Burdawg
Member
Two weeks post-op the hand was healing well. The doc had told me to keep it dry and covered to keep bacteria out of the incision. The trip had been planned since January, so I was hoping for the best. I anxiously packed all my gear and headed for camp. I was looking forward to visiting some kin folks in Avery county and cooler waters. Change happens everywhere but it seems at a slower pace up there. The river is still much the same....fitting for its pastoral setting. It’s the kind of place that is reminiscent of my youth...where you could stop on a roadside by a homestead and seek out the owner, hat in hand of course. You could meander up to the porch and in the humblest manner possible, ask for permission to cross their property. I’ve long since replaced “you ‘uns” with “y’all”, but it’s best to use “mountain” talk...when in Rome or Avery county in this case. The approach is tested and the little grey haired lady on the porch granted permission albeit with one minor stipulation. I guess her son or grandson had suggested it, but we couldn’t fish upstream behind her place...an inconvenience, but downstream access would work. It worked out well since there were numerous pools less than 100 yards from the landmark of the old home place. The creek was clear and cold, and better suited than the river for what I had in mind. I had cajoled an old friend into tying some traditional flies before leaving home. I had already stocked up on the usual black copper johns and stones, but I wanted to try something a little more “old school”. My friend had graciously delivered 10 of the size 14 flies a day before my departure. Now, I know there are several versions of it...but the old guy is always tinkering. I don’t think they can help it when they sit at the vise. When I first saw them, I couldn’t help but think of Mr. Paul Hughes. We had stopped in Linville last year and luckily, Fay Hughes’ store was open and we stocked up on some old patterns. We weren’t so lucky this year, so I was thankful to have the “Yallerhammers” in hand. They had produced some brook and browns in the river, but I was after some creek fish. After a few casts in a narrow run, I moved further downstream in search of deeper haunts...I approached from below and stopped short of the water. I surmised if fish weren’t in this hole, it was going to be tough. I tied 4’ of tippet to the furled leader, a yallerhammer and a little nymph off the bend. The second cast would find the little bow, and several more would follow. I was expecting small bows or specks but on this cast, the take was different. The upper fly was slammed, a large swirl...the drag was set too light and the fish was rapidly heading downstream toward wood and despite my despair, I calmly adjusted it tighter. I applied side pressure instantly and steered it away from the wood just in the nick of time. As I put the net under the fish, I could see the yallerhammer had struck and my redemption was found. I’ve brought many fish to hand, many that were larger...but, for some reason, this fish was special. As I released it, I realized there was no need to fish any longer. It was time to savor the surrounding beauty and pay homage to tradition. It was a perfect Sunday morning...for redemption.
Gil.
