Brought to My Knees

One of the best things about sports are its rivalries. The back and forth competitiveness of strong adversaries creates peak levels of excitement for the both the combatants and their fans. Examples plucked from history are the Yankees vs. Red Sox, Lakers vs. Celtics, Muhammad Ali vs. Joe Frazier, and Tiger Woods vs. Phil Mickelson. Sure, I’m dating myself with some of those sports references, but you know what I’m talking about. Often, rivals trade wins and losses fairly evenly, but sometimes what should be a close match up ends up being very one sided.

The first time I ever fished in the Smokies was in 2012. I traveled south from Philadelphia to meet up with two southern friends for a long weekend of camping and fishing the rhododendron lined mountain creeks. Our basecamp was Smokemont Campground, located right outside of Cherokee, North Carolina almost immediately inside the boundary of Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

Smokemont is a very popular campground, and being early May virtually every site was full. It’s an attractive location near the park’s visitor center, with plentiful amenities such as electrical hookups, running water and bathrooms, extensive hiking trails, and the opportunity to see one of the park’s most popular attractions, its elk herds. It’s also attractive to anglers as Bradley Fork, a picturesque trout stream, flows right alongside camp.

In the early 1900s, the timber industry was booming at the current Smokemont site. As America was growing and had an insatiable appetite for natural resources, swaths of trees were razed and the site’s proximity to the Oconaluftee River and its multiple feeder streams made it an ideal location for the Champion Fibre Company‘s logging camps. As you probably figured out, that all changed in the 1930s when the land was sold to the federal government for their Great Smoky Mountains National Park project. However, if you look hard enough, you’ll still see remnants of past industry today.

Now back to that camping trip in 2012. As you might expect, our first attempt to catch the Smokies’ resident trout was in Bradley Fork right inside camp. Cutting to the chase, we were not successful. Between the three of us I think we caught one rainbow, and I am not too proud to say that I was skunked. While the trip improved dramatically as we moved on to different streams over the next few days, it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that Bradley Fork did not make a great first impression.

Fast forward to 2025. Over the past thirteen years, I’ve fished in the Smokies countless times. It’s one of my favorite places to visit, not only because it’s beautiful, but because the fishing is great. Not to puff out my chest, but I’m not sure I’ve been unsuccessful catching trout in the Smokies since that first foray. But you know what, in all those visits I also never went back to Bradley Fork. The ‘Luftee… check. Raven Fork… check. Kephart Prong… check. Collins Creek… check. Bradley Fork, no thank you.

Well, during a meander home from Pennsylvania to Florida shortly after the most recent New Year’s holiday, I decided to break up the drive by stopping in Cherokee for a good night’s rest. Getting in late, I immediately went to sleep, but figured since I was there, that I’d give fishing a try the next day before heading home.

When I had originally scouted this side trip, it was uncommonly warm in the Smokies with sunny weather in the 50s. However, by the time I woke up the next morning to go fishing, a cold front had come through, and temperatures were expected to hover at freezing with a chance of snow in the forecast. The weather wasn’t going to deter me, but where to fish? You guessed it, a possibly sadistic voice in the back of my head whispered two words… “Bradley Fork.”

Arriving at the Smokemont Campground I found it virtually empty. There was maybe a tent or two set up, and a family was in the process of packing up their pop up camper with the intent to leave. There was a lone car parked near the hiking trailhead, but no evidence of anglers anywhere. No Toyota Tacomas with rod vaults, no SUVs with fishing stickers in the windows, nothing. Despite the chilly weather, as I slid into my waders and tied up my boots, I figured no people also meant no fishing pressure, and was a great sign of things to come.

And then it began to snow. But not an intimidating snow, rather some light flurries which only frosted rocks and accumulated on open patches of grass. It made Bradley Fork look beautiful, almost picturesque.

Down in the water, the stream levels were at their winter low. I decided I was going to fish nymphs with my tenkara rod. I was using my Nissin Zerosum 360, a rod I had acquired the prior summer and happened to have stashed in my car “just in case”. Meticulously dredging pool after pool, run after run, I was just having no luck. I was seeing no sign of fish anywhere. The one tap that produced a “flash” could have as easily been a submerged leaf as it could have been a fish.

After about an hour, frustration was starting to set in. When that happens one’s mind tends to wander. “What am I doing wrong?” As I cycled through my fly box in search of the perfect trout snack, I first tried some kebari, both dead drifted and then with a bit of sasoi, then drifted some dries (even though I saw no fish rising), and finally broke out a mini woolly bugger to see if I could get something excited by a streamer. No good. Then it happened…

Slip.

Fall.

“Down Goes Frazier…”

Down into the water.

Unfocused and not being deliberate with my wading, a misstep on a slick Smokies rock immediately took me to my knees. The downward momentum forced my upper body into the frigid water next, with my face saved only by my outstretched arms. Freezing water rushed down the front bib of my waders, stopped to some degree by my wading belt. Fortunately, nothing was broken, even though both knees and wrist were in excruciating pain from the fall. Another reminder that Bradley Fork and I don’t see eye to eye.

Wet and injured, but not totally soaked to the bone, I decided to fish on a bit more. By then my enthusiasm for the afternoon was all but gone. The final few casts were hollow attempts at saving some face. About twenty minutes after my plunge, I called it a day, collapsing my rod, and trudging up the hillside to the trail that would lead back to the campground. I was hoping to start the new year right by evening up the score in my rivalry with Bradley Fork, but was humbled yet again.

Bradley Fork 2, Me 0.

It’s a bit embarrassing to tell this story. It’s one I had hoped to relay to you as a comeback victory. A vindication that would set up an epic rubber match for the eventual lead in this head-to-head. But it wasn’t. Fortunately, I now have some real incentive for this battle to continue. I’ll surely be back to the Smokies this spring, so Bradley Fork, I’ll see you soon enough. Let’s make it at least a best of five.

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This article originally appeared in the 2025 print issue of Tenkara Angler magazine.

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