Hallowed Ground

[NCHillbilly]

Me and @northgeorgiasportsman strapped on the backpacks Friday morning and hiked several miles back into the headwaters of a creek deep in the Smokies. Destination: one of the favorite campsites of many of our old-timer hunting and fishing and literary heroes of years long gone by. I'm pushing 55 with legs starting to go downhill, so I was a bit apprehensive. It's been many a year since I've walked this far with a 42-lb pack on my back. But, the destination beckoned, and we set out from the trailhead about 8:00 AM in good spirits.

2 1/2 miles in, before the real hike started, we were still in good shape, and still had a few dry spots on our clothing:





We saw a couple of deer along the trail. Strangely enough, this one was blurry, much like bigfeets and black panthers are:



After a grueling climb across a steep ridge, and a brief adventure involving a yellowjacket nest that we stopped to rest on top of, our creek finally came into sight in the gorge far below us.



Wes having a myocardial infarction. I stopped having my own long enough to take this pic:


The Smokies are moist. Everything is damp and dripping with water vapor in the 100% perpetual humidity. If you sit still too long, moss will start growing on you.

We stopped for a break about five miles in at a backcountry campsite to rest and filter some water to refill our bottles. By this time, it was getting hot, and I was as wet as if I had jumped into the creek. I could have wrung large quantities of sweat out of any random article of clothing on my body. There were three steady drips of water pouring off my hat bill as we hiked, about one drip per second. We took off our packs, rested in the shade awhile, and a deer came up and poked its head out of the bushes and looked at us as we relaxed and drank water. We strapped back in and started on the last leg of our hike, mostly pleasant walking along the creek, with two minor ridges to cross before we got to our campsite.

We finally arrived in early afternoon, rested awhile, then got camp set up. This was our home for a couple days-sitting, cooking, eating, and sleeping in the same place as our mentors of yesterday:





The Park Service provides these cables, so that you can hoist your pack and food 15 feet in the air to keep the bears from toting them off:



We were here at last. We spent a couple hours lounging and resting before heading out to try the fishing. We were expecting good things.

to be continued......​

 

[northgeorgiasportsman]

I'll have you know, I wasn't having a myocardial infarction, I was simply studying tracks in the dirt.

 

[NCHillbilly]

I'll have you know, I wasn't having a myocardial infarction, I was simply studying tracks in the dirt.

I saw several very interesting bugs and plants that I stopped to study for a minute.

 

[trout maharishi]

Carry a pair of binoculars or a magnifying glass. It legitimizes the "I'm looking at something" excuse for stopping. Looking forward to seeing the rest of the story.

 

[NCHillbilly]

We headed a half a mile or so upstream from camp with great expectations and thoughts of fried trout for supper. The creek was beautiful, with light shining down from heaven upon it:





We fished. We fished as hard as our tired bodies would allow us. We fished for about two hours. I fished probably over a quarter-mile of fine looking water, and I caught exactly nothing. I missed three or four slapping, splashy false strikes, flipped one decent fish out of the water that came unbuttoned, and that was it. I'm not Lefty Kreh or Lee Wulff, but I can usually catch a trout if there is one to be caught. I caught nothing. I honestly cannot remember the last time I fished that much fine-looking water for that long, and got skunked. They just simply were not eating. Later, we met two college kids hiking downstream taking water samples for the Park Service and fishing along the way. They said the water temps were in the mid-60s, and the fishing was lousy, which is very unusual for a creek this far back in the mountains, but at least it made me feel better to have an excuse why the fish were lethargic and to explain why I sucked.

After fishing a couple hours with no results, and being visually traumatized by an old through-hiking geezer in his skimpy drawers coming from a nearby backcountry campsite to bathe in the creek, I slunk back to camp with my tail between my legs. Wes arrived in a few minutes with a similar tale. He had at least done better than me, and had caught one decent fish that escaped as he was taking a picture of it.

So much for a delicious fried trout supper. We ate the Rissoto Of Shame, sat around a while, and went to bed to recuperate our tired carcasses.

And the morning and the evening were the first day.....

​

 

[northgeorgiasportsman]

This guy would have been supper Friday night. I took this pic and started to dispatch him and tuck him in my pouch. But then, vanity struck. I decided to take a better picture of him with his spots more displayed. He took the opportunity to flop free of my grasp, thus escaping sentencing to the frying pan.

 

[NCHillbilly]

Saturday morning, we split up to fish. I headed a little over a mile downstream to fish back up, and Wes headed upstream.

