The year is coming to a close, and odds are, I won’t see water again for a while. As I write this, I am looking out my window at an utterly dreary day. Overcast, chilly, slow steady rain. For most people this is a good day to stay inside, but for an Enlightened Angler, this is the type of weather that calls you to the water. This is the kind of day when the bigger fish that are usually well hidden come out to play; and even the clumsiest of waders can be ninja like in their stealth. You can wade out amongst them unseen, throwing large flies made of flowing hair and marabou. I can feel the tug at the end of the line just thinking about it.

To wrap up the year, I thought I would list the info I compiled in my fishing journal.

Total fish caught Jan-Dec 2007---198
Chubs and other assorted drifters---19
Smallmouth Bass---4
Brown Trout---16 (Largest 17”)
Brook Trout---7
Rainbow Trout---152 (Largest 21”)

Days fishing---26
Days skunked---8

All in all a good year.

I hope each of you have a great 2008!

Marc

Luke 2
1And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.
2(And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)
3And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.
4And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)
5To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.
6And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.
7And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.
8And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
9And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
10And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
11For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
12And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
13And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
14Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
15And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.
16And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.
17And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.
18And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.
19But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

MERRY CHRISTMAS,

MARC

Without question, my Dads Mother made the best cobbler ever. No recipe, no measured portions, just a knack for hitting it just right every time. She lived with us and I can remember coming home from a long summer day in the woods or down at the lake, pulling up my t-shirt to form a basket, and picking fresh blackberries from the briar laden plants that grew in profusion along the fencerow that bounded our property.

Snakes would be present as well, hungry for both the berries and the mice that craved them. I would reach my hand into the thorny plants to pull the huge berries, retracting my thin arm quickly as if I would be able to successfully dodge the strike of some unseen viper. Little did I know at the time, but the common blacksnake was the only reptile lurking in the shadows. Nonpoisonous, but that is a non-issue to one who has in inclination to be fearful of such creatures.

I would carry the berries up to the house, nibbling on a few as I went, and dump them in a bowl in the kitchen sink. Leaving Mamaw to work her magic, I headed off to the shower to wash the days dirt away. Then it would happen; I would step out of the shower and be greeted by the sweetest smell that seemed to fill the air of our home. The berries had been washed, sorted, and mixed with other ingredients to create what still to me is nothing short of perfection. I would quickly grab a spoon; my hands still shriveled from the shower, and eat heartily. I can still feel the gentle crunch of the random blackberry seed, hot and alive with flavor.

It has been said that some men fly fish a long time without realizing that it isn’t the fish they are after. Sometimes, gathered around a campfire or cabin table among other fly anglers, conversation turns to past trips. Within those conversations, if you listen very carefully, you will note that a lot of the stories don’t involve the fish at all. It is the wonderful and blessed experience of living that lingers in the mind. It is the moments when memory is made of more than an action, when it has life and breath, when it imbeds itself into the heart…those are the days when heaven comes close. Those are the days that build a lifetime.

When I was a boy, my family lived roughly half a mile from Norris Lake. Each spring without fail, just about the time the Dogwoods bloomed, white bass (or stripe bass) would run up into Indian Creek to Spawn. Using a Zebco 33 and a small white rapalla with a red head, my friends and I would go down there and catch fish all day. The bass were so thick that seemingly each cast would get a hit. For some reason, shortly after I started Junior High, the fish stopped running up the creek. It was as if they had been removed from the lake altogether.

This past weekend, I experienced that old feeling. Standing mid thigh in turbulent water, I gleaned a massive number of trout. They weren’t native, and never did they get over 12-13”, but the sheer numbers of these stocked offerings brought back that joy I had remembered from so long ago.

I fished with a small lightweight bamboo, which bent nearly double at times as these fish used the current to their advantage. I may have looked like a master fisherman, but in fact, all it boiled down to was a little bit of know how and a strong dose of history.

These fish are stocked in mid November, and for most stocked trout, it takes them a few weeks to grow accustomed to their surroundings and spread out. I knew that they would be huddled together, and eating anything that came by. Video footage of freshly stocked trout shows that they will eat twigs, pieces of leaves, just about anything. Time will make them savvy to what is food and what is not, and they will establish a pronounced pecking order, but until then, all you have to do is find one…the others will be close.

I also had the opportunity to meet an online acquaintance. He fished upriver from me for a while before coming down to where the fish were holding. We had good conversation, and often we both had fish on the line.

The weather here is starting to get colder and the water temperature will cause the trout to settle down, but throughout the winter, I will continue to seek them out. By early spring, those who are either wise enough or lucky enough to survive will have grown and my 3wt. bamboo will be replaced with a 5wt. to accommodate their size.

