Spontaneous celebrations are breaking out all over Tennessee’s fly fishing community, thrilled to have the World’s Most Beloved Fly Fishing Blogger once again within the state’s borders.

Prior visits resulted in sizable spikes in the area’s tourism industry, and not simply due to those Underground Megafans who flew in simply hoping to catch a glimpse of my seductive backcast.

There are all the groupies too.

Tennessee’s economy was also bolstered by a mammoth increase in economically tasty slawdog exports after we conducted blogging’s first slawdog vivisection.

I’ll be fishing some with fly fishing friends Ian and Charity Rutter (local guides who oddly recently changed their phone number and email addresses and neglected to mention it to me, but I guess that’s what those Internet detective services are for.)

And while I won’t be hoofing my way through any Hazel Creek backpacking trips, I do expect we’ll conduct the usual Brookie Raids, the requisite Search For Big Brown Trout, and maybe a float trip down Ian’s Giant Secret Smallmouth Stretch, which is seeing a lot of repeat clients (apparently it’s a hard sell the first time, but not the second…).

Naturally, a trip like this raises a lot of larger philosophical questions, and already the massed brainpower of the Undergrounders is grinding away:

Which fly rods do I take?

See you at the ticket office, Tom Chandler.

“I live in Maryland and a fellow asked me where he should go out west to go fly fishing last year,” said Lefty Kreh, professional fly fisherman. “I told him not to go out west and said he should go to Tennessee. There’s better fly fishing down there for trout than there is out west now.”

So, Undergrounders. Which is it?

Was Lefty offering up a hearty endorsement of Eastern Tennessee’s fly fishing potential (GSMNP and the nearby tailwaters)?

Or was he just recognizing who bought the groceries that weekend?

Weigh in, Undergrounders. Is eastern Tennessee the new West?

Crippled by a succession of colds (well, my own incessant whining about it), I’ve struggled with balky computers, power outages, Satan’s Snowblower, and a pretty hefty dose of cabin fever.

That’s why Ian assembled a care package containing East Tennessee’s Finest Homeopathic Remedies for pretty much whatever ails you, and shipped it the Underground’s way. Behold, my envious Undergrounders:

Yes, that’s a box jammed with MoonPies, whose fabled restorative powers have been known to cure everything from grumpiness to hair loss. There have even been instances where casual snackers — with the help of MoonPies — have cheated death itself*.

Also enclosed is something never before seen by the Underground’s eyes — actual “Hot Dog Chili Sauce” for creating the fabled slaw dog.

I can only stare in wonderment.

I’d always assumed standard, everyday, run-of-the-mill canned chili (when heaped in heart-stopping quantities) made a perfectly acceptable slaw dog.

Wrong.

It turns out “Vietti” makes a chili designed specifically for the task, and while it’s never easy to be confronted by your own shortcomings (at least in the slaw dog sense), I’m glad I’ve been set back on the path to righteousness.

Hot damn. I’m feeling better already. See you at dinner, Tom Chandler.

(*We’re pretty much making this up)

It’s a decision not made any easier when you’ve got the Smokies at your doorstep, not to mention a series of top-flight tailwaters and even some long, narrow lakes I hadn’t seen until my “barf on my own shoes” comedy routine the week before.

Bigger than a hand & the heart of a lion; he put a huge bend in a 6wt

Ian and I handled the process like real fly fishing adults, which is to say I whined a lot about not being able to do it all while he patiently explained that we couldn’t actually fish six different places an hour from each other.

Life is just so unfair sometimes [sound of stamping foot].

Surprise Decision

After more than a week of trout on moving water, I went for the change of pace; Ian and I put in his drift boat on a lake, eventually fishing our way up to where Abrams Creek entered the lake.

We were looking for a hot smallmouth bite, but like most plans, ours didn’t survive first contact with the enemy.

Check out the red eye on this critter. Love it.

Ultimately, we caught a few smallmouth, a few largemouth, a few small bream, and a pair of big bluegill, which outclassed every other fish we landed.

As the last bluegill mauled my yellow popper, I told Ian “this wasn’t any bluegill” and tried to move the guy on a six weight Scott G2 rod, but couldn’t for a long, long time.

Sure, I was wrong (like that’s news), but I was wrong in a happy way.

In the end, it was a relaxing, laid-back way to finish off a great-but-hectic trip. The bite was slow early, but once they started generating — creating a slight current on the lake — things picked up.

