One Day in the Mountains

I recently took a trip to western North Carolina in search of something. Fish, sure… but perhaps something a little bit more.

It’s not uncommon that when I make these quasi-spiritual journeys, they’re extremely last minute. I’m sure you know the type. You’re at work on a Wednesday, growing tired of corporate-speak and meeting after spreadsheet after PowerPoint. Thursday comes around and you’ve tuned almost everyone and everything out. Might as well be Charlie Brown’s teacher on the other end of that Zoom call. By Friday morning you’re like, “F*ck it, I gotta get away.” Zero planning, no time to make arrangements to meet up with friends.

This isn’t a scripted week in the Driftless. It’s more or less a rushed act of tossing some hastily gathered fishing gear in the trunk after work, turning up the car stereo, and driving. In my case, driving north. Eight hours north to be exact. Traffic permitting, of course.

When you have that much time alone in the car it gives you time to question things. Do I really have to piss that bad to pull off here? Which Doobie Brothers songs are better, the ones before or after Michael McDonald? But dare I say that listening to a Riverhorse Nakadate podcast will make you question every choice you’ve made in your life.

If you’re not familiar, Riverhorse is a very interesting fellow – author, conservationist, adventurer, filmmaker, and a uniquely free spirit. His ethos is essentially that you only have one life, so you should be sure to live it. And boy, he has. Hearing him speak always leaves me both inspired and somewhat depressed. Does an office job give me joy? Am I doing what I really want to with my life? Am I a coward for not making changes?

“…these people are home watching TV and on their phones and gosh, it’s not a dress rehearsal. Like, this is our one and only life. I’m sorry, but I mean, worst case scenario, ride your bike somewhere to a park and have lunch.” — Riverhorse Nakadate

Arriving at my hotel at the foot of the Smokies after midnight on Friday evening, there was some dread in knowing I’d have to leave first thing Sunday morning. I was realistically only going to have a single day in between to fish. So we were going to live Saturday to its fullest. At least the weather looked good to do so.

At the gravel trailhead lot bright and early, I was eager to hike back a mile or two and start the morning off on a good note. As I sat on the tailgate lacing up my wading boots, I looked up to find a truck with two gentlemen inside that wasn’t there a minute prior. A bit fidgety, they got out and began walking over, checking the windshields of the other parked vehicles. They had one of those roof-mounted rod carriers and were both wearing polarized sunglasses and Patagonia sun hoodies. That Fitz Roy mountain trout logo is an unmistakable tell. They were here to fish.

“Do you need a parking permit here?” one of them shouted over, slightly agitated. We were technically in the Park, so you did in fact need a parking pass… there was a sign right at the trailhead entrance that stated it clear as day. I said, “I’m pretty sure, but I don’t think you can buy one here…” I knew you couldn’t buy one here. There were no machines, no way to print something out for your dashboard. I don’t know why I answered without conviction.

The two of them looked at each other, said something unintelligible as they deliberated, then hopped back in the truck and drove off. They just didn’t want to risk it. Not sure Riverhorse would have made the same call. More stream for me, I guess.

Dropping down into the water off the trail, it felt good to have the current slide alongside my legs again. The levels were ideal. Not too low, not too high, and the flows were absolutely perfect. A cool trickle eventually penetrated my new neoprene wading socks, tickling the bottom of my feet. I was where I wanted to be. Where I needed to be.

It wasn’t long after I traversed that initial section that I’d located my first fish, a tiny rainbow coaxed from a deep run by a beadhead nymph. The soft tenkara rod flexed fairly deep, exaggerating the fight well beyond the trout’s diminutive dimensions. After a prompt landing and release, a virtual carbon copy of the first ‘bow mistook my offering for food on the very next drift.

Two quick fish. Things couldn’t be going any better. Until they didn’t. Things shut down hard for a while.

Much like the car ride up, a long series of empty casts can make your mind wander. Should I tie on a futsu kebari? Should I be tapping instead of twitching? Am I fishing at the right depth? Did I remember to pack some Nabs for lunch?

Eventually, that haze of second-guessing was quickly lifted by some tension at the end of my level line. Funny what sort of clarity a shot of adrenaline can bring. A few more fish to hand, rainbows again. It’s rare to find browns or brookies in this particular stretch of water.

