Spring in the Appalachians

Even after 20 years, the word Appalachian seems foreign. I'm native to the high desert ranges of the west, years later I'm still a transplant, like the rainbows and browns of my adopted riparian home. But I've followed their lead and adapted.

Snow falls of the winter of 2009-10 are reported to rival the banner year of 1960 and March may yet be a lion. I've felt slightly dirty this early spring as I've anxiously participated in the NC Hatcheries delayed harvest. A steady winter diet of "The Drake" will do that to you. But the smudges on my fishy heart didn't keep it from accelerating as I stood high on a bank and spotted the hypnotic gentle motion of a 20 inch trout drafting behind a rock in flat water no deeper than my knees and right below my high vantage point. The best part of the day was the 20 minutes dry on a elevated bank watching the trout as I switched up leaders and tied on a small Adams and plotted my taking of the first very nice fish of a new decade.

I'll blame it on rust, but after a day of nonchalantly flinging nymphs and streamers to deep oblivious trout, the entire cast felt like an air ball from the free throw line. With no sense of timing and the pressure of a nice fish in slow shallow water, I dropped the cast hard with the end of the fly line landing about at the dorsal fin busting the previously relaxed fish from it's lair, scattering smaller trout in an impressive surface wake as it shot out of sight.

In my days in pursuit of trout I have experienced those deeply satisfying periods on the water when I am in the zone. A skilled predator reading the movements, temperament and environment of the prey. Joyfully lost in the hunt and capture of these colored writhing beautiful works of art. I'm mystically in rhythm with everything around me, a part of the system. These moments are surrounded by hours of stumbling, slipping, flailing, mumbling and chucking and feeling as foreign to the wild rolling water as a 3 piece suited Philadelphia Lawyer in a rain forest. I analyze the cause of this contrasting experience. Rarely when I'm off the water, but always when I'm in the heat of failure and frustration. "What is going on? You are better than this!" I've not found the secret inner formula but the solution is typically a foolish trout that isn't where it should be and for some unknown reason (rebellion, piscator compassion, youthful exuberance