Along the trail, a couple of cinnabar chanterelles were starting to pop up:



While walking along watching a bird up in the treetops, I almost stepped on a rabbit that was hunkered down quietly in the trail. I tried to get my camera out to take a pic of him, but he jumped into the woods as soon as I pointed it at him.

This was a fine stretch of water. Here is the hole that one of my old-timer heroes caught the biggest trout of his career from, a 24" rainbow.



I caught a 7" rainbow from it



I fished a good ways up the creek, and it was still slow this morning. I caught several fish, but nothing of any size, except for one good fish I briefly hung and lost. Most of them were cookie-cutter 7"-8" browns:



The fishing wasn't great, but the water I was covering was beautiful. I know that it's full of good fish, but I just couldn't get the bigger ones to hit.









After awhile of fishing with the same results, I headed back to camp for lunch and some relaxation.

Oddly, camp was infested with butterflies and honeybees.



The butterflies were expected, but the honeybees were a surprise this far back in the woods. When I would take off my sweaty hat, the honeybees, sweat bees, and butterflies would swarm it.

I had never seen a butterfly exactly like this one before. With his wings folded, he looked just like a withered dead leaf, but when he opened them, he was a colorful butterfly:





Wes met me at camp with tales of similar results, but said he had caught one good rainbow. We ate, rested, and waited for the late afternoon, and hoped for better fishing and our long-awaited supper of fried trout.

 

[Paymaster]

Awesome!!!! Thanks for sharing y'all's trip!!

 

[NCHillbilly]

That afternoon, it clouded up and came a couple brief sprinkles of rain. The temperature dropped perceptibly. We headed out from camp hoping for better results. We hiked about a mile or so up the trail from camp.

Lavender coral fungus was growing along the trail:



Rattlesnake orchids were starting to bloom, and 3"-4" giant millipedes were crawling around:





Wes went on upstream, while I started here:



I caught a keeper on a dry fly in the first hole under the footlog. Things were looking up.

A little ways upstream, I came across an 18" brown lying on his side in the shallows, barely alive. His head was all slashed, skinned and battered up. I figured that an otter had grabbed him and he had finally escaped, but the damage was done. I spent a few minutes trying to resuscitate him, but to no avail, he was done for.





I fished a ways up an interesting tributary and caught a few small rainbows by dabbing a fly under the rhododendron limbs:



I returned to the main creek, and fished a ways upstream. The fishing still wasn't great, but at least it was happening. Fish were rising to dry flies here and there. I kept a few, and turned some smaller ones loose. Some of them were halfway decent fish, with the biggest one an 11 1/2" brown. I'll take it.


I met back up with Wes, and watched him fish awhile:



We headed back to camp happy, with a mess of fish for supper.

 

[NCHillbilly]

Awesome!!!! Thanks for sharing y'all's trip!!

It ain't done yet.

 

[cowhornedspike]

Great story so far! Looking forward the the rest of it.
We always called that a "comma" butterfly due to the little comma shaped mark under the wings.

 

[NCHillbilly]

Back at camp, Wes cooked up some rice while I fried a couple panfuls of fish. This was the best thing I've eaten in awhile. Fresh air, lots of exercise, and nostalgia are excellent seasonings and sauces.





As we cooked and ate, we reflected on all the fine meals of trout and bear meat and other things that have been cooked and eaten over the last century on this very spot by those who blazed the trails for us, but are no longer here; and wondered how they would feel about things like jetboil stoves, LED headlamps, 6-ounce sleeping bags, and GPS phone apps. We sat around the fire for awhile and I drained the last of the small bottle of bourbon. It was a good evening, one for the books. As the man on the Old Milwaukee commercial once said, "It doesn't get any better than this." I was already dreading leaving out in the morning.

 

[NCHillbilly]

The next morning, we packed up camp (interrupted for awhile by my search for the stuffsack for my tent, which I finally found rolled up inside my sleeping bag in my pack,) and headed back down the trail. Going out was easier than coming in, but still pretty grueling, especially after Wes started the Bataan Death March pace the last two miles that about killed me to keep up with. I hated to leave the place we were, but I was also pretty glad to see my little red truck. I determined that the next time I was going to park on the end of the parking lot next to the trailhead instead of 50 yards further down at the other end.

A few random observations of things I learned from this trip:

Trekking Poles. They're da bomb. I've always made fun of people using them, but Wes convinced me to try them, and they make a huge difference.

Another thing I learned from Wes: Liquid IV is good stuff.

Mountain House breakfast skillet meals aren't bad at all if you douse them with black pepper and Tabasco, add a few heated slices of that pre-cooked non-refrigeration bacon, and roll them up in a tortilla.

Ditto Uncle Ben's instant butter and garlic rice with black pepper and Tabasco.

