I admit to not knowing much about this. All the research I’ve done is to read the website promoting the idea. You won’t find dissenting opinions there. Also, I’m typing this really late at night, it’s been hours since I’ve had caffeine, and I’ve been wrapping tiny silk thread on a rod for a couple hours. I’m in no condition to form political opinions. The floor is yours,

hawgdaddy

This summer Jacqulyn and I will again be traveling to Yellowstone. The group will be different from last time. Gina will be the only other returning member from the ‘06 trip. Replacing Insane, Ronald, Casey and Jonathan will be our parents. Jacqulyn’s parents have become hooked on travel. They’re already talking about a fly fishing/camping trip to the Florida Keys next year. My own parents have always wanted to see the West. My father even plans to join us fly fishing. He’s genuinely excited about it. I’m building him a 6 wt fly rod for the trip. All of these plans are, of course, dependent on gas prices leveling off at some point. I saw a sign this weekend proclaiming “$144 Million!” There was a moment of overpowering nausea before I realized the sign was for the Tennessee lottery as opposed to the latest gas prices.

The parents going on the Yellowstone trip is good and well (we all, thankfully, get along wonderfully), but we’re talking about folks who haven’t done a lot of (any) camping in years. Yellowstone will involve ten straight days of camping. We’re attempting to break the parents in with a few short acclimation trips. Trip No. 1 came this last weekend at the Hiwassee. I suggested the location figuring, in a thrilling display of characteristic genius, that I could get in a little fishing in the process.

Hawgdaddy surveys the terrain. Our basic tactic was finding rising fish in the channels with flowing water.

We arrived on Friday and set up camp with time to spare for a little afternoon fishing. In what can only be described as “Vintage Hawgdaddy,” a spring-time monsoon commenced the moment we parked the van at the chosen fishing location. We decided to take a look at the swinging bridge and waited for the thunderstorm to pass. Then we started fishing just downstream. A variety of bugs were in the air. Trout were jumping clear of the water chasing caddis and mayflies in the braided channels. I managed to catch two rainbows, including one nice one over a foot long, stockers both. I hooked three others that came off, and I missed the hook set on two more half-hearted rises. I was using a size 14 dark brown/olive St. Vrain Caddis (which I hoped would be near ‘nough to the caddis I saw fluttering around) with a size 16 grouse and orange soft hackle trailed behind (which I used because I like it). They worked well enough, although I had a lot of trouble keeping fish hooked.

That night most of us slept fitfully, but that’s par for the course on a first night out camping. Sleep wasn’t helped along by Paul Bunyon chopping firewood nearby until after midnight. Still, everyone claimed to be comfortable which bodes well for Yellowstone. The next day we took our time, fixed a big breakfast, drank plenty of coffee, and broke camp. We hit the water in the late morning.

Here Jacqulyn demonstrates proper casting technique in a failed effort to correct my tailing loop problem. Not only did I fail at casting, but I also failed to shield the lens from the sun and ended up with a nasty lens flare.

Jacqulyn and I walked down from the Big Bend parking area for about a quarter mile or so while the in-laws hiked along the John Muir trail for a ways. They came back with glowing reviews of the blooming flora and tales of fresh bear prints in the mud. I’d never fished this stretch, and as it turns out, with good reason. The near side of the river appeared devoid of fish. We spent a good while scouting along, making casts here and there, with no luck. We never even saw a fish rise. The other side of the river looked more promising, but Jacqulyn wasn’t up to wading that far across, especially not knowing when a pulse might come through and strand us out there. We wasted three hours in this manner, “wasted” being a term related to the quality of fishing. The scenery, on the other hand, was incredible. I’ve never seen the Hiwassee so pretty. Indeed, we probably spent as much time soaking in the scenery as fishing. Dogwoods were in full bloom all along the river. Trillium and lady’s slippers carpeted the forest floor. Myriad other flowers, shrubs, and trees were showing their spring colors, but I didn’t know most of their names. Knowing a flower’s name, for some reason, lends it a greater beauty. I need to learn more of them, but it’s difficult to focus too intently on botany when there are fish to be caught. That afternoon, we moved further upstream and found several rising fish in the tail of a deep run. I managed to catch one and miss two in our last hour of fishing before heading home.

