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...........