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On a cool, crisp March morning, my truck slides to a stop near several
startled deer that are grazing in the hillside cove. Two young does bound
away, tails at "full flag" dashing madly toward the crest of the pine covered
mountain. I always stop at this small lush cove and say a small prayer,
giving thanks for the chance to fish my favorite stream once again. This
morning, the prayer includes a special "thank you" for the deer which seem to
elude my eyes more often than I like. Such a marvelous place is this
mountain...free and wild and far from the Atlanta's city lights, noise and
hurried pace. As I grab the wheel and lurch the truck into first gear, I
glance again toward the deer, which have long since disappeared into the pine
and laurel trees. The creek is still half an hours ride, up through Winding
Stair Gap, over the mountain's crest and into the next valley. It is an
amazing place and I find it a great honor to share a small portion of it with
you.
The first time I pointed the car north, toward the Blue Ridge Wildlife
area, I had no idea of what to expect. Having been a trout fisherman for
eight years, I thought that I "knew it all" and, being in my youth, that I
"knew it all" about more things than just trout fishing!
So, I packed up the spinning rod and reel and a small tackle pack of spinning
lures and set out to "slay" the creeks' resident trout. Surprise! This creek was
just as I had heard. Absolutely full of wild, colorful brown and rainbow trout that would
streak upstream at the slightest movement of rod or hand. Swift, graceful and
agile, these trout were in no mood to be tempted by my shiny gold spinners
that pushed forth a flash that must have looked like car headlights to them.
These fish, these wonderfully skittish fish, sought caddis and stonefly,
hoppers and ants . . .and to my dismay, I had no imitations of their favorite
foods. As a matter of fact, the only flyrod I owned was an 8 ft. bass rod and
it was sitting in the extra bedroom . . .120 miles away. Hardly enough to make
the "brownies" shiver with fear. No doubt, this first trip was cloaked in
desperation and disappointment but I found, that day, a new friend in a creek
that I would call my home water for years to come.
In the next few years I succumbed to the madness of flyfishing. Consumed
by the graceful art of the cast, the history and legends of a great tradition
and the challenge of an ever evolving, lifetime passion. Tootla Creek was my
home water, and I fished it almost weekly, despite the distance that I had to
travel. It was, and is, like no other mountain creek. The shiny rainbows and
dark, husky browns grow to very respectable size due, in part, to a minimum
harvestable limit of sixteen inches. Living on their instincts, surviving the
cold winters and dry summers feeding only on natural sources (which are
extremely rare in our freestone streams) these are indeed some very marvelous
trout.
To be on the creek as the summer sun sets behind a high ridge. To
watch a fish in the twenty-inch class rise under a laurel limb and smartly
sip a small, # 18 caddis are two of the immeasurable joys of trouting...and
some of the most intriguing moments of my desperately short "fishing
lifetime." I am sure that this creek has been waiting for me to discover it.
Tucked away in the foothills of the Blue Ridge, waiting for me to one day
overhear a whisper of it's name, to hear about it's picky trout and to
imagine all of the adventures that it holds along it's course.
If you ever happen to hear someone whispering about the trout of the
Tootla, you may, with an open mind and unguarded heart believe what you hear.
There are huge, monstrous trout hiding in it's small, pocket-water . . .but
they are not easily caught and a day of sightseeing may be your only reward
for several days of hardy pursuit. Please remember that this is a rare and
wondrous place. A place where dreams can and sometimes do come true. Surely,
somehow, I own a private part of this wonderful wilderness. Sometimes I can
not help but to dream that it is my creek. At least in my mind, it is my
creek . . .my secret creek, and I love it to this day. ~ J. Jones (aka "Owl")
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