I'm not as young as I used to be. This becomes more evident every day. But, I tell myself, it sure beats the alternative.
Got up yesterday morning, and decided to go fishing. I loaded my stuff in the truck, and it started pouring rain. Years ago, I would have headed out anyway. Old me said, "I don't think so." I hung around awhile until the radar showed the front starting to clear out, then hit the road, making a detour by Bojangles for a sack of biscuits.
This time of year with the heat, the higher the better. So I decided on one of my favorite little nondescript streams way, way back in the Smokies. One of those that holds good fish, but doesn't look like much on the lower end, so doesn't get fished much at all compared to some of the better-known streams nearby. It's a pretty good drive, but with beautiful scenery along the way. And intriguing place names that take me back to the deep history of these old mountains. Big Witch, or Tskil-e-gwa, was an ancient Cherokee who lived near here in the late 1700s-1800s, and seems to have had quite an interesting reputation:
I'm headed back into the folds of those far, misty mountains:
I arrived at the trailhead about noon, and started walking up the trail that was converted from an old narrow-gauge logging railroad. A century ago during WW1 and the era of mostly wooden airplanes, old-growth spruce wood was in great demand for the war effort. Virgin red spruce is some of the strongest wood on the planet for its weight, and the higher elevations of the southern Appalachians held the biggest known stands of it. So, the railroads snaked back into the boreal zones of the mountains to haul out the logs that would be made into fighter planes that our young American men would fly over the mountains of Europe and rain down death from the skies on the Central Powers to secure victory for the Allies. Nobody asked the old spruce trees about it. They had already spent a few centuries watching Cherokee, Shawnee, and Seneca war parties slip beneath them along the network of old war trails that snaked down the highest ridges of the southern mountains, but now they were personally involved in the violent affairs of men.
After a little over a half a mile, the trail approaches the creek. Not much to look at here, just a small creek flowing down a fairly flat gradient:
But a half-mile further, and it turns straight up and develops into a foaming, roaring torrent of falls and cascades interspersed with deep plunge pools:
I rig my rod and head up the gorge, following the water upward, toward its origins among the spruces, the firs, and the sky.
Got up yesterday morning, and decided to go fishing. I loaded my stuff in the truck, and it started pouring rain. Years ago, I would have headed out anyway. Old me said, "I don't think so." I hung around awhile until the radar showed the front starting to clear out, then hit the road, making a detour by Bojangles for a sack of biscuits.
This time of year with the heat, the higher the better. So I decided on one of my favorite little nondescript streams way, way back in the Smokies. One of those that holds good fish, but doesn't look like much on the lower end, so doesn't get fished much at all compared to some of the better-known streams nearby. It's a pretty good drive, but with beautiful scenery along the way. And intriguing place names that take me back to the deep history of these old mountains. Big Witch, or Tskil-e-gwa, was an ancient Cherokee who lived near here in the late 1700s-1800s, and seems to have had quite an interesting reputation:
I'm headed back into the folds of those far, misty mountains:
I arrived at the trailhead about noon, and started walking up the trail that was converted from an old narrow-gauge logging railroad. A century ago during WW1 and the era of mostly wooden airplanes, old-growth spruce wood was in great demand for the war effort. Virgin red spruce is some of the strongest wood on the planet for its weight, and the higher elevations of the southern Appalachians held the biggest known stands of it. So, the railroads snaked back into the boreal zones of the mountains to haul out the logs that would be made into fighter planes that our young American men would fly over the mountains of Europe and rain down death from the skies on the Central Powers to secure victory for the Allies. Nobody asked the old spruce trees about it. They had already spent a few centuries watching Cherokee, Shawnee, and Seneca war parties slip beneath them along the network of old war trails that snaked down the highest ridges of the southern mountains, but now they were personally involved in the violent affairs of men.
After a little over a half a mile, the trail approaches the creek. Not much to look at here, just a small creek flowing down a fairly flat gradient:
But a half-mile further, and it turns straight up and develops into a foaming, roaring torrent of falls and cascades interspersed with deep plunge pools:
I rig my rod and head up the gorge, following the water upward, toward its origins among the spruces, the firs, and the sky.
to be continued....