Post by rbaileydav on Dec 16, 2007 0:01:15 GMT -5
Fishing vs Catching
The weekend after Thanksgiving, I headed to western North Carolina for a little fishing. This weekend happens to be a group trip for a large group from the NGTO board. This has been an annual event for many years with a large group of regulars and a history of fishing and fun and the stories that they tell grow larger year after year. It was my first time to join this group. I haven’t been a big contributor to the board but I do occasionally post a story or two (guess if they judged participation by the word count vs. the number of posts I might be judged a stronger participant but as it is I am more of a lurker with this crowd) so I was a little nervous of what I might find and who I might meet. But my fears were groundless as I found the group to be consistent with my interaction with all of the internet fly fishing community that I have come to meet over the last few years ……….. a truly wonderful group of people who share a love of fly fishing and a love of beautiful places. When I arrived on Friday I introduced myself to the group, it is always a little strange introducing yourself to one of these internet fishing groups as you have grown men introducing themselves not with their names but with their made up nicknames, grown men that have conversed with each other for years yet who can’t recognize each other by site or even know each other by our names just strange somewhat unexplained nicknames. I set up my little one man tent and quickly headed to the Nantahala River for the rest of the days fishing. Winter had arrived in town just a few days earlier and the temperatures had plummeted to the teens for most of the week. But there was a warming trend by the time I hit the river in mid afternoon …….. all of the way to the upper 20’s. The wind was blowing and the sun was playing hide and seek behind a rolling mass of slate gray clouds. This river is named the Nantahala which rumor has it translates roughly to “the land of the mid day sun” which means limited sun on the best of days so on a cold winter day with heavy rolling clouds you can imagine that the river canyon didn’t hold much sunlight or warmth for that matter. I fished slow and deep and managed to catch a few fish but more from the “even a blind sow finds an acorn occasionally” syndrome than from fishing skill and hatch matching expertise. I fished until the light left the rim of the canyon and my cold hands couldn’t seem to find a grip on the old hammer handled Phillipson bamboo I was casting so I headed back to the campsite ………… content in the joys of a days fishing, content that I had managed to catch a few fish and excited even after a lack luster day about the two days fishing still to come………..little did I know what a contrast they would be.
When I arrived at campsite dark was falling and the group already had a roaring fire going. I shucked waders and climbed into dry clothes and broke out a cigar and some bourbon ……… and as my mother had taught me …….. yes I did bring enough to share with the class. We sat around the fire telling stories and having a sip or two of Woodford Reserve, for insulation against the temperatures only of course, eating a wonderful low country boil and sharing our various fishing adventures and tall tales. The temperature was dropping but between the flames of the fire, the warmth of the food and the fire of the beverage none of us felt much bite to the cold. Somewhere in the long conversation filled night I had somehow offered to take a small group of hardy souls to one of my favorite back country brookie streams. This particular stream is a fairly well known by brookie stream standards but the day hike in is long enough it deters most people ………. But after a few hours of fireside story telling and a bourbon bottle that had lost a large part of its original contents it seemed to be a splendid idea. I stumbled back to my frost covered tent with visions of a splendid dry fly day on a brookie stream dancing in my bourbon fog induced head……………. Unfortunately I awoke in my ice covered tent still lost in that same bourbon induced fog only this time the fog was thicker and I must admit a little on the rancid side……….