Sometime in mid April, I will no doubt hook a good one. Last spring I gleaned two that were nearly 20” from this same spot, but until then I will wade out amongst them and have the same giddiness I knew as a child. The fish are different, and the tackle is far removed from my old 33, but it will be every bit as fun…as a matter of fact…it already is.

Today's world is a constant race. Lack of speed and a weak desire for upward mobility are seen as an impediment. Faster, stronger, newer, are the catch words of our day. In light of that, I consider myself lucky to have discovered a way to rail against such foolishness.

If you closely examine the newest fly fishing magazines and catalogs, you will find more and more equipment that is guaranteed to make you cast farther and faster. You will see a trove of tools that simply cannot be lived without. Strategically posed anglers with the latest in necessary gear cradle gleaming leviathans in their arms as if to suggest that if we will spend the money, we too can be space age anglers who retrieve record sized fish at every outing. The day that slick advertising and cheap foreign labor started courting the fly fishing community, a vital part of the sport was effectively laid to rest, and one of the most common reasons for fly fishing in the first place was placed in a lock box and pushed under the bed to gather dust bunnies along side lost socks and worn out shoes.

Fly fishing was in the beginning, and still is for me, a very slow, reflective, quiet, and to a certain degree, romantic past time. The basic tenants of Fly fishing are still the same. A gurgling brook or singing river, wading as slow and unobtrusive as your fumbling feet will allow, and the cast. A long, slow back cast that hangs motionless for a moment before you roll the line out on the water, the fly dropping on or under the surface with the force of a whisper. When I think fly fishing, that is what I consider to be the foundation of the sport.

I guess that is why, for me, bamboo is not a way to fish, it is the ONLY way to fish. To cast a well made bamboo fly rod, one that very well could be older than your Grandfather, is the true essence of the reason I started this journey in the first place. It causes me to slow down, relax, and enjoy. I own several "boos", and though some are of greater renown than others, I enjoy each one of them.

Please don't think that I am trying to be elitist; I own and am not to good to use a graphite rod. But when someone from a New York Ad agency that no doubt has never stood in the middle of a stream is trying to mix the subtle wink and nudge of a car salesman into a sport that traditionally has been a way to escape such things, all I can do is shake my head.

My Grandfather once said, "Sometimes it takes a long time to get over fools hill", and when I see people sinking money into equipment that will be outdated before the new is worn off of it, I look in the corner of my fly tying room at the modest collection tubes that contain rods that were built before I was born, and I understand just what he meant. Why invest in the new? After all, the river is older than you can fathom, and I trust that it has served you well.

I am a study hound. No doubt about it, if I am interested in something, I will read everything I can find about it. The way I look at it, the more I know before I start, the shorter the learning curve when I actually undertake the task at hand. Without question this is pure genetics. My Dad is the same way. Knowledge doesn’t give you the upper hand, knowledge IS the upper hand.

To further explain, let me take you to my latest fishing trip. The river I was on is stocked every November and as I stood on the bank I scanned the water for any sign of activity. Nada. No rises, no swirls, just the steady roll of the water. I know they are in there, and I know that they are young and new to the neighborhood, but what I didn’t know where they were.

Now, back to the comments about study. One of the things I have learned about stocked trout is that they are accustomed to being huddled in together; so odds were that if I could find one, I would locate several. Another thing I have learned is that feeding trout like a moderately swift current, steady food supply, and a quick means of escape it threatened. By combing this information, it was obvious that I needed to fish an area that was roughly forty feet in front of me. Riffles, bubbles denoting the primary feed line of the river, and enough big rocks to provide cover.

The rod I was fishing was a wispy 3wt. bamboo that I chose because I knew that if I hooked a fish it would be small. Rigged with one of my favorite go to’s, I began casting and for several minutes I was unsure if there were any fish in there at all. Then it happened…BAM! My yarn indicator sank and I gave a swift tug. From that point on it was one fish after another, seemingly on every cast. The fish were hanging out exactly where I thought they would be. All of them in the ten inch range…with one exception.

The subtlest take of the day proved to be the best fish. The indicator didn’t submerge, it moved sideways against the current. I set the hook and almost immediately my line began racing away and the bend in the 3wt. removed any questions. Twice it ran causing my small reel to whir before I finally brought it to the net. A nice Rainbow of 13 or 14” with vibrant colors. One quick pop and the barbless hook was free, and so was my catch of the day.

The water where these fish were feeding would not be the first choice of fishing locations. Several other spots looked fishy. But with countless trips under my belt and a wealth of knowledge through a passionate study of my sport, I knew where they would be.

The day was great, I lost count of the number of fish brought to hand, and I was given yet another opportunity to spend time in the one great refuge I have found. Time spent with God, nature, and a 6’ 9” bamboo that got the workout of a lifetime.

