, cigars and cigarettes. His backpack contained 5 family-sized cans of Chef Boyardee. He had boot-footed camo duck waders and a toilet seat (don’t ask) bungee corded to the back. This all for a two night trip. I’m just guessing, but I imagine the pack weighed 120 lbs +. Ben is about 6′ 2″, 200 lbs and strong as a mule. And he still had trouble making it up the mountain, smoking all the way. He looked like a freight train chugging painfully up a steep grade, complete with belching smoke stack. We finally made it to camp, which was only a pitiful 2 miles away. Dewayne and I caught quite a few fish, but Dewayne caught noticeably more, including a decent little brown. I couldn’t figure it out. I tried everything. It wasn’t until looking at photos of the trip, that I got a clue. My toboggan (or knit cap for you Yankees) was reversible, with camo on one side and bright orange on the other. If there was one thing I had read about fishing in the Smokies, it was not to wear bright caps. And there I am (see photo at right — check out that awesome fashion statement I made with those neoprene waders! lol.) with my bright orange cap shining like a beacon for all the fish in North Carolina to see. Despite this obvious mistake, I did manage to catch my first trout on a fly I tied.

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Dewayne and Justin hiking along Deep Creek. This photo was taken just before Insane fell face first down in the creek and then accused Justin of holding him down.

The next year, we lost Ben and picked up Dewayne’s brother Justin. I had the bright idea of hiking into upper Deep Creek from above. The guide books warned ominously of this hike. Only the fit should attempt it. Or only the crazy. But if you managed it, you would likely have the water to yourself with a chance at some decent fish. When would we ever be in better shape? We parked on Newfound Gap road and started down. The trail dropped steeply for around 4 miles. We may have rolled most of the way. The packs felt like high school bullies shoving us down mountain. At one point, while crossing a small stream, Dewayne slipped and fell into sort of a push-up position with his nose barely above the water. He struggled for a minute with the pack weighing him down and then started screaming angrily at Justin to quit holding him down. Now Justin was a good five yards away. I thought he’d lost his mind before I realized the weight of his pack had fooled him into thinking Justin was trying to drown him. The three of us not face down in a creek laughed so hard we had to sit down for awhile.

Jonathan captured this nice Deep Creek brown on a copper john out of a deep hole. Lucky son of a gun...

This is the trip where I busted up my knee. It didn’t happen all at once. Slowly my knee began to hurt worse and worse, then it began buckling on occasion. It’s never been the same since. I can’t go downhill very far before it gives out on me. Jonathan and I did manage to catch some good fish on the trip, including Jonathan’s first decent brown. Dewayne and Justin didn’t fare so well, but they smoked some good cigars at least. For the entire trip, my knee was swollen and painful. I figured I’d never make the climb back out.

Jonathan left early to meet Ben for some single guy party time in Pigeon Forge. Dewayne, Justin and I began the climb out at around 2 in the afternoon. 9 miles, mostly steep uphill. Strangely my knee didn’t hurt going uphill, but I couldn’t straighten it, so I hobbled. Dewayne struggled. By the time we neared the top, he was stopping every thirty yards or so, hugging a tree, and saying something like “I’ve never pushed myself this hard before” or “I don’t think I can go on much farther.” I hobbled along in front. I couldn’t stand the stopping, so I said I’d go on to the truck and come back to help them up. So I hobbled on up to the truck. I was exhausted, sweaty, muddy and must have smelled like crap. I was standing there catching my breath, when an attractive blonde lady in a red convertible pulled up. No kidding. I wasn’t hallucinating. She asked how my hike had went. I said I was pretty tired. She asked if I had a light. I said if she’d give me a second to look through my bag, then I’d find her a match. She lit a cigarette, chatted a little more and headed on her way saying she hoped to see me in town later. Strange. By this time, Dewayne and Justin had made it to the top of the trail and were on their way to the truck. I guess seeing me hobbling up the mountain with a busted knee inspired them, or shamed them. Either way, they made it.

We drove down to Gatlinburg looking for a bed and shower. We stopped at some condominiums in town. I went in, still muddy, bloody, and stinking, to ask for a room. Two girls were in there running the place. They looked me up and down, and asked if I’d been hiking. I said yes and that we were worn out and wanted nothing more than a room and warm shower. They were quite giggly and said they’d give me a special deal on the room. Then they asked if I wanted to join them for pizza. I said no, but thanks for the offer. They said, and I’m not lying about this…honest, “Well, if you decide you need something tonight…anything…we’ll be down here…all night. Just come down and we’ll take care of you.” This was said with a sly look from each of them. Now in all my life, I’ve never had stuff like this happen…ever, either before or since. Counting the girl in the red convertible and the two hotel girls, three ladies appeared to be hitting on me in a matter of minutes. If not hitting on me, they were at least more receptive to my company than typical of females. Puzzling what with me looking like a vagrant, smelling worse, and in no mood to take advantage of the situation (not to mention I was dating Jacqulyn and would never have cheated on her any way). The guys (one of which was single at the time) were puzzled, and so was I, although I must admit it did a lot to bolster the ol’ self confidence. We eventually decided it was the hat. I had my new Red Sox hat on during all those events, in fact I had just put it on when the blonde in the convertible pulled up. Thus was born the legend of the Boston hat. I have since tried putting it on after making Jacqulyn angry to see if it would help smooth things over. You know, make me irresistible and impervious to female anger. Apparently Jacqulyn is immune…

Any way, we now have a pretty good core of friends who fly fish on occasion. Jonathan, Dewayne and I are the only obsessive fly fishers. We’ve all tied our own flies at one time or other. Jacqulyn, her sister Gina, and Ronald’s wife Casey have all taken up fly fishing a little as well. So, what started with Jonathan and I and an old fly rod of my grandfather’s has ended up with a good group of North Alabamians becoming fly fishers. Not too bad a legacy I guess. Take care,

hawgdaddy

Tags: Cataloochee Valley, Deep Creek, fly fishing, hiking, Novice, Smoky Mountains

This entry was posted on Tuesday, November 14th, 2006 at 8:00 am and is filed under Fly Fishing. 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.