I had barley stumbled from my tent when I remembered my promise to lead an expedition to the backcountry so I wasn’t surprised when Griz and Speedbird pulled up with the truck loaded for a days fishing adventure. I barely remembered how to get to a stream I have been to several dozen times and could find blindfolded on a normal day however I am sure all of those scientific tall tales about alcohol killing brain cells are utter nonsense ………… none the less, we did eventually find the way and found ourselves rigging a few rods up at the trailhead. I had brought a few bamboo friends for this trip and in my Woodford induced haze had offered to supply everyone with a bamboo to borrow for the day……… so we strung up my Schaaf Creede for me, Griz had the Leonard Mills Standard 8 ft 4 wt and Speedbird had my Jenkins 756 three pretty good rods for this type stream if I do say so myself. Anyway we started the trudge up the mountainside, the exertion of the hike clearing away some of my hangover fog but definitely not leaving me moving as fast as I normally do. But as the fog lifted I managed to once again become captivated by the beauty of this valley. It was a valley so remote that many of the Cherokee that had escaped deportation across the trail of tears had fled here to remain hidden from the army. And the country had been so remote that the army chose to let the stay hidden rather than mount the expedition it would take to go after them. It was easy to see why the Cherokee had loved this country so, the sky was open and blue with trees abounding but not closing in with tangled branches blocking the sky but rising straight and true giving space for the blue of the sky and the warmth of the sun to reach the ground. We hiked to just past the rusting hulk of the truck body relic. I can’t help but wonder at its origins and the wonderful story that must be part of its final resting place at this particular “junction”. I have tried several times to get a good picture of this piece of the valleys history that we all know and love but have as of yet been unable to get one I thought worthy of passing along. I guess some things and the stories they represent are better left to the magic of our imaginations versus being reduced to the realities of photos and actual history. Despite temperatures that were still cold enough to leave curling ice shavings rising from the moisture of the ground frost like clear colorless curls of chocolate on a dessert from a fancy restaurant, I was sweating in my waders after the hike and the thought of the first steps into the water of the river seemed inviting. Yet that first bit of the water felt like shoving my feet into the cooler with the beer …… and based on this picture that analogy might not be that far from the truth:
A quick temperature check showed the water temp at a whopping 39 degrees and any thoughts of a brookie filled day floated away on the icy currents that flowed around me. But it is hard to not feel your spirits rebound when you fill your lungs with the cold clear crisp air that makes you feel alive to the very core of your being and drink in the sight of this magnificent stream stretched below you in a stretch of brilliant sunlight filtering through the trees in rays of light and faux warmth that belied the air temperature.
Turning the other direction to see my fishing partner already making the first casts of the day.
The chances of catching fish were on the miniscule side and we both knew it but I don’t think either one of us would have changed places with any other anglers in the world on any other stream anywhere …….. at least for this beautiful sunny winter day. I found my fishing at first off set by the beauty that surrounded me everywhere I looked and I couldn’t seem to concentrate on the fishing and kept dragging my little camera out of the vest to snap the most recent “prettiest piece of water I had ever seen”
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inlinethumb28.webshots.com/34011/2776407040038253715S600x600Q85.jpg [/img]
As I was standing there contemplating the scenery and the photo opportunities that abounded I had a mental flash of an image that made me smile to my very core and wish strongly my friend Matt was with me, who is a photographer extraordinaire, I on the other hand am a hack with a cheap digital camera but do have a strong imagination……. So I did the best I could ……… and I must admit that I am pretty pleased with the results
After I got the photo bug out of my system I set about fishing in earnest. The water was absolutely stunning in both scenic beauty and also “fishyness”, that intangible quality that makes a fly fisherman tense as a fly passes over a particularly well positioned current, makes us tighten our wrists and shoulders in expectation as the fly floats down the length of a rock cliff or pass along within inches of a streamside log or actually twitch our arm subconsciously as our fly lands in a perfect tub sized eddy just outside the white water at the head of a particularly beautiful plunge pool. That same quality that makes us shake our heads in wonder as our flies both surface and subsurface pass unchallenged and unmolested where we expected them to be ambushed in a feisty flurry of color and energy. That feeling where you just turn to your fishing partner and smile, shrugging as if to say you couldn’t have walked out there and set your fly down any better so how could you have not at least have attracted interest. But somehow the elimination of expectations frees us from the one potential source of stress for some fisherman the same way that catching a few fish will ………. the catching question was off the table ……. Now it was just about the experience.
The beauty of fly fishing to me has always been that I love the experience of the fishing as much as the catching ……. Which is not to say that I don’t love the catching but just that it is not a required part of the experience. The little blonde bamboo beauties were made for this type water, flexing deeply and shooting flies under cover and tucking them gracefully next to rock and log alike, all the while catching the sun reflecting off their varnished shine and blond glory. The cast became the challenge, making us strive for a little more distance and a little more presentation than you might on a fish filled day taking satisfaction with the grace and accuracy of the rod as you might from the rise of a fish. We hopscotched up the water alternating holes and congratulating each other on good casts and great presentations just to keep our heads in the game. Enjoying the moment and the fishing content in what it was …….. a beautiful day to be fishing in one of the most beautiful valleys I have ever had the luxury of stepping into……..
