The weekend before the 4th, I headed to North Carolina and the Tuckasegee for a smallmouth float. We started at 7:30 a.m., drove to one put-in, but the river was nothing but mud. We tried another put-in — not much better. So we drove an hour and a half back to get on the stream.
At the spot, Jeremy — a guide I’ve known for years — asked, “You want to take a nice little path or slide down a hill?” Naturally, I chose to slide. But when I saw the 30-foot vertical drop, slick with moss, no footholds, nothing to grab onto, I hesitated. “Are we coming back up this way?” I asked. “Nope,” Jeremy said. “Where we get out upstream, there are stairs.” Down we went.
My casting was off, but the afternoon was beautiful. Downstream, mist danced over the water and rocks. I love that timeless view downriver. As we worked upstream, a massive pile of trees blocked our path. We couldn’t go around — a huge, active hornet’s nest hung over the river — so we climbed over.
As we changed flies, fat raindrops began to fall. We both said, “It’ll pass.” Then the sky opened up and dumped buckets on us. Still, we agreed, “It’ll pass.” Suddenly the sky lit up like fireworks, followed by a loud crack. “Time. To. Get. Out. Of. Here!” We scrambled back over the trees and up the now-slippery hill. I pulled myself up along rocks and mountain laurel until, nearing the top, Jeremy was able to get ahead and haul me up the rest of the way.
At the truck, we were laughing, soaked, out of breath — exhilarated. On the drive home, retelling the story, I realized: even though I didn’t catch a fish, fly fishing had once again given me another unforgettable story to add to my life’s archives. Most days start and end pretty normally. But a day with a fly rod in hand is the beginning of a mystical, magical journey — where beauty and adventure always await.
Here fishy, fishy, fishy!
Hope to see you at the picnic!!!!
Kim Emery
President
“Often I have been exhausted on trout streams, uncomfortable, wet, cold, briar scarred, sunburned, mosquito bitten, but never, with a fly rod in my hand have I been less than in a place that was less than beautiful.”
-Charles Kuralt
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