I had a rare weekday off today, and had a few hours to do whatever I wished. I wished to go catch some native specks. It was forecast to be in the low 90s in the valleys today, which is not ideal trout fishing conditions. But luckily, living here among the Smokies and Great Balsams, I can be in the Canadian Zone in less than an hour, just by going up. I was headed to the Northwoods, without leaving my county.
Fishing for native mountain specks is always an exercise in time travel to me. It's a throwback to days long gone. Specks are Deep Time fish. There is something comforting and stabilizing to me about fishing a creek that is still functioning just the way it was designed, after tens of thousands of years. There aren't many of them left, unaffected by modern times and our excesses and meddling. It always strikes me at some point during one of these trips, that if I could somehow go back in time and climb my way into this creek 13,000 years ago, there might be dire wolves howling and sabertooth cats snarling in the woods at streamside, but these same little chars would still be right there, doing the same things in the same way and same places that they are today. That doesn't happen too often these days.
Even my trip there is a journey through time. As I top out in a mountain gap on a two-lane road, I reflect that if I had been passing through this same spot in September, 1776, I would have met the expedition of General Griffith Rutherford marching through the gap to wage war on the Cherokee who lived here in order to prevent them from forming a deadly alliance with the British. I follow the old trace down the other side of the mountain, and turn onto another road that traces an ancient Cherokee path between the Middle and Lower towns of their nation. I climb for a long time, then pull over on the side of the road at a trailhead. I am at about 5,000' elevation, among the spruces, firs, mountain ashes, and northern hardwoods. The same vegetation I would see if I traveled a thousand miles north to Canada or Maine. I was in no hurry this morning, but even at 10 AM, the temperature is still in the lower 50s here, and the last wisps of morning fog are just burning off. It's a different world up here.
I rig up my rod, and pull my wading boots on. I slip and slide down the steep trail into the gorge that has been carved by the creek over thousands of years, hanging onto mountain ash and yellow birch saplings to steady my balance. The first step into the ice-cold water almost takes my breath. This water, even in mid-August, still holds memories of the Pleistoscene glaciers. I look up the creek, my gaze falling on smooth boulders, flood-washed gravel bars, and the towering silhouettes of spruce and fir trees springing up at streamside. The air is cool, and smells of spruce, moss, and dampness, with a tang of chlorophyll. It is a fine thing to be here this morning.
Fishing for native mountain specks is always an exercise in time travel to me. It's a throwback to days long gone. Specks are Deep Time fish. There is something comforting and stabilizing to me about fishing a creek that is still functioning just the way it was designed, after tens of thousands of years. There aren't many of them left, unaffected by modern times and our excesses and meddling. It always strikes me at some point during one of these trips, that if I could somehow go back in time and climb my way into this creek 13,000 years ago, there might be dire wolves howling and sabertooth cats snarling in the woods at streamside, but these same little chars would still be right there, doing the same things in the same way and same places that they are today. That doesn't happen too often these days.
Even my trip there is a journey through time. As I top out in a mountain gap on a two-lane road, I reflect that if I had been passing through this same spot in September, 1776, I would have met the expedition of General Griffith Rutherford marching through the gap to wage war on the Cherokee who lived here in order to prevent them from forming a deadly alliance with the British. I follow the old trace down the other side of the mountain, and turn onto another road that traces an ancient Cherokee path between the Middle and Lower towns of their nation. I climb for a long time, then pull over on the side of the road at a trailhead. I am at about 5,000' elevation, among the spruces, firs, mountain ashes, and northern hardwoods. The same vegetation I would see if I traveled a thousand miles north to Canada or Maine. I was in no hurry this morning, but even at 10 AM, the temperature is still in the lower 50s here, and the last wisps of morning fog are just burning off. It's a different world up here.
I rig up my rod, and pull my wading boots on. I slip and slide down the steep trail into the gorge that has been carved by the creek over thousands of years, hanging onto mountain ash and yellow birch saplings to steady my balance. The first step into the ice-cold water almost takes my breath. This water, even in mid-August, still holds memories of the Pleistoscene glaciers. I look up the creek, my gaze falling on smooth boulders, flood-washed gravel bars, and the towering silhouettes of spruce and fir trees springing up at streamside. The air is cool, and smells of spruce, moss, and dampness, with a tang of chlorophyll. It is a fine thing to be here this morning.
To be continued...
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