We finally reached a hole that was one of the pretties I have seen, the day was dimming and we had a long walk back to the car so I announced it would be the last.
With a hole that pretty it was almost impossible to comprehend that we would end the day with the smell of skunk strong in our senses…… but end it drenched in skunk ……..we did………. But as we marched down the hill admiring the scenery and the brilliance of the day happy and secure in our fishless memories gorgeous memories danced in our heads none the less.
As we reached the parking lot and climbed wearily into the truck, three tired cold weary fishermen who between the three of us hadn’t gotten a single solitary strike, roll or refusal ALL agreed in unison and without a moments hesitation that it was one of the best days fishing that we had ever experienced.
It was full on dark by the time we got back to the camp sites and a sleet shower which eventually turned into a full out rain storm sent us to the tents earlier than the night before, which in turn made my emergence the next morning from my snug tent cocoon a much more pleasurable experience. We broke camp fairly quickly with everyone scattering to the roads back home or a few hours on the river. I had some time to kill so I headed to the river. The sun was out in force after the rains of last night and the change in temperature was a startling 15 degrees warmer. I rigged an old Grander 8642 and went deep with a two nymph combination. 3 of the first 10 casts yielded fish and I realized with a start that the trend of yesterday had reversed itself completely. The stars had aligned providing me with a rare combination of warming winter weather, rising pressure and turned on fish. It was one of those days that marked Delayed Harvest fishing at its grandest, this stream is also scenic even in the dead of winter and the fish were plentiful and eager to attack any well presented drift. It was truly a day of catching as the fishing didn’t have a lot of technical skill required but I have to admit I do love catching fish. I fished for longer than I had intended as I got into a rhythm of casting and catching, how many fish came to hand I couldn’t hazard to guess but it was a lot ……… potentially a lot more than a lot …….. a great day of fishing or as some would say catching ……… a memorable day to say the least……….. also a truly great day of fishing ……… yet even though it was a great day and a 100 times better day in terms of catching ………. I think one of my fondest memories will be of my fishless day of fantastic fishing on a little North Carolina Brookie stream ……………. Fishing is fishing and catching is catching and I love both …………… but I love the experience of fishing the most.
Dick Davis
Rbaileydav
The weekend after Thanksgiving, I headed to western North Carolina for a little fishing. This weekend happens to be a group trip for a large group from the NGTO board. This has been an annual event for many years with a large group of regulars and a history of fishing and fun and the stories that they tell grow larger year after year. It was my first time to join this group. I haven’t been a big contributor to the board but I do occasionally post a story or two (guess if they judged participation by the word count vs. the number of posts I might be judged a stronger participant but as it is I am more of a lurker with this crowd) so I was a little nervous of what I might find and who I might meet. But my fears were groundless as I found the group to be consistent with my interaction with all of the internet fly fishing community that I have come to meet over the last few years ……….. a truly wonderful group of people who share a love of fly fishing and a love of beautiful places. When I arrived on Friday I introduced myself to the group, it is always a little strange introducing yourself to one of these internet fishing groups as you have grown men introducing themselves not with their names but with their made up nicknames, grown men that have conversed with each other for years yet who can’t recognize each other by site or even know each other by our names just strange somewhat unexplained nicknames. I set up my little one man tent and quickly headed to the Nantahala River for the rest of the days fishing. Winter had arrived in town just a few days earlier and the temperatures had plummeted to the teens for most of the week. But there was a warming trend by the time I hit the river in mid afternoon …….. all of the way to the upper 20’s. The wind was blowing and the sun was playing hide and seek behind a rolling mass of slate gray clouds. This river is named the Nantahala which rumor has it translates roughly to “the land of the mid day sun” which means limited sun on the best of days so on a cold winter day with heavy rolling clouds you can imagine that the river canyon didn’t hold much sunlight or warmth for that matter. I fished slow and deep and managed to catch a few fish but more from the “even a blind sow finds an acorn occasionally” syndrome than from fishing skill and hatch matching expertise. I fished until the light left the rim of the canyon and my cold hands couldn’t seem to find a grip on the old hammer handled Phillipson bamboo I was casting so I headed back to the campsite ………… content in the joys of a days fishing, content that I had managed to catch a few fish and excited even after a lack luster day about the two days fishing still to come………..little did I know what a contrast they would be.
