Post by Petey on Nov 13, 2005 21:26:54 GMT -5
Jay (Marmot to the guys here) and I decided the night before that a trip up to the Little River was in store after reading posts on here and seeing photos.
We stopped by LRO and dropped some cash. Which one can't help but do when he walks through the door. As always the staff was friendly and helpful. I picked up some much needed material and James Babb new book "Fly Fishing Fool". I have read his two previous books and loved them both. His brother, Walter, is a guide and works for LRO. They both grew up in Lenoir City, fishing the Tellico area and the Smokey's. So James books have a nice East Tennesee feel to them even though he now lives in Maine.
After blowing some dough it was time to fish. We decided to fish the West Prong of the Little River. We concentrated on the areas that had sun. I was able to pick up a few trout at most every pull off. I was be bopping along doing fine. Had picked up a good looking brown and pretty bow, along with a handful of other browns and bows. All was going quite well til aboot 1:00. We had drove up past Metcalf Bottoms and found a section of river that didn't have anybody fishing it but also had some sun still on the water. I picked up a few more trout until I came to this one long pool that had risers just dimpling the surface. It was classic, big plunge head, long calm pool. I fished small dries, small wets, small nymphs, big dries, big wets, big nymphs and finally the end all of the fly fishing world. The one bug that will be sure to catch a trout if all the other bugs don't work. Or at least it seams to. The almighty Wooly Booger.... Nothing!!! Not a fish. They just kept rising, and rising and rising. I fished the tailout, the middle, the top, the bottom and the head of the run for well over an hour. It had become personal, and I got my personal rear handed to me. 6x, 7x, 8x.... it didn't matter they weren't going to bite anything I had to offer. After suffering defeat I climbed the bank to Jay's truck. Only to find the Vols losing to Memphis 13-0 in the second quarter.
I looked at Jay, and said thank God for fishing because I was sure glad I wasn't watching that crap. No matter how stubborn the trout were being, fishing is better than watching or listening to the Vols this year. Heck a chinese torture chamber would be better than watching that bunch of junk take the field.
From there we decided to head on for Elkmont. Elkmont was completely slammed with people. Jay had never seen the small village so I thought it would be cool to show it to him. We drove all the way to the back between West Prong and Jakes Creek to find a trickle. Well we decided to fish that trickle. Fishing that trickle immediately got me thinking of a Arlo Guthrie redo. I was going to call it the "Trickle Song". I will spare you. Anywhoo, I was hoping to pull a brookie out of this Trickle, even though we probably weren't far enough up in elevation. Looking for a lazy grandslam I was. No brookies were to be had, though a few 3" bows made quite the sport of my size 18 Adams.
It had gotten close to 4 and the sun was diving behind the mountain not to be seen in the valley until the next days morn. We had brought some nice fish to hand, enjoyed the beautiful weather and taken in the golds and reds of autumn. East Tennessee in the Fall is a great place to be. Only one place better is standing knee deep in a cold mountain stream, catching wild trout in the Fall. Just soaking it all in because you know Ole Man Winter is just around the corner.
First fish of the day was this pretty brown. Pulled out of the shadows along a rock wall with a size 16 Smokey Mountain Black Bird.
The very next trout, was this nicely painted bow. Came out of the same hole, just a few feet from where I hooked the Brown. It took a size 14 gold beaded hares ear.
This is Jay fishing what is known as Newt Prong. It doesn't have a name on the map. It is the trickle that is wedged between the West Prong and Jake's Creek. I found out the name of the prong because my boss at work, his family owned a cabin in there until 1992 when they finally closed the last of the doors on the cabins.
Petey
We stopped by LRO and dropped some cash. Which one can't help but do when he walks through the door. As always the staff was friendly and helpful. I picked up some much needed material and James Babb new book "Fly Fishing Fool". I have read his two previous books and loved them both. His brother, Walter, is a guide and works for LRO. They both grew up in Lenoir City, fishing the Tellico area and the Smokey's. So James books have a nice East Tennesee feel to them even though he now lives in Maine.
After blowing some dough it was time to fish. We decided to fish the West Prong of the Little River. We concentrated on the areas that had sun. I was able to pick up a few trout at most every pull off. I was be bopping along doing fine. Had picked up a good looking brown and pretty bow, along with a handful of other browns and bows. All was going quite well til aboot 1:00. We had drove up past Metcalf Bottoms and found a section of river that didn't have anybody fishing it but also had some sun still on the water. I picked up a few more trout until I came to this one long pool that had risers just dimpling the surface. It was classic, big plunge head, long calm pool. I fished small dries, small wets, small nymphs, big dries, big wets, big nymphs and finally the end all of the fly fishing world. The one bug that will be sure to catch a trout if all the other bugs don't work. Or at least it seams to. The almighty Wooly Booger.... Nothing!!! Not a fish. They just kept rising, and rising and rising. I fished the tailout, the middle, the top, the bottom and the head of the run for well over an hour. It had become personal, and I got my personal rear handed to me. 6x, 7x, 8x.... it didn't matter they weren't going to bite anything I had to offer. After suffering defeat I climbed the bank to Jay's truck. Only to find the Vols losing to Memphis 13-0 in the second quarter.
I looked at Jay, and said thank God for fishing because I was sure glad I wasn't watching that crap. No matter how stubborn the trout were being, fishing is better than watching or listening to the Vols this year. Heck a chinese torture chamber would be better than watching that bunch of junk take the field.
From there we decided to head on for Elkmont. Elkmont was completely slammed with people. Jay had never seen the small village so I thought it would be cool to show it to him. We drove all the way to the back between West Prong and Jakes Creek to find a trickle. Well we decided to fish that trickle. Fishing that trickle immediately got me thinking of a Arlo Guthrie redo. I was going to call it the "Trickle Song". I will spare you. Anywhoo, I was hoping to pull a brookie out of this Trickle, even though we probably weren't far enough up in elevation. Looking for a lazy grandslam I was. No brookies were to be had, though a few 3" bows made quite the sport of my size 18 Adams.
It had gotten close to 4 and the sun was diving behind the mountain not to be seen in the valley until the next days morn. We had brought some nice fish to hand, enjoyed the beautiful weather and taken in the golds and reds of autumn. East Tennessee in the Fall is a great place to be. Only one place better is standing knee deep in a cold mountain stream, catching wild trout in the Fall. Just soaking it all in because you know Ole Man Winter is just around the corner.
First fish of the day was this pretty brown. Pulled out of the shadows along a rock wall with a size 16 Smokey Mountain Black Bird.
The very next trout, was this nicely painted bow. Came out of the same hole, just a few feet from where I hooked the Brown. It took a size 14 gold beaded hares ear.
This is Jay fishing what is known as Newt Prong. It doesn't have a name on the map. It is the trickle that is wedged between the West Prong and Jake's Creek. I found out the name of the prong because my boss at work, his family owned a cabin in there until 1992 when they finally closed the last of the doors on the cabins.
Petey
I almost expect it from Clinch or South Holston trout, but it always hurts when the mountain fish get me. They are definitely not pushovers when their in the pools. Thats why I usually stick to the riffles, it saves me a lot of frustration. Yet sometimes thats what I like, a difficult trout. I guess sometimes us fly fishermen are just glutton for punishment. I mean, trying to catch fish that you can't catch when there are plenty more that you could catch. No wonder some folks think we are crazy no count hippies! ;D I hear ya brother! I love to see a man standing knee deep in a pool, a crazed look on his face, crumpled forehead and a nervous twitch in his casting arm, and muttering something about some guy in a ditch(or something like that). Or maybe singing an Arlo Guthrie inspired song about a trickle. ;D