Monday. A Government holiday which meant I had some wiggle room to hit the water. So, having found my five or so hours of time, I headed out. The hour of my departure was early, by the time the six o’clock bell rang to wake my still sleeping family, I would be well on my way. After stopping for gas and a 24oz. bottle of a syrupy energy drink that couldn’t be good for me, I caught the interstate and rolled north to the Clinch River.

Once upon a time, the Clinch was a revered place in the Southeast. Photos of proud anglers holding kipe jawed leviathans was not uncommon. Stories around campfires at night were full of Clinch river trout that were hooked, but never seen as they stripped the angler of his fly line, backing, and his pride.

That was the Clinch of old. The Clinch of today is more like a future hall of fame football player who is old and tired but to in love with the game to quit. What used to be a normal catch of 14” now brings whoops and shouts of joy. If you catch more than two over 12” it has been a good day.

Knowing this, I approached the water with minimal expectations. The water was low, not particularly cold, and completely void of any activity that would suggest that fish were to be found. I fumbled two #22 midges on my line and waded out.

The third cast brought a little guy to hand. It was young and looked like it hadn’t been in the neighborhood very long judging by its worn fins from the hatchery. After pulling the fly from its mouth I lowered it back into the water where it darted underneath a rock to try and figure out what had just happened.

It was then that the trip took an odd twist. On the wooded hillside behind me, I could hear the passionate wail of dogs who sounded as if they were on the trail of something. The thought had no sooner passed my mind when a four point buck bounded out of the timber and into the river no more than thirty yards from where I stood. I watched in amazement as this animal raced through the early morning fog. Valiantly he pushed forward until he stumbled into a deep hole, sinking up to his neck in the current. The dogs emerged from the underbrush and with reckless abandon they rumbled in after him. Finally the deer managed to climb up on an exposed rock, but he had trapped himself and the dogs were closing in fast. With no where to quickly escape, the buck then did the only thing he could do, he turned to face his attackers. They inched up the rock, growling with a deep tone as the buck lowered his antlers and spread his front legs to secure his footing. At that point the fight was on. One by one the dogs lunged at him, and as they did so, he dispatched one, a yellow lab mix that found himself lifted completely out of the water. The others, having seen the fate of their friend, slowly backed away, heading back to wherever home might be.

The deer stood on the rock for another half hour or so. I thanked God for letting me get such a thrill, and continued fishing. The buck kept watching me, and the thought crossed my mind that if the old boy came my way, I’d be in the world of hurt. Luckily he moved across the river and disappeared.

The rest of the day I fished with my friend Jeremy. We both caught fish, he having the better of our days. Both of us catching each other up on life events and discussing the quality of the Clinch, but in my mind I kept going back to that scene of the day waking up, and life…real life…the life of this amazing planet as it unfolded before my eyes.

A three-day weekend with two days that present the possibility to fish. How great that sounds, but the reality of it is that if I can pull five hours out of the whole weekend, I’ll be doing well.

Five hours. To those who don’t fish mid stream, five hours is a long time to be doing anything; but to those like myself who find so much joy in the angling sport, five hours could be likened to stretching before a 25K marathon.

I am a slow angler. As a rule, I take my time, never get in a hurry, and prefer to work an area hard before moving on. Methodical in my approach, but for some reason the clock never seems to slow down with me. Sure, there have been those “time stands still” moments, but for the most part, hours while I am on the water have the uncanny knack of evaporating at a rate that seems almost surreal.

This is the season of the tiny fly. The tail waters I fish require cold weather bugs that are best tied using an electron microscope and fiber optics. Calling one of my favorite fly shops yesterday, I was amazed to find out that I could actually buy size 30 midge hooks. Size 30! To put that in perspective, that would be like tying a fly with a hook that is not much different in size from the lower case letters of this report. I seriously doubt that I will ever feel the need to tie something that small. These eyes have a hard enough time with the 22’s, and 24’s that I attempt from time to time.

These microscopic bugs, or midges, are the ticket in winter and I have a fly box that is actually an old metal aspirin box with a thin magnet glued to the inside. These bugs are so small and light that a simple refrigerator magnet will hold them all day. Now imagine trying to tie one of these on 6 or 7X tippet while standing in a 45 degree river with a thirty degree air temperature. That is why God made threaders!

In any event, this weekend at some point I will grab my little aspirin box of flies, face the brisk November wind, and glean my five or so hours, which will only seem like minutes. And the day will be spectacular. It always is………………..

Isn’t it odd? Even if you have three or four fly boxes full of stuff, just before a big trip you feel as though you must tie some more? It is almost as if you are seeking some magic combination that will bring the mother load of trout that hasn’t been equaled since Christ told his Apostles to cast on the other side of the boat.

That is where I find myself right now. I have a one day trip planned for next week and even though I know that in one of my boxes is the right size and type of fly I will need, I am still thinking about when I will have time to tie some up for the trip.

