A couple of Christmas's ago, I flew from Texas to my brother's home in Atlanta, Ga., as usual for the holidays. Since, at the time, I was a year-round therapeutic camp counselor for "at-risk" kids, two things happened, I had two weeks off over the holidays and I valued my time off. Not wanting to land on my relatives for two weeks and not wanting to sit at home either, I went fishing.
Not being familiar with Georgia's fishing waters I turned to the internet. My brother, God love him, doesn't fish. What I discovered was that northern Georgia in mountainous and beautiful, as well as, trout fishing country. A day or two after Christmas I rented a car and drove north out of the city. When I arrived at my hotel, I was delighted to find that I could walk to just about anywhere in town. I walked to a hot dinner. On the way home I discovered the homemade fudge factory. Everything close enough to walk, good food, and flyfishing tomorrow. I smiled.
The guide I hired met me at the flyshop before it opened. We loaded into his truck and headed out. His name was Phil and he'd been fishing the local waters since childhood. Now since I flew into Atlanta, I carried with me my 5-pc 3wt. It worked for Texas and Oklahoma trout fishing so I brought it in it's compact tube. As we talked on drive to the fishing spot, talk turned towards my fishing experience and equipment. We were doing fine on the experience part, but I had to admit that warm water was my thing. He didn't seem phased. When I told him I brought a 3wt. he threw his head back and said, "Oh, you might lose your rod today." Where was he taking me? To the Atlantic Ocean? I shrugged and stated, "It's all I could get on the plane." He changed the subject.
We arrived at what looked like someone's home. It was. They leased it to the fly shop because it had this river running behind the house that was gorgeous. You know something that looks like a producer would want for a movie set location. The second thing I noticed was the overhanging trees. Not to worry, the river was wide enough that I figured it wouldn't be a problem if I was careful. From the bank we eyed several monster trout that would take my rod if they had a chance. I smiled.
We waded into the river donned in neoprene waders, fleece socks, and wool sweaters. The water was just right for trout but attention getting for the Texan. My eyes grew wider than when he told me this things would take my rod from me. I was expecting the cold water. I planted my felt-soled boots and started casting. They were beautiful casts...for bass fishing. We discussed the proper cast for trout and I tried my best to follow his instructions. His praises gave me the impression I was at least looking as though I might catch a trout today.
The current was strong and my feet a little unsure. I moved slowly with deliberation. My casts used the most current drift I could attain. After a several minutes I felt nothing but my guide yelled, "Stick him!" I set the hook and what do you know, there was a trout on my line. I felt no cold, no current, only fish. Two heart-beats connected by a line. It was then that I got my first lesson in playing a fish.
Phil grabbed the net and I again followed his instructions. We let him run and I heard to singing of my reel as Mr. Fish played me, too. We maneuvered him into the net and up he came. He was 22" if he was an inch, beautiful fish. Phil took my camera from me and took a picture.
It was after I released the fish that he told me that my sunglasses were hanging sideways on my hat and the fish was sticking his tongue out at me. I smiled.
Phil was patient with my lack of trout fishing expertise. During one of our "casting for trout" lessons my fly hooked the only dead tree in the river for miles. I laughed. He didn't.
"It's okay, Phil, I got it. This is something I'm used to doing." I played all my usual tricks to unlodge a fly from a tree when it's just out of reach.
"Naw, it's okay, I'll get you loose."
"No, really, let me try. I'll let you get it when I'm out of options."
"Okay," he reluctantly replied. He takes the guide thing seriously.
He stood and watched as I used my reel to hook the branch and ease it to me slowly. I grabbed the fly with the other hand and success. The fly was free.
"I've never seen a flyrod used that way before." I smiled.
We went on to catch more trout, one bigger than the next. And we got a good pic of me and my trout on one of those catches. I treasure it still today.
When I couldn't feel my feet enough to walk on the river bottom I thought it time to return to shore. My education of trout had been enriched by this beautiful river and Phil. It had been a good day. Once on shore I looked back down at the river. I saw those monster trout that I couldn't find while in the river. They were smiling at me. I smiled back.
On the ride back to the shop we laughed about cold rivers, numb feet, and lost flies. Once my feet warmed up in those dry socks I wanted to return to fish until dark. Trout fishing is different, more precise. Bass will hit a shoe if it's popping in the water. I guess it was the daintiness of trout that was the biggest contrast. If it doesn't look like what they eat, they let it keep drifting down the river, no matter how many times you present.
As I walked back to the hotel, I passed the fudge shoppe. I smiled.