And in any case, Ian and I got to hang out in a way that just isn’t possible when you’re both fishing a freestone river.

Right now, I’m pulling gear together and going fishing on my own water. More on that as it happens, but look for a Tennessee wrapup post in a few days.

Until then, see you on the river, Tom Chandler.

[tags]fly fishing, fishing, tennessee, abrams creek, [/tags]

What to do?

Hey — Good guess! Ian and I fly fished the Little River (later, Charity joined us on the river), but the story begins elsewhere. Indeed, it begins where all great fly fishing stories begin:

Lunch.

A box of heaven; four Phillips 66 slaw dogs and a pair of MoonPies.

Yes, Undergrounders, we visited that most hallowed of food establishments — the Townsend Phillips 66 gas station, where they act as if there signature food wasn’t world famous. In the age of Paris Hilton and whiny, entitled media stars, that’s refreshing.

The original Phillips 66 slaw dog. Note the chopped slaw.

This time, Ian introduced me to the ideal dessert topper to any slaw dog feast — the MoonPie. How does it taste?

After you’ve downed a couple slaw dogs, it tastes as if God himself had descended from the heavens and pointed his right hand at the Moon Pie factory. It’s so good that pictures like what follows are rare indeed:

Look quick; a MoonPie in its last seconds of existence.

The MoonPie isn’t widely available out here, but yes, you can mail-order these little delicacies, and read about the history of this little gem (it dates to 1917).

Sure, other blogs might fill their pages with largely useless fly fishing information, but here, you learn about the things that really matter, including the history of the MoonPie:

Early in the 1900s, while servicing his territory of Kentucky, Tennessee and West Virginia, Mr. Mitchell was visiting a company store that catered to the coal miners. He asked them what they might enjoy as a snack. The miners said they wanted something for their lunch pails. It had to be solid and filling. “About how big?,!” Mr. Mitchell asked. Well about that time the moon was rising, so a miner held out his big hands, framing the moon and said, “About that big!” So, with that in mind, Mr. Mitchell headed back to the bakery with an idea. Upon his return he noticed some of the workers dipping graham cookies into marshmallow and laying them on the window sill to harden. So they added another cookie and a generous coating of chocolate and sent them back for the workers to try.

You can find Nutritional Information about the MoonPie at Wikipedia, though frankly, you don’t want to know. You just want to enjoy the taste…

The Fishing

Ian and I fished the Little River — probably the most-fished water in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

If I described it as a smaller Upper Sacramento, but greener, I’d be wrong, but I’d be close enough to offer you a picture of the place.

Ian Rutter chasing a nice Brown downriver. I didn’t have to do that.

Right away, we both hooked up with a pair of small rainbows, and things were looking good. Sadly, they continued to look good for only one of us; I struggled for the odd small fish while Ian did his best Purse Seiner imitation.

I won’t go into just how badly Ian outfished me (fly fishing’s not about numbers anyway, or at least that’s what I say when they aren’t in my favor), but then again, no day that involves slaw dogs and MoonPies could be wholly wasted.

Ian highsticking fast water, where yes, he caught fish.

Later, Charity Rutter brought their 22 month-old daughter Willow along (Willow already loves to play in the river and prefers the Trout Bum Diaries II to her Barney videos), and we took a break while Charity caught a couple.

Charity Rutter highsticking on the Little River.

Ian started turning over rocks — doing the kind of ongoing research that good guides always seem to do when they’re on the water — and we stumbled across some cool bugs:

A large brown stonefly nymph. (Take me to your leader)

A Golden Stone and the nymph imitation.

While I pretty much summed up the day by setting up on a good-sized Brown Trout on one of my last casts — and only turning him before the hook flew skyward — it was still a wonderful time on a gorgeous freestone river.

One day remained on my Tennessee trip. Where the hell was I going to fish? (How’s that for a TV-style teaser?) Tune in for the Final Installment.

[tags]fly fishing, fishing, tennessee, ian rutter, little river, stonefly, moonpie, slaw dog[/tags]

You gain a sense of the moment, hopefully catch a few trout, and walk away with what amounts to a frozen snapshot of what you think the river is all about, though most of the time we’re wrong about that.

Hazel Creek through the trees. Pretty, pretty stuff.