The funny thing is…as always, I will wind up using one of three flies that seem to wind up on my tippet before the day is through. Bead Head Pheasant Tail, Hairs Ear Nymph, and a Parachute Adams. I have every variety of scud, sow bug, midge, caddis, and stone fly in my boxes, but I always return to those three. I have always heard that you should “dance with the one that brung ya”, and in fly selection I am no different. There may be slight variations to the patterns. A little soft hackle here, a little flash there, but the big three are always what I turn to.

I guess it is a lot like life. We are most drawn to the things that make us comfortable, things that we can count on. Even though the temptation or allure of something new excites our imaginations, it is the stability found in choices that take no effort that keep us on track.

There are those hard core fly fishermen who are dead set on matching the hatch, but how many times in a years worth of angling do you encounter a magic hatch? I can personally only recall two or maybe three times when the choice of fly was actually dictated by a massive hatch or the real thing emerging from the water. And even then I probably tied on an Adams with a Hares Ear Dropper. Stubborn to the highest, I cling to my comfort and hope that the trout are not nearly as dead set on the specific as I am.

It is not unusual for me to be skunked on the water. More often, than not it is because I am an average at best caster and the level of cooperation between my rod and my leader is about as amicable as dinner conversation between Reverend Billy Graham and Osama ben Ladin. That is what made the trip I took Saturday even more unusual than the regular riverside jaunts. I knew that I wouldn’t be catching any fish, but I absolutely had to get out in the water.

So, a good thirty minutes before the sun was scheduled to make its daily crossing of the East Tennessee horizon, I was sitting on the hood of my car with a warm cup of coffee nestled in my hands. Alone. Quiet. Serine.

By the time the silhouette of the distant mountains became distinguishable I was shin deep in the river. The water was a little over sixty degrees and low. No doubt about it, there would be no fish here today. And I was right. I waded out to the very center of the river and turned back to face the shore so that the sun would come up behind me. The fall colors slowly came to life in my viewing as the sky lightened and the day came to life.

A resounding chorus of Geese sounded over my head as a living V raced up the river valley, followed by a smaller group who honked fervently as if they were pleading with the other group to slow down so that they could catch up.

A group of deer came from underneath the shadows of the timberline to draw from the river. At best they were only about fifty feet from me, but I was motionless, and with the sun at my back, they never knew I was there.

Looking at my watch I saw that I had roughly two more hours until I absolutely had to leave and looking up river I could see a spot that would be holding trout if any were in this section of water. Briefly I considered wading on up and trying it, but instead I headed to shore, the deer vanished with one quick leap, and I went back to the car and headed home.

Sometimes it just ain’t about the catching, and often what you are fishing for isn’t a fish…it is peace.

My Grandfather died before I was born, and more times than I can count, I have been related to him in conversations with loved ones who see in me a part of him. A man who from all accounts was creative, an angler, a musician, and though I never knew him, I feel that in some ways I understand him.

To be on or in the water seemed to be a place of refuge for him. He built his own boat; the mysterious “Our Miss Mills” was its name. No one ever really knew the reason for calling it that, much like no one who fly fishes can really understand the complete satisfaction of the total experience. I am sure that there were days when he just needed to get away. He needed the peace and comfort of the water and the unknown and varied excitements of what may be lurking unseen beneath the glare of the waters surface. I understand, and share with him that feeling.

Perhaps our attraction to the water was pure genetics or to delve even deeper, perhaps that portion of our soul transferred from generations that preceded him. We are descended from the subjects of the British Crown, and perhaps one of those men who were the foundation of our family stood on some misty Scottish shoreline, gazed out at the rolling waves, and was entranced to a place that impacted all generations that would follow.

As I cast my line in some cold stream, and I see the fly line dance over my head to land softly in the current, I know and understand that peace. I read somewhere that “Some people go to Church and think about fishing while others go fishing and think about God”. I can honestly say that I do both. I try as hard as any mortal man could, to follow the precepts of my Savior, but it is also not uncommon for me to sing a hymn or pray aloud to God as I stand in the water of some gorge or tail water. For me, I have my time of collective worship, but I also have a sanctuary not built by human hands in which I am met by God, and I am also met by generations I will never know until the day that I leave this place and am elevated to the higher plains of Heaven.

Nevertheless, for now I have the river….and that is enough.

And so we begin.....

This is going to be quite an adventure for me. A therapy if you will......

The time I spend on the water is so important to me, the chance to clear my head and get all the rough spots leveled out.

My plan is to submit weekly posts that I hope will be of some use to someone. Not only about equipment and flies or the fish that they glean, but also of thoughts that come to mind when entranced by the steady gentle whisper of cold water rolling over smooth stone.

And so we begin...........