Ever notice how your mood affects your casting? Friday I was distracted, and stress lingered from the work week. My casting stroke proved it. I began my forward cast too quickly and used too much power. Tailing loops abounded. When a steady breeze began late in the evening, I couldn’t get my leader to roll over into it. I never display that quality Tom McGuane and John Gierach call “smoothness,” but come on! This was pathetic. I was even struggling with my satchel bag and camera. Nothing felt remotely smooth. On Saturday, the mood was entirely different. It only took one night to slip into full wilderness relaxation mode. Casting was much more in tune with the rod. This was the first time I fished my Granger bamboo rod. I’ve noticed I really have to pay attention to what the rod is telling me with bamboo. I can actually feel the backcast reach it’s peak. I can feel the rod load on the forward cast. The cane gives me much better feedback than my graphite rods. I won’t say I cast better than with graphite, but I feel more like the rod and I are working together. And on Saturday my satchel bag and camera behaved.

My Granger rod presiding over a conquered Hiwassee rainbow. This fish managed a quick escape just as I snapped this single photo.

The weekend offered opportunities for introspection. Jacqulyn and I have reached a point at which we can fish, be somewhat quiet and enjoy the surroundings. On Saturday I crossed a line in my fly fishing journey. We were fishing that previously mentioned barren stretch below the Big Bend parking area, and I was pondering the spin fishermen at the big, deep run by the road from the day before. They were using corn and hauling in fish like crazy, and they were having a heck of a time doing it. I was glad they were having a good time. The thought occurred that I could probably get at those fish by tying on a heavy nymph rig with several split shot and hitting the bottom of that deep run. But I felt no urge to do so. In fact, I realized that I often fished with a dry or soft hackle knowing full well that I could probably catch more fish by using weight. I came to a decision. Or maybe that’s the wrong word. I never really decided. It was more like a peace-making with myself. If I could catch fish on dries or soft hackles or unweighted nymphs, that’s how I’d do it. I would do it knowing I might not catch as many fish, and I’d be okay with that. I’m not a hardliner with this. Like I said, it wasn’t so much a decision as a feeling or a recognition. I imagine I’ll still cast a heavy rig when it’s called for, maybe in the winter or certainly when I’m going after largemouth bass or big trout with a streamer. Or maybe when the need to catch a fish overrides anything else. That does happen. And I do love some of those beadhead soft hackles. But, the thing is, I simply don’t enjoy casting heavily weighted rigs. Casting with split shot attached to my leader is particularly unpleasant. So why do it? Perhaps that’s due to a lack of skill. I’ve never learned to be a good heavy nymph fisherman, and I’m not a very good caster. My casting a leader with six split shot attached is not only a horrifying sight, it’s also dangerous to bystanders. Whatever the reason or meaning, there was a noticeable milestone. I enjoy the challenge of tempting a fish to rise. I love spotting a fish and trying to catch him on an imitation of what he’s eating. I find pleasure in the smooth cast of an unweighted leader. And the enjoyment is why I do this, right? If what I enjoyed was effectiveness, I’d be sitting there with a bobber and a can of corn. Nothing wrong with that. I say, figure out what it is you like about fishing, do that, and eliminate the rest. Me, sometimes I’m going to cast dries and soft hackles all day when I could probably wear the fish out on a heavy nymph rig in the deep run by the road.

Take care,
hawgdaddy

good luck,
Insane

When I arrived at the river, Jason was already there trying to get a few fish ahead of me. I wasn’t afraid, after all he was merely a disgruntled razorback faithful trying to pay me back from their loss to the crimson tide last season. Despite not being worried, I just had to ask….”Catch anything?” Whew, so far he had only managed a smallie. One fish down isn’t too bad I thought. After putting our waders on and comparing flies for a few minutes, we were ready for some fish action.

If you recall, I bought a new camera a while back and have been scared to take it fishing. Although it may come as a shock to most, money isn’t something that I have a lot of. On the other hand, that’s what I bought it for though, so what the heck. With my luck, I just knew this decision would come back to haunt me. Jason gave me the go ahead to start casting. I handed my precious camera off to him as I made a few casts into the swift river edge. No bites, so I worked my way into the water hitting every spot at least twice.