If fishing a river delivers a snapshot, living alongside one for a few days tunes you into much more; the animals, the weather, the river’s moods, history — even how it reacts to sun and rain.

That’s why — when Ian and Charity offered me a chance to piggyback a backpacking trip onto their outfitted trip to Hazel Creek, I jumped at it.

They (and their outfitter) ferried a group of nine anglers across Fontana Lake, where they set up camp.

Light action 8′ 5wt and a few flies — all that’s needed on Hazel.

Calling it a “camp” is a little misleading; they slept like royalty (cots and big tents), ate like kings (fresh-made Blackberry Cobbler, steak, shrimp kabobs, pancakes, margaritas — the list goes on), and fished like demons.

It was a lavish production, and judging by the the number of anglers who said they were ready to sign up for the next trip, the whole enterprise is bound to be repeated.

The hike up Hazel Creek was flat, easy, and carpeted with wildflowers.

Because I’m prone to fits of isolation and self-denial, I packed my backpack with instant oatmeal and Top Ramen, and hiked five miles up the drainage.

I enjoyed being alone on Hazel Creek, but admit that being served great food while you focus on fly fishing isn’t the kind of thing I should reject out of hand.

Still, I think I made the right decision. I was hoping to lose weight, not gain it.

More Hazel Creek, farther up. Beauty, eh?

Still, there I was, five miles from the lake and setting up my ultra-lightweight “one-man” tent, which frankly felt more like a coffin.

Naturally, it started raining almost right away, and the Coffin Tent became less an abstract thought and more a temporary home.

For the next 11 hours, this is home; the inside of the Coffin Tent.

Still, the next day (Friday) dawned wonderfully clear, so I hiked up the Bone Valley — so named because an April blizzard trapped 100 cattle in the tiny valley and killed them, leaving bones strewn everywhere.

That was in the late 1800s, so the bones are gone. What remains is a perfect little valley, complete with historic cabin (built in 1880).

The cabin in Bone Valley, which is bigger than a coffin.

The fishing was slow until 11:00, when the rainbows started hitting my dry. I don’t think fly selection was particularly important, though I believe a yellow fly improved the odds a bit (there were many yellow stoneflies flitting about).

Not unlike the trout back home, except he fought with an accent.

All the fish were small, and after a couple hours, I hiked back to camp, made a late lunch, contemplated the river, and eventually headed a short ways down Hazel Creek.

It was a beautiful evening, and I was getting lots of eats on the small stimulator dry (lots of yellow stones in the air).

The fish included a couple of nice brown trout, the Tennessee version of which are so brightly colored that I marvel each time I catch one.

The red dots are bright, and the fins are orange. Gorgeous.

Later, I came to a large pool and didn’t get a single bite. I thought it was strange until I discovered one of Ian’s group had stuck a 26″ brown trout there only minutes before.

Oy.

Later in the evening, I stumbled on a Sulphur hatch (with spinner fall) and managed a few more fish.

A good day. A very good day.

I also stumbled across a snake that Ian later said was harmless, though I reminded him that I could have jumped back in fear, fallen and hit my head.

Harmless my ass.

That night, it started raining again (more hours in the coffin), and the next morning the creek picked up considerable color.

Still, it was falling and clearing, and reasoning that the rain might wash the yellow stones off the leaves and into the water, I threw a small yellow stimulator.

And yes, score one for intuition.

A frog (or toad, I can never tell which) overlooking Hazel Creek.

For a while I hammered fish — until it started raining hard. The water rose, it muddied, and the bite shut off.

Damn. I sloshed my way back to camp, and was confronted by the fact that I had nothing to do for the next 20 hours — and no dry place to do it.

By that point, the Coffin tent smelled like wet feet, which wasn’t all bad as I needed something to distract me from the wetness (and yes, next time I’m bringing a book).

One of the true joys of backpacking is when things get wet, there’s no way to make them dry until it stops raining.

And typically, everything gets wet.

The next morning, the sun came out, so rather than pack a bunch of water down the trail, I spent an hour trying to dry my gear.

Everything was wet, so it looks like I’m holding a wilderness garage sale.

Somehow, all the gear in the picture above fit into the pack below. (Never underestimate man’s ability stuff.)

It only looks light. It’s heavy.

I hiked down the trail back to the lake — going fast and losing elevation all along the way — and encountered members of Ian’s group.

