Back in Western NC - an bit on the Chattooga

The evening before I spent rummaging through my fly fishing bin.  It had been a while.  Where were my [becoming-illegal] wading boots?  My flies?  I found the necessary elements (rod, reel, and fly boxes) but left everything else in a heap, thinking, I'll deal with it when I get back.

It was my first time on a river since, well, since Germany.  During the final stretches of my dissertation I didn't make time for any moments of enjoyment, and directly after I defended my work, I was off to Alabama. 

But now I'm back in troutland, and I plan on making the most of my time... until I head back to Germany.  So for the next few months, I'll be testing the local waters I've neglected these past few years.

For my prelude, a few hours on the upper Chattooga River.  I enjoyed some lunch at Tommy's Coffee Shop in Cashiers, and made my way down to Bull Pen Road.  As the road went from paved to gravel, wide to narrow, I knew I was headed in the right direction.  I bobbed and weaved through the mountain in my man-van (I dare not call it a minivan), until I reached the iron bridge.  Other than the addition of a few new no-parking signs (and possibly a few more rods lost in the lower pool) not much had changed. 

I parked and suited up.  I hadn't planned on spending much time fishing.  There is still some unfinished writing I was to be working on, but the fishing couldn't wait.

About a hundred meters up from the bridge I wandered down to the river from the trail, tied on an Adams and blue winged olive and started casting to the riffles.

It had rained the past two days.  That was one of the reasons I picked this upper stretch.  It was less likely to be blown out, but I still had my doubts.  Mentally, I had already prepared myself to get skunked.  The water was high; there wasn't any activity on the top.  And I wasn't about to tie on a nymph or streamer.  It was all dry-flying that day...although I apparently was not going to stay dry.  I'm not much for finding sure footing on slippery rocks.

About five casts in, and BOOM!  Strike #1.  Not a large fish, but you shouldn't expect much more than brownies in the 9-10 inch range here.  Could there be something bigger lurking in the deeper pools?  Certainly.  But it is far from common.

The next strike I had one on.  It felt good to see that rod bend under the pressure of a panicky fish, and even better that I wasn't going home without a story.

I fished another 200 meters before a thunderstorm rolled in.  A few hours on the river, and back to work.  A good start to the summer.