Second trip of the Year: >> a new day

19 March 2004

Deciding to grab another day and to take off from work to boot, made today an extra special day on the Chattooga with Rhee. We drove our usual route, staying off the Interstate but taking some locally known State highways on the most direct path we know. It allows us to make pretty good time and gives us a more leisurely, sight-seeing trip. This is good because it does take a couple of hours to arrive, but we no longer feel that we have to hurry. This is no race.

Riding in the passenger seat, I like to take a book with me, ostensibly to read of course, but as often as not, I just end up looking out the window at all the places we pass. I think about the people I have met in many parts of the upstate of South Carolina. I think about the land and the trees in particular, because you see, I used to practice Forestry professionally. I was a procurement Forester; shorthand for Timber Buyer. I consider myself fortunate having survived this profession for over 19 years, and I do not look back with regrets. But neither do I look back with longing, either. That is a brutal profession whichever way you look at it.

At any rate, I like trees, now that I can get out amongst them without having to put a dollar sign on them, and it does give me some pleasure when I pass a tract of land on which I was successful in getting the landowner to replant those areas that needed it. You would think that to be a “no-brainer”, but in point of fact, many other factors often entered into making that decision, money being not the least of them. It’s just human nature, I guess.

Enough digression.

After passing through Walhalla, and beginning our climb through some increasingly more winding roads, we always drive past the place where a local farmer keeps a deer or two and maybe a turkey in some pens beside the road. It is another one of those little-known “features” of local life, that is occasionally written about in some of the local papers whenever an outdoor or travel editor decides to do a piece on a local attraction. Many people stop by there year-round to look, take pictures, perhaps even talk with the owner or his family. I don’t know. I have never stopped. I don’t especially know why, either. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the fact that I came all this way to go fly fishing for trout. Wanna bet?

Turning off SC Highway 107 onto the road down to Burrells’ Ford, Rhee says she doesn’t see why they didn’t pave the road all the way down instead of just for about 100 yards, and then maintaining it as a gravel road the rest of the way. The way I see it, though, this is just one more thing that does not need to be made easier/more convenient for the general public. One of the few things that President Jimmy Carter did exceptionally well was in designating the area around the Chattooga River as a Rare II Wilderness Area, and I hope with all my heart that never changes, period.

We arrive. Hmmm, doesn’t appear to be very much activity judging from the very few vehicles we see in the upper parking area. And that means that most of the occupants have spread out in efforts to achieve solitude away from each other, I would guess. Other than an occasional fisherman getting ready for his rite of passage, the river around the bridge is fairly unbothered. Except by me, of course. I wanted to see (1) if the State Hatchery truck had visited since last Saturday, and (2) if he had not, what sort of luck could be expected. The answers came quickly: (1) no, and (2) pretty good considering (1).

Entering below the bridge, I worked the water with a weighted nymph. Right away I noticed that I was having much less trouble casting and keeping my leader free from wind knots. This was almost incredible, because there was a gusting breeze pretty frequently that made me wait, but I actually had less trouble than last weekend. Go figure. It wasn’t long before I picked up a small rainbow that nevertheless put on a spirited show. I had decided to keep fish today, so into the live net he went. I was hoping this was a good omen, and it was. A little later, I connected with a decent trout, but ended up executing an LDR (that’s Long Distance Release for you uninitiated). This time I didn’t laugh. But I didn’t get mad, either. And Rhee was still in the vehicle, not on the river taking pictures. Or taking a nap. I didn’t blame her.

So I potzed around, and some somebodies came in and squatted on the spot that I had taken too long in making my way toward, so I was forced to potz some more until they decided to leave. They were bait fishermen, using corn, but I didn’t see that they had any success. This is a funny thing, you know. When the river is stocked, it is like a department store sale with people all using the same stuff and raking in the poor fish like crazy. They automatically become “a helluva good fisherman” and “look at how many we got in the cooler” (the limit is 8), but after they catch all the idiots (easy-pickings) and the action slows down, they begin to leave. This is the moment. They have “educated” the survivors. But, they have not “educated” them about fly fishermen. HAH! and triple HAH! This is stupid. Last Saturday, in the very same spot, I caught and released 4 trout. This day, I caught and kept the same number in that same spot. And no one else was able to pull any more out. Must have caught the last ones in there.

Later in the season, I won’t have to prove the same stuff all over again. The fish will all be released, unless I am backpacking and decide to keep one or two for a meal over a campfire. Do you blame me? All of this is not to attempt to state that I have any exceptional abilities as a fisherman, but merely observations on human nature. I just end up shaking my head: “Some things never seem to change.”

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