The Hole

The locals are sure to have a name for it. Something like Frustration Pool, Heartbreak Hole, Fisherman’s Folly... You get the picture. There are, no doubt, other names, probably too impolite to be mentioned here. I suspect that if I had a dime for every curse that has ever been uttered over this short stretch of water, I’d be a wealthy man. Heck, I might afford a nice new 5wt with the payout on my discourse alone.

Every angler that’s ever fished this part of the river knows the hole and has stood, bug-eyed and slack-jawed, gazing at the spectacle of trout, big trout, stacked like cord wood in its deep waters. And once the initial shock is over, with shaking hands, each has floated a dry fly, swung a streamer, or bounced a nymph through it. Many have done all three. Few have hooked a fish.

Stone Mountain Brookies

Just a brief thanks to my buddies Loki and JB3, along with Bear the Wonder Dog, for allowing me to tag along on their quickie trip to Stone Mountain. I've heard of the place as long as I've been fly fishing, but had never been there. I caught a handful of brookies on, of all things, a white woolly bugger, after everything else had failed. Someday I'll learn to fish a nymph properly.

Missing Winter Already

Joni Mitchell said it well. You don’t know what you’ve got 'till it’s gone. Believe it or not, I miss winter, just a little.

I know, I know. Whine, whine, whine. Yes, I am thrilled spring is finally here and I wouldn’t step back a month for anything, but there are a few things I will miss now that Jack Frost has gone on vacation. Things like:

Catch and Release

I'm not quite sure what possessed me, but I decided to fish the Haw yesterday. Now, that may not seem all that surprising to many of you as it's something I do all the time, but usually not a couple of days after it's tickled flood stage. But spring fever has taken a hold on my soul and the forecast of a perfect North Carolina day in the mid-seventies dictated a walk to the river. And no walk to the river is complete without the 6wt. I told Mary I probably wouldn't fish because of the dicey conditions, but we both knew better.

Spring, Dammit

I know, I know. It’s spring, dammit. As an outdoorsman, I am thrilled beyond words. As an aspiring outdoor writer, I am paralyzed beyond them. Everyone expects “writers” to have something eloquent to say about spring. But what on earth can I say that hasn’t been said a billion times already, and with so much more grace and creativity than I could ever muster? I’m a fraud. Worse, I’m a blogger.

The literary giants of every generation have waxed poetic, prosaic, profoundly, and prodigiously on the annual awakening. The birds are singing, the buds are budding, the blooms are blooming, blah, blah, blah. It happens every year and every year we are deeply moved to write about it. But the masters have ruined it for the rest of us.

How can I top these beautiful, simple images?

Almost Largemouth Time

Now that spring is finally trying to get its foothold on the year, I figured it was time to check out my favorite stretch of the Haw River. Most folks are focused downstream, anxiously awaiting the white bass run, but I am more excited about the prospect of chasing big shoals largemouths again. I'm rapidly becoming a two fish fly fisherman, trout and largemouths, the very best North Carolina freshwater has to offer.

I wasn't expecting much today, and got what I expected - high, fast, heavily stained water. Mix in a stiff, cool breeze along with the threat of rain and it all added up to some pretty lousy conditions, so bad that I only fished for a couple of hours. (Hey, I could get lost for a weekend down there with decent weather.)

Early On the Road

“Now, I ain’t never gone fly fishin’, but I did fish for trout in Colorado one time. Not up in the mountains or anything, just down in the farmland. We fished in this little creek that just dug right down through the middle of them wheat fields.”

Four-thirty a.m. came much too early, even though I was excited about getting on the road and heading west to stalk some Smoky Mountain trout. And it was especially difficult as I was late to bed and had slept poorly. Mary had been out of town for a few days and was unable to remind me what was a proper bedtime or to warm my feet in the middle of the night, though she may not have missed the later.

Washing Winter Away

Spring is on the way!!!! I know this because yesterday I removed this year's first tick.

There are, of course, other more pleasant clues that winter is finally slipping away. Tight buds are appearing everywhere, the daffodils and forsythia are blooming, and the redbuds, if you look at them just right, are beginning to assume that odd ruddy cast that foreshadows their spring magenta explosion. (I expect that back in "civilization" those mutant cherries and pears are riotous right now). But best of all, it’s warming up.

And that means it’s time to start checking out the local fishing holes. For the past few months, fishing has meant a trip to the mountains to chase trout, fish that don’t mind that’s it’s freezing outside. While I have thoroughly enjoyed these sojourns, I am excited by the prospect of resuming my ten minute treks to familiar waters.

The Geezer and the Brown

I gotta give the Geezer his due.

We have been trying to make this trip for months but have been thwarted time and time again by weather or the contrivances of life. Finally, Monday, the stars aligned and Geezer introduced me to a simply beautiful stretch of water, high along the north fork of the New River in Ashe County.

The stream runs through a stretch of private land, part of the grounds of a marvelous bed and breakfast that the Geez frequents and has cultivated an easy going, friendly relationship with. We were welcomed warmly by the caretaker, and later by the propriatoress, and that fine hospitality insured that someday, no doubt, I will find my way back for a longer visit.

The Bed Head Bugger

Absolutely no good can come of this.

Before me, held in the tight grasp of my new finger pinching device, sits my very first tied fly. It brings a tear to my eye, though I can't decide if it's due to the momentousness of the occassion or if it's because it's one sad looking little woolly bugger.