Don't plan long, strenuous trips in the dead of summer when the fishing sucks.

Wading boots are heavy, and don't pack well.

Don't put fly boxes in your back pocket. They may pop out when you climb over a boulder or log, and you'll never see them again.

Wes is a great guy to go hiking and camping with. (I actually already knew that.)

Fresh trout fried in camp are the nectar of the Gods. (I already knew that too.)

I'm not 30 years old any more, but I'm in better shape than I thought I was. Wes's GPS app said we walked nearly 30 miles this weekend, nearly half that carrying heavy packs. I've still got a few years left in me.

It is emotionally and spiritually nourishing to camp on hallowed ground.




As I sit here writing this, my calves are tight and burning, my hip joints hurt, and I feel like somebody drove a 60-penny bridge spike into my back right between my shoulder blades. But, I'd gladly strap that pack back on and head back in there this weekend if I could. This was one of the most beautiful and peaceful places I've ever camped and fished in. The nights were cool enough that a sleeping bag felt really good, and filled with the music of owls and the year's first few katydids. The days were sparkling live running water, bright trout, and dappled green sunlight filtered through countless canopy layers of chlorophyll. I'll be back.

...​

 

[specialk]

Absolute awesome thread, thanks for sharing this.....

 

[fredw]

Thoroughly enjoyed the read.....thanks for taking us along.

 

[northgeorgiasportsman]

I've camped and fished some beautiful places before, but I can't recall a place that was ever so alive in Appalachian history as this place. You could almost feel the ghosts of our ancestors, both white and Cherokee, as we slipped through the shadows. I couldn't help but think of Horace Kephart kneeling to fill his coffee pot on the same rock I was filling mine.

As I stood knee deep in the cool water, studying the braids and lines in the runs, deciding which line would give my fly the best drift, it occurred to me that Uncle Mark Cathey might have stood in the exact same spot studying the exact same run.

I'm glad I could spend the weekend with a fella that appreciates the history of the place as much or more than I do. Old Steve, or Papaw as he will now be known, is a fine camp mate. The fishing wasn't what either of us expected. With no small measure of humility, we are both very good fly fishermen and we struggled mightily to catch fish. We'll blame it on the weather. But it was a heck of a trip and I need to do it more often.

My pedometer recorded over 52,000 steps the 3 days we were in there, and that's not counting the time I was wading and it was in my pack. I figure we covered between 23-25 miles, much of which was with 40+ pound packs. I can officially declare, that we are in BEAR SHAPE!

 

[NCHillbilly]

I've camped and fished some beautiful places before, but I can't recall a place that was ever so alive in Appalachian history as this place. You could almost feel the ghosts of our ancestors, both white and Cherokee, as we slipped through the shadows. I couldn't help but think of Horace Kephart kneeling to fill his coffee pot on the same rock I was filling mine.

As I stood knee deep in the cool water, studying the braids and lines in the runs, deciding which line would give my fly the best drift, it occurred to me that Uncle Mark Cathey might have stood in the exact same spot studying the exact same run.

I'm glad I could spend the weekend with a fella that appreciates the history of the place as much or more than I do. Old Steve, or Papaw as he will now be known, is a fine camp mate. The fishing wasn't what either of us expected. With no small measure of humility, we are both very good fly fishermen and we struggled mightily to catch fish. We'll blame it on the weather. But it was a heck of a trip and I need to do it more often.

My pedometer recorded over 52,000 steps the 3 days we were in there, and that's not counting the time I was wading and it was in my pack. I figure we covered between 23-25 miles, much of which was with 40+ pound packs. I can officially declare, that we are in BEAR SHAPE!

Well said, brother. Now I know you are bound to have some more pics....

 

[trad bow]

Excellent trip!! Appreciate the time to write it up and post here. Beautiful pictures for the most part.

 

[TurkeyH90]

Thank yall.

 

[northgeorgiasportsman]

We'll have a lot of the same pics, I wish I had more fish pics to show, but I didn't take many.

This kaleidoscope of butterflies was cleaning up the remnants of an otter's lunch.



This magnificent footbridge really has to be seen to believed. It's one massive tree trunk and I have no idea how it was put in place. It has to weight many tons.


More than once, this trip offered me a Robert Frost choice. Unlike Frost, I chose the one more traveled. Here, the big creek forked into two smaller creeks.


Y'all should have known, if @NCHillbilly is along, the food ain't gonna suffer.



And as I waited patiently for Papaw to pack up, I tried to soak up the sun that only reaches the valley floor after 10 am. It cast my shadow, the only mark I left on the hallowed ground.