Well, If It Was Easy …

Tom pinpoints his cast between rock and tree

To paraphrase Yogi Berra (I think), I’ve been so busy of late I don’t have time to do anything—like post to my blog, for example.
One of the things that recently kept me away from the keyboard was a fishing trip to the mountains of North Carolina and Tennessee. It’s been my experience that most fly shops sort of live up to their names, at least geographically, if nothing else. Mountain Angler in Breckenridge, Colorado, or, Lakestream Fly Fishing Shop in Whitefish, Montana, as a couple of examples. I try to stay away from places with names like “BIG Fish,” etc., for the same reason you should not eat at a place called “Mom’s.” So when fishing-buddy Tom called and said I had to drop everything unessential in my life because he had an opening on a trip with fishing experts from the Trophy Water Guide Service in Boone, North Carolina, I was a bit dubious.
As luck would have it, we had a great time. Rhett Shroyer, along with his brother, Justin, run Trophy Water (www.trophywater.com), or maybe it’s more accurate to say they “float” trophy water, which in our case was the Watauga River.

This will catch what?

My first inkling of challenges to come was when Rhett showed me the fly we’d be using. I’ve always subscribed to the theory of “big fly, big fish.” I looked at this bug, which was nothing more than some tan thread, thin gold wire and a tiny bead on an obvious hook and figured it would take about 10 of these babies to cover my thumbnail. This was not going to be easy fishing. But then, if it was easy, the place would be crowded. I quickly learned that this kid has not been fishing these waters for eight years without learning a thing or two. We were still within sight of the boat trailer when Tom hauled in the first fish of the day.
The end of story is that we probably did not set any world records for numbers of fish caught or for size of fish caught. We did catch some super wild trout and plenty of them; a nice mix of rainbows and browns. As often happens on fishing trips, the largest fish were the ones that got off the hook, or, as in this case, never see the hook. We had just reeled in our lines so Rhett could safely navigate us through a dicey stretch of water, when a huge splash near the stern made all three of us turn to look. Beyond our wildest fish-dreams, a huge brown trout, doing a great imitation of Jaws, was chasing a small (maybe 10-inch) rainbow. The rainbow was in such a panic it nearly beached itself getting away. We three humans could only offer deep, philosophical utterings, like “Wow!” or, “Holy Shit! Did ya see that?”
After the fact we tried to guess the size of the brownie, and like witnesses to a crime, we all have different stories. I’m sure the fish was at least as large as one of my grandkids. Tom and Rhett have their own size guesstimates and they’re stickin’ to them.

Size doesn't matter if you're wild

We spent the next couple days floundering around small, off-the-map mountain streams, picking up a few fish here and there, seeing some of the most beautiful backwoods scenery in the country. (I saw a bumper sticker that sort of defines it: Paddle faster. I hear banjo music!) When I commented to Tom on how drop-dead gorgeous this place was, he said, “Lad, I keep tellin’ ya, trout don’t live in ugly places.”