When I arrived at campsite dark was falling and the group already had a roaring fire going. I shucked waders and climbed into dry clothes and broke out a cigar and some bourbon ……… and as my mother had taught me …….. yes I did bring enough to share with the class. We sat around the fire telling stories and having a sip or two of Woodford Reserve, for insulation against the temperatures only of course, eating a wonderful low country boil and sharing our various fishing adventures and tall tales. The temperature was dropping but between the flames of the fire, the warmth of the food and the fire of the beverage none of us felt much bite to the cold. Somewhere in the long conversation filled night I had somehow offered to take a small group of hardy souls to one of my favorite back country brookie streams. This particular stream is a fairly well known by brookie stream standards but the day hike in is long enough it deters most people ………. But after a few hours of fireside story telling and a bourbon bottle that had lost a large part of its original contents it seemed to be a splendid idea. I stumbled back to my frost covered tent with visions of a splendid dry fly day on a brookie stream dancing in my bourbon fog induced head……………. Unfortunately I awoke in my ice covered tent still lost in that same bourbon induced fog only this time the fog was thicker and I must admit a little on the rancid side……….
I had barley stumbled from my tent when I remembered my promise to lead an expedition to the backcountry so I wasn’t surprised when Griz and Speedbird pulled up with the truck loaded for a days fishing adventure. I barely remembered how to get to a stream I have been to several dozen times and could find blindfolded on a normal day however I am sure all of those scientific tall tales about alcohol killing brain cells are utter nonsense ………… none the less, we did eventually find the way and found ourselves rigging a few rods up at the trailhead. I had brought a few bamboo friends for this trip and in my Woodford induced haze had offered to supply everyone with a bamboo to borrow for the day……… so we strung up my Schaaf Creede for me, Griz had the Leonard Mills Standard 8 ft 4 wt and Speedbird had my Jenkins 756 three pretty good rods for this type stream if I do say so myself. Anyway we started the trudge up the mountainside, the exertion of the hike clearing away some of my hangover fog but definitely not leaving me moving as fast as I normally do. But as the fog lifted I managed to once again become captivated by the beauty of this valley. It was a valley so remote that many of the Cherokee that had escaped deportation across the trail of tears had fled here to remain hidden from the army. And the country had been so remote that the army chose to let the stay hidden rather than mount the expedition it would take to go after them. It was easy to see why the Cherokee had loved this country so, the sky was open and blue with trees abounding but not closing in with tangled branches blocking the sky but rising straight and true giving space for the blue of the sky and the warmth of the sun to reach the ground. We hiked to just past the rusting hulk of the truck body relic. I can’t help but wonder at its origins and the wonderful story that must be part of its final resting place at this particular “junction”. I have tried several times to get a good picture of this piece of the valleys history that we all know and love but have as of yet been unable to get one I thought worthy of passing along. I guess some things and the stories they represent are better left to the magic of our imaginations versus being reduced to the realities of photos and actual history. Despite temperatures that were still cold enough to leave curling ice shavings rising from the moisture of the ground frost like clear colorless curls of chocolate on a dessert from a fancy restaurant, I was sweating in my waders after the hike and the thought of the first steps into the water of the river seemed inviting. Yet that first bit of the water felt like shoving my feet into the cooler with the beer …… and based on this picture that analogy might not be that far from the truth:
A quick temperature check showed the water temp at a whopping 39 degrees and any thoughts of a brookie filled day floated away on the icy currents that flowed around me. But it is hard to not feel your spirits rebound when you fill your lungs with the cold clear crisp air that makes you feel alive to the very core of your being and drink in the sight of this magnificent stream stretched below you in a stretch of brilliant sunlight filtering through the trees in rays of light and faux warmth that belied the air temperature.
Turning the other direction to see my fishing partner already making the first casts of the day.
