The Trout Behind Me

The plan for our yearly pilgrimage to the North Carolina Smokies was solid—or so we thought. We’d researched a creek that was supposed to be "prolific," a word that usually gets a fisherman’s blood pumping. But after a day of catching nothing but "dinks" and disappointment, we headed back to the cabin to lick our wounds. We spent the evening “pouring” over maps and apps, nursing a glass of the good stuff, trying to find a blue line on the paper that held a fish worthy of the trip. 

The thing about online maps is they can’t tell you how "sketchy" a mountain road is. What looked like a simple haul on a screen turned out to be a rocky path with drop-offs steep enough to make your stomach do backflips and branches that clawed at the trucks like they wanted something from us. We crawled along for miles until we hit a closed gate. No creek in sight, no sound of rushing water. Just a silent mountain and a tight spot to turn around that required more nerves than I had left. 

As the Marines say, we had to improvise, adapt, and overcome. We didn’t come all this way to only be disappointed.  

We finally found a little run with reasonable access. It was small, tight, and required the kind of stealth usually reserved for jewel thieves. Most of the group had lost hope and the ambition to climb deep into the creek, but I found a hole, went into "fish mode," and started the dance.  

I tied on a small hopper pattern and on the very first drift, I saw him. A beautiful target rising to the terrestrial, only to dart back into the shadows the second I went to set the hook. He was gone, but I was stubborn. I kept floating that fly into the same spot like a man trying to reignite an old flame that’s already moved on. Every time he rose and fled, I felt that deep sting of unworthiness. Out west, the guides call these trout "tire kickers"—fish that like to look but never buy. On the East coast I call them assholes.  

I sat there, dejected, feeling every bit of my age and an unworthy fisherman when a random bug decided to hitch a ride on my sling pack. I’m no entomologist, but I figured if nature was literally handing me the answer, I should probably listen. I broke out my box of flies and decided an Elk Hair Caddis was the closest match I had. 

I looked back at the hole that had just broken my heart for the last twenty minutes and decided I couldn't take the rejection again. I turned around, saw a new bit of water, and out of pure spite for that "tire kicker, asshole" I cast into the unknown. The next spot.  

The fly hadn’t been on the surface for a second before a wild Rainbow struck with a tenacity I haven't seen since the last time I saw a bottle of Green River Wheated Bourbon sitting on the store shelf at retail price. He hit that caddis like he’d been waiting for it his whole life. Once he was safely in the net, the self-doubt evaporated like mist off the water. 

The Lesson learned that day; Sometimes you have to stop staring at the hole that won’t give you what you want and turn around. The best catch of the trip might be sitting right behind you, just waiting for you to change your perspective.