Nothing! I motioned for Jason to give the lower run a try. I messed around with the camera a while he tried his magic. We fished downstream for the next hour or so without any luck. As always, there are those instances where you think you may have got a nibble or two, but as they say, “the proof is in the pudding.” To our defense, the water was a little high and running pretty fast as we had some rain the night before. It was also a little darker than it normally was, but not too dingy to fish.

Before long Jason said he had to go do some things around the house. Although we hadn’t caught a thing, we both agreed that it had been fun regardless. I decided that I would stay for a while since it was such a beautiful day. As I continued to work my way downstream, I began to think that there were no fish in the river. I don’t remember the last time I went without a bite for this long. Finally, I pulled a smallie from the head of a rather large run! It wasn’t much to brag on, but it was a fish nonetheless. The #10 olive wooly bugger released the fish before I had a good grip on it, so I wasn’t able to get a picture.

As I made a few more casts into the pool, it sounded as if a horse were running through the water in my direction. I looked up just in time to see a good sized buck running down the middle of the river, straight towards me. I quickly grabbed my camera, and pulled the lens cap off to take a few pictures. I got the pictures, but my lens cap wasn’t so fortunate as it slipped out of my fingers into the raging water. There was no chance to save it as I helplessly watched it barrel downstream. Dangit!!! The comforting news was that I didn’t drop my camera.

I noticed quite a congregation of fish feeding in the run. It was really hard to tell what they were, but I know they weren’t bass. I managed to get a picture although not a very good one. They sure the heck weren’t looking for a wooly bugger, black or olive. Seeing that the fishing wasn’t going to get much better, I decided to head back. As I made my way back upstream, I found myself in some pretty fast water. After looking up, I saw what I thought was some sort of mammal trying being washed downstream straight towards me. It wouldn’t be long before I could identify the creature as it was moving at an extremely fast pace. By the time it was within 15 yards of me, I saw it was a snake and was ready to stab it with my fly rod. It was a narrow miss, but I was safe!

Once I made it back to the parking area, I decided to make a few casts under the bridge. On the second cast I hooked a nice size bluegill as it hammered my bugger. It was a short fight but fun anyhow. This one didn’t get a break like the smallie, so I quickly took his mug shot. I threw a few more casts with a few bites, but I think I had spooked the other fish in that area. I landed a fish though, now the day was complete. Two things came from this day. The first was that I caught more than Jason (just giving him a hard time), and lastly I got all the rust knocked off my fishing gear.

keep the hooks wet,
Insane

Spring is here, and I managed to squeeze in a little fishing in between yard work and high water. I decided to fish the Flint due to its location. I met my wife in the driveway as she pulled up returning from work and off I went. I jumped into the nearest hole and got warmed up. A few nice bass and a gar were swimming around in sight, but would have nothing to do with me. Some young children showed up, and since I had my waders on, I pointed out the fish, gave them the hole, and began my journey to new water.

Nice fish caught on the Flint River

You ever have one of those perfect days? After about fifteen minutes, I came to the conclusion this was one of those afternoons. The temperature was great, wind was calm, and my cast was pleasantly cooperating. A perfect day, but I had not caught a fish. I was ok with that fact, and was going to enjoy my day with or without them. I guess they sensed I was not going to leave, and became a bit more active. I managed a few Rock bass (at least that’s what we call’em in Arkansas) and a bluegill. The fish were definitely a bonus to an already perfect day.

Closeup of Jason’s Redeye (Wonder why they call them Redeye’s?)

With the sun getting low, I needed to start towards the Jeep. That’s when I managed to find myself in fairly swift water, trying to navigate a long stretch of river, with a solid rock bottom, covered in moss. I think I moved down river about twenty yards without lifting my feet. After skiing, shuffling, and mustering up every bit of balance I had, I managed to find some not as solid ground (I really need some felt boots). I just knew I was going to take a swim, but the perfection of the day would not let that happen.
I wish I could experience the satisfaction I felt this day, every time I went fishing. I am not saying I don’t enjoy every trip, but sometimes all the pieces don’t come together quite the way you want them to. I am sure I will return to the Flint soon, searching out another perfect day.

WoooPig!!
Jason