The chances of catching fish were on the miniscule side and we both knew it but I don’t think either one of us would have changed places with any other anglers in the world on any other stream anywhere …….. at least for this beautiful sunny winter day. I found my fishing at first off set by the beauty that surrounded me everywhere I looked and I couldn’t seem to concentrate on the fishing and kept dragging my little camera out of the vest to snap the most recent “prettiest piece of water I had ever seen”
As I was standing there contemplating the scenery and the photo opportunities that abounded I had a mental flash of an image that made me smile to my very core and wish strongly my friend Matt was with me, who is a photographer extraordinaire, I on the other hand am a hack with a cheap digital camera but do have a strong imagination……. So I did the best I could ……… and I must admit that I am pretty pleased with the results
After I got the photo bug out of my system I set about fishing in earnest. The water was absolutely stunning in both scenic beauty and also “fishyness”, that intangible quality that makes a fly fisherman tense as a fly passes over a particularly well positioned current, makes us tighten our wrists and shoulders in expectation as the fly floats down the length of a rock cliff or pass along within inches of a streamside log or actually twitch our arm subconsciously as our fly lands in a perfect tub sized eddy just outside the white water at the head of a particularly beautiful plunge pool. That same quality that makes us shake our heads in wonder as our flies both surface and subsurface pass unchallenged and unmolested where we expected them to be ambushed in a feisty flurry of color and energy. That feeling where you just turn to your fishing partner and smile, shrugging as if to say you couldn’t have walked out there and set your fly down any better so how could you have not at least have attracted interest. But somehow the elimination of expectations frees us from the one potential source of stress for some fisherman the same way that catching a few fish will ………. the catching question was off the table ……. Now it was just about the experience.
The beauty of fly fishing to me has always been that I love the experience of the fishing as much as the catching ……. Which is not to say that I don’t love the catching but just that it is not a required part of the experience. The little blonde bamboo beauties were made for this type water, flexing deeply and shooting flies under cover and tucking them gracefully next to rock and log alike, all the while catching the sun reflecting off their varnished shine and blond glory. The cast became the challenge, making us strive for a little more distance and a little more presentation than you might on a fish filled day taking satisfaction with the grace and accuracy of the rod as you might from the rise of a fish. We hopscotched up the water alternating holes and congratulating each other on good casts and great presentations just to keep our heads in the game. Enjoying the moment and the fishing content in what it was …….. a beautiful day to be fishing in one of the most beautiful valleys I have ever had the luxury of stepping into……..
We finally reached a hole that was one of the pretties I have seen, the day was dimming and we had a long walk back to the car so I announced it would be the last.
With a hole that pretty it was almost impossible to comprehend that we would end the day with the smell of skunk strong in our senses…… but end it drenched in skunk ……..we did………. But as we marched down the hill admiring the scenery and the brilliance of the day happy and secure in our fishless memories gorgeous memories danced in our heads none the less.
As we reached the parking lot and climbed wearily into the truck, three tired cold weary fishermen who between the three of us hadn’t gotten a single solitary strike, roll or refusal ALL agreed in unison and without a moments hesitation that it was one of the best days fishing that we had ever experienced.
It was full on dark by the time we got back to the camp sites and a sleet shower which eventually turned into a full out rain storm sent us to the tents earlier than the night before, which in turn made my emergence the next morning from my snug tent cocoon a much more pleasurable experience. We broke camp fairly quickly with everyone scattering to the roads back home or a few hours on the river. I had some time to kill so I headed to the river. The sun was out in force after the rains of last night and the change in temperature was a startling 15 degrees warmer. I rigged an old Grander 8642 and went deep with a two nymph combination. 3 of the first 10 casts yielded fish and I realized with a start that the trend of yesterday had reversed itself completely. The stars had aligned providing me with a rare combination of warming winter weather, rising pressure and turned on fish. It was one of those days that marked Delayed Harvest fishing at its grandest, this stream is also scenic even in the dead of winter and the fish were plentiful and eager to attack any well presented drift. It was truly a day of catching as the fishing didn’t have a lot of technical skill required but I have to admit I do love catching fish. I fished for longer than I had intended as I got into a rhythm of casting and catching, how many fish came to hand I couldn’t hazard to guess but it was a lot ……… potentially a lot more than a lot …….. a great day of fishing or as some would say catching ……… a memorable day to say the least……….. also a truly great day of fishing ……… yet even though it was a great day and a 100 times better day in terms of catching ………. I think one of my fondest memories will be of my fishless day of fantastic fishing on a little North Carolina Brookie stream ……………. Fishing is fishing and catching is catching and I love both …………… but I love the experience of fishing the most.
Dick Davis
Rbaileydav