The rest of the day continued much like the first half. Feast or famine. I’d find clusters of trout, then nothing for an extended stretch. Upon taking a break to re-rig after a run-in with a particularly unforgiving rhododendron, I took some pause. Filtered and drank some water, relaxed on a rock for a bit, and confirmed the presence of those snack crackers nestled deep in my Zimmerbuilt pack. No famine on that front.

As I approached the last obstacle course of pocket water before my planned exit, I encountered what were possibly the two best fish of the day. The first rose from the depths to engulf my kebari as soon as it touched down upon a picture-perfect little run of greasy water. Once in the net, the hungry rainbow proudly displayed one of those tiny pot bellies. You could tell it had been feeding well.

The final trout attacked with a similarly aggressive topwater take. Drifting the kebari around the unseen side of a mid-stream boulder, this rainbow rocketed from a shady lair to tear the fly from the surface, then went on two surprisingly powerful runs. Aided by the current, the best fight was saved for last. A few quick photos later and it was back in its lie. I decided my day of fishing was done. About seven hours had passed since I first arrived, and it would take at least another hour to hike back to the car and drive into town to get cleaned up before grabbing a proper bite to eat.

A warm shower feels amazing after a day of fishing. Just standing under the water and letting it run over your shoulders as you empty your mind is intoxicatingly relaxing. Time slows to a halt. You could be in there for three minutes or thirty, in a trance, unintentionally neglecting the objective of washing your hair or body. It’s the hotel’s water bill, not yours. I already paid for the room, I’m getting my money’s worth.

Dinner was a short walk across the street to a favorite Mexican restaurant of mine. Quickly seated, chips and salsa appeared on the table before I could even get comfortable. As the first real food I’d had since those crackers, they both vanished quickly. Steak, onions, beans, and rice followed. A tall, cold unsweetened “Yankee” iced tea to wash it all down. Some people are intimidated by eating in restaurants alone. I genuinely don’t understand that phobia.

Scrolling through my phone before leaving, I was curious if there was anything else to do in town. It was Saturday night, and as it happened, the longest day of the year. The town’s website was advertising a free clog dancing show in one of the community parks. Why not? Not usually my thing, but when in the Smokies…

Upon arrival, I quickly realized these were not just any cloggers; that guy from the internet memes was one of the dancers. You probably know the one. It was surprisingly entertaining. I don’t know if it was the way the ladies’ puffy skirts bounced around or how ol’ Zeb wiggled his knees and ankles like Jell-O, but it was the kind of thing that once you start watching, you just can’t look away. I’d missed the first hour, but that second hour absolutely flew by. Incredibly fun.

With the show over but still not quite dark yet, a quick drive up the parkway was in store to catch one of the overlooks as the sun dropped behind the hills. Ballhoot Scar was my choice. Had it been autumn, those mountains would have been ablaze with color. Being summer, the colors of choice were multiple tones of green, tinted by hues of atmospheric blue the further your eyes traced down the valley. I don’t take in the simple beauty of overlooks enough when I’m in the Smokies. That’s something I need to change with intention moving forward.

Now past dusk, I stopped at a gas station convenience store for something sweet before heading back to the hotel for good. I’m not a big dessert guy, but I needed something to take the edge off a salty dinner. I just had that taste in my mouth. Initially tempted by a Coke, I instead found a chocolate and vanilla ice cream sandwich in the Blue Bunny branded deep freeze by the register. It was easy to miss beneath a spinning countertop display of Bic lighters and cheap sunglasses. That’d certainly do the trick.

And not long after that ice cream sandwich was gone, Saturday was too. Time for bed.

Up early again Sunday, there was no questioning my weekend’s choices, or life’s choices, on the drive home. I’d made the most of my Saturday. Fished hard, ate well, and found some amusement that only this corner of the country can provide. The car ride home was filled with smiles and warm memories I think even Riverhorse would be proud of. Yeah, I had work again on Monday. But that was okay. This Smokies buzz would hold me over for a while.

One day in the mountains. Sometimes that’s all you need.

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