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As I was reading the Reader's Cast section of Fly Anglers
Online this week, I was reminded of my first fly fishing
trip.
I was invited by a sweet gentleman in my church to go with
him and several other fly fishing friends to the upper
section of the Ravens Fork River in the Great Smoky
Mountain National Park. Before the trip, he took me in
his backyard to teach me how to cast a fly rod. The
exercise was to cast a piece of yarn on the end of a
leader into a bucket of water approximately twenty
feet away. The tool to use for this exercise by this
ambitious middle schooler was a "state of the art at
that time" Eagle Claw fly rod. What a wonderful way
to introduce one to this craft.
Early on a spring Saturday morning, we drove to Cherokee,
North Carolina. We had a wonderful, hefty pancake breakfast
with all the trimmings at a restaurant there. Needless to
say, the meal was a physical encouragement for a backpacking
experience that my body would never forget. Our fly fishing
party proceeded up Big Cove Road up to its fork in the road.
I do not remember exactly where the trail that we hiked began.
It could have been the Breakneck Ridge trail beginning at
Round Bottom Gap or the Old Railroad Crossing Trail. However,
I vividly remember how strenuous the hike was. We climbed
up to the top of the mountain and hiked ten miles back
into native trout water.
Once we arrived, we set up camp and fished the remainder
of that Saturday afternoon. I was left alone to explore
these beautiful trout waters where native trout abounded
and rattlesnakes sunbathed on the rock ledges adjacent to
the streams. Being a novice, I caught more trees than I
did fish that afternoon. However, it did not seem to concern
me because I was in this most wonderful spot in God's
creation where time meant nothing. The true blessing was
experiencing the solace of the moment.
That evening at camp, we gorged ourselves eating those
wonderful native trout that I had not helped catch. Alluding
to the finer things of life, eating native trout around a
campfire with a can of pork and beans somehow rivals any
steak dinner that I know. We slept under the stars that
night. As a young boy, somehow I kept awake throughout the
night just wondering if a rattlesnake was going to crawl
in my sleeping bag and take up abode.
The next morning we arose early to fish. I had the same
problems learning the mechanics of casting the fly rod
as the day before; however in this beautiful trout water,
I was star struck by the experience. My frustrations did
not seem to matter. The next thing I noticed was this
wonderful man who meant so much to me came down streamside
to assist this beleaguered angler who was having difficulty.
He calmly stated "let me help, son." I became mystified as
if God himself had put his arm around me and was going to
help me catch one of those wonderful native fish.
It was getting close to noon that Sunday and we needed to
depart. My mentor and I cast a few more times in that same
pool. We caught only one fish-a small 14" rainbow. It was
all right. I had experienced what mattered. We headed back
for camp. My dear friend who was a deeply spiritual man
insisted that we conclude our trip with a small worship
service at the campsite with the reading of scripture and
prayer.
Even being a minister in a church today, somehow I met God
that day in a way that no sanctuary experience could ever
duplicate. We began the long ten-mile hike out from camp
toward the place we had entered only a day before. This
memory of my first fly fishing trip was now over too quickly.
We climb steep boulders to depart from camp. We slide down
the opposing mountainside, which would tire any remaining
spirit we might have had. Fly fishing in the wilderness
must be the closest earthly connection to a heavenly experience.
Almost thirty years later, I have traveled numerous times
to explore the exact point of the initial trail in the
Great Smoky Mountains Park to try to reacquaint myself
with that wonderful time in my life. But because of normal
landscape changes in the last thirty years, I only have
suspicions where the exact place of entrance might have
been.
More importantly, I did not get to thank the
wonderful gentleman who took his time to teach his art
to this mountain boy. He introduced me to the art that
can change your and my life forever. He passed from this
world approximately eighteen years ago. Because of my career,
I was not able to visit him before his death and thank
him for that precious two-day fly fishing trip in the
deep, secluded Smokies. I deeply regret that. I hope
to redeem that circumstance when I shall see him in
heaven. Even on this particular trip we took together,
he stated many times emphatically that he firmly believed
there would be "trout streams in heaven." I hope I
will be one of the first in heaven to cast a line with
him and thank him for this earthly gift that he invested
in me.
This holiday season let us be mindful that we need to
say thank you before it is to late to those who took
time to introduce us to this world of endless bliss
that we know as fly fishing.
~ SM
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