First came Charity and her client, then I stumbled on Ian fishing alone.

Ian Rutter pottering about on Hazel Creek.

Finally, I was at the lake, and for all intents and purposes, the trip was over.

Of course, I’m leaving out a ton of stuff, including the contents of eight pages of notes I made in a small notebook.

Rather than fall too far behind my blog posts, I’ll cover the basics here and try to write an “end of the trip” wrap-up post that will be fraught with meaning and laden with deep thoughts.

Otherwise, you’d be reading this in October.

Hazel Creek Trip Fun Fact #1

On the trip over I drank a large soft drink, then drove over “The Dragon” — a stretch of road so twisty and curvy (330+ turns in 11 miles) that motorcyclists come from miles around so they can test themselves against it. I lost the test. Even though though I was driving, I attained a state of advanced motion sickness, pulled over, and barfed on my own shoes. Nobody was more surprised than Ian.

Hazel Creek Trip Fun Fact #2

The first night in the campground I met Larry K — who owns property on the Holston River, which Ian, myself, and some Nameless Guy had floated the day before. Amazingly, he saw us go by, correctly identifying Ian’s boat, Ian, and the fact that I lost a fish right in front of his house. Ahh, Lost Fish — the ties that bind.

Larry the boat watcher.

Hazel Creek Trip Fun Fact #3

Thought I took a couple of rods, I mostly fished my 8′ 5wt Diamondglass rod — a fairly flexible, slow tapered rod that was largely perfect for Upper Hazel Creek and its tribs. You want a rod able to throw big flies if needed, but soft enough to work at leader-only ranges.

Hazel Creek Trip Fun Fact #4

Hazel Creek is a fascinating area, home to a truckload of history, including logging operations that largely leveled the area, the eventual loss of those jobs, the reversion to a rural society — all of which was displaced when Fontana Lake was built and cut the area off from the rest of the world.

Some remnants remain: cabins, cemeteries, and even a rusting old iron headboard at my campsite.

Though I was ready to get dried out (and yeah, a warm shower wasn’t entirely outside my realm of thought), it was hard to leave Hazel, knowing it’s entirely possible I won’t make it back there again.

Look for a wrap-up post on my Tennessee trip (I’ve got two days of fishing yet to blog), where I plan to write more about Hazel Creek. It’s worth a few more words.

See you up the creek, Tom Chandler.

[tags]fly fishing, fishing, hazel creek, bone valley, tennessee, smokies, great smoky mountains, gsmnp, backpacking[/tags]

Apparently, I won’t be the only thing on this trip that weighs too much.

Yesterday’s Holst0n float trip with Ian and Rich was fun; lots of caddis and a steady caddis bite throughout the day.

A Rich Margiotta rainbow — you can see Ian netting him below.

I’d give you a blow by blow description of the fishing except Rich Margiotta put on a clinic and easily outfished me, qualifying him for an online shunning.

Sorry Rich. Those are the rules.

So, Ian, myself and some nameless guy hooked quite a few hot rainbows (and a few browns), though we landed considerably fewer.

A couple of the fish gave the nameless guy’s Hardy a real workout, and I had two that put the hurt on my considerably newer Galvan model.

Rich’s biggest fish got well downriver of the boat, so Ian went after him with the net. The fish had other ideas, leading all of us on a chase of Keystone Cops proportions:

My best fish came late in the day; a nice rainbow that reached from Ian’s fingers to his elbow joint.

Like the rest of the trout we caught (at least those of any size), it was a hot fish.

In your face, Nameless Guy. I got me one…

The Holston is an interesting fishery; it’s not the first river that leaps to mind when you start thinking about killer trout rivers, but the fish were bigger than in previous years, though the caddis hatch paled a little.

The Holston is still bordered largely by ranches, though more development is creeping in.

I fished a Steffen 8.5′ 5wt fiberglass rod while the Nameless Guy threw a lovely line with an East Branch graphite rod (sadly, East Branch is no longer in business, and this despite building the nicest graphite rods I’ve ever cast).

Sadly, that’s all for today. There’s a lot to do and little time to do it.

The weather for the backcountry trip is looking a little ragged; 60% chance of rain and thunderstorms over the next three days.

Given the coffin-like dimensions of my tent, let’s hope the rain showers are brief.

Naturally, you won’t be hearing from me again until Sunday evening (at the earliest).

