The Sound of Mountain Water

Kristine and I got back late last night from our southern wanderings, which comprised one of the more enjoyable trips we've taken in a while. I've spent very little time in the Southeast, but liked very much what I saw down in the Smokies and Spartanburg, SC. We managed four solid days of hiking in Great Smoky Mountains National Park before heading down to the conference, then broke up the drive home to sneak in one last ramble in the hills of Kentucky. I'll talk about some of the trip this week, starting with the fishing, natch.

We had pitched our tent in a campground along the Little River in Townsend, TN, just downstream from the park. I didn't do my fishing there, though, since I would have needed to buy a Tennessee license AND trout stamp. Trout fishing in the park requires only a license. Not sure about the logic, but I figured I could drive a couple miles up the road to save $16. Maybe the state of Tennessee should invest in a carbon offset by knocking a few bucks off their trout stamp.

I did all my fishing on the Little River's Middle Prong, a branch that joins the mainstream just above the park boundary. While smaller than the mainstream, the road bordering it (roads follow the rivers there, as they usually do in mountain country) was far less travelled than the paved thoroughfare along the mainstream. A local flyshop had recommended several park waters, but the Middle Prong was by far the closest stretch, aside from the main Little, to where we camped. When you're out on a quick kitchen pass and the clock is ticking, you can't waste time on the road.

On our first Friday there, I snuck out of the tent as the sun came up, drove into the park and about five minutes up the Middle Prong road, then parked at a pulloff along a rapids that to my flatlander eyes looked more or less like the rest of the rapids. "Anything yellow" was the fly advice I received in the shop yesterday, so I tied on a #16 Roberts Yellow Drake and flicked it into the bottom of the gurgling white plume. A fish smacked it a second later, and when I set the hook a small rainbow sailed from the water and landed at my feet. It might have been five inches long.

"They may be small," I thought as I put him back, "but they're easy." I was half right. I passed through several more pools without hooking anthing, then took one slightly larger 'bow.



This is where I caught him.



He came from the foot of the longest streak of white water. The smaller fish I caught before him and the larger one I caught just after, as well as a handful of missed strikes, likewise came from where turbulent waters cleared. The low ends of the rapids held nothing, and the long, placid, deep pools between the rapids held only shiners.

Friday would be my best day. I caught two fish, both about 7", on a stone fly imitation and an elk hair caddis Saturday evening, and drew a blank on Sunday night. I'm sure someone who fished that water regularly would have done better; I might have done better if I'd kept fishing mornings. But I had to get my licks in when the rest of our schedule (or the weather) allowed it; this wasn't primarily a fishing trip. Getting on the water--and getting any fish in the process--counts as a triumph in those circumstances. Getting to do it under blooming rhododendrons, standing in racing mountain waters, makes it a near-miracle.