I’ll be back with a wad of pictures and (hopefully) some good stories. Until then, see you on the river, Tom Chandler.

[tags]fly fishing, fishing, tennessee, holsten river, rainbow trout, brown trout, caddis, ian rutter, nameless guy[/tags]

Today, after running errands (license, backpacking goodies, etc), Rich and I drove, hiked, sweated, hiked, sweated some more, and hiked again — all to fish a small brookie stream.

Rich Margiotta fishes a small plunge pool. This was the easy part.

Located near a heavily trafficked trail — which for informational purposes we’ll call “Hot Babe Trail” — it was more work than we thought it should be, and the fish were pretty small.

Do we regret it? Don’t be silly.

We started by hiking 1.5 miles up a steep trail (wearing rubber pants) on an 80 degree day, bushwhacked our way up a steep, brushy streambed, climbing over rocks the size of Volkswagens.

You can do your own Return on Investment (ROI) calculation, but for some reason (possibly related to brookies and hot babes), I was pumped.

Less thrilling was our evening stint on the Little River; we fished a couple spots and didn’t land a single fish between us.

The hatch? A short one of the smorgasboard variety. I never figured it out.

Tomorrow we fish one of the tailwaters with Ian; the next day my backpacking trip begins. Forecast calls for 40% chance of rain during most of the trip.

This, I think, should prove interesting.

BTW — today I fished the 7′ 3wt Diamondglass rod that Rich just built me, and wow — perfect for that little stream. Smooth and fun, it’s testament to the suitability of fiberglass for fly rods.

Rich went with a 7.5′ 3wt T&T Heirloom glass rod that he emphatically states is the best 3wt rod he’s ever used (and Rich has used a lot of them).

As always, see you on the river, Tom Chandler.

A really bad picture of a real pretty Brookie. Bad camera!

[tags]fly fishing, fishing, smokies, smoky mountains, gsmnp, brook trout[/tags]

Rich Margiotta’s Emerald wraps on a 7′ 3wt Diamondglass (fiberglass).

Pretty job, and while we’ve still got to test-cast the thing, it could even see action on today’s Brookie outing. More as it happens.

Brain Drain

A good night’s sleep does wonders for your brain.

Traveling always makes me feel fuzzy, due in large part to airline terminals — the places designed to be so miserable, they make you want to risk your life by getting on a plane.

Still, I’d forgotten the music played in terminals, which is clearly picked to suck the intelligence right out of your grey matter; the dumber you are, the less likely you’re going to object to being treated like cattle.

So you’re sitting there — in an industrial setting akin to hell (in tasteful greys and earth tones), your intelligence leaking out your ears — and wondering why you do it.

Once we get a few errands out of the way, I’m going to remember. Brookies ho!

See you… hell, I’m not telling where you’ll find me, Tom Chandler.

[tags]fly fishing, fishing, brook trout[/tags]

I wasn’t cavity searched, waited in line no longer than usual (which is still a lot), didn’t avail myself of any airsickness bags, met up with Rich Margiotta — a classy guy and one of my favorite people — at the airport, lost no luggage, and even got an upgrade to a Toyota SUV at the rental counter.

I am pure gold, baby. Gold.

Still, travel bores me out of my skull. To get a sense of my day, just stare at the picture below for 5.25 hours:

Had enough? I know I have.

Tomorrow Rich Margiotta and I will get to spend at least as many hours staring at a small Brookie tributary; the fish aren’t big, but the views are stunning.

Because the temperatures could run into the upper 80s, we’ll be gaining altitude in the hot part of the day (I’m not naming names, but we’ll be somewhere around Chimneys).

Later — when it cools off — we’ll drop down to a prime stretch of the Little River, looking for rising fish.

Early, I’ll be rounding up a fishing license and buying a few goodies for Thursday’s backpacking trip. Then there are the inevitable (and agonizing) fly rod decisions.

I brought Chris Raine’s 7.5 ‘ 4wt hollowbuilt cane rod, but Rich just put the finishing touches on a 7′ 3wt Diamondglass rod that I should try.

Clearly, fly fishing’s a difficult sport, but not always for the reasons you might suspect.

Expect an honest to god fishing report soon — with pictures you actually want to look at. See you in the Smokies, Tom Chandler.

[tags]fly fishing, fishing, tennessee, smoky mountains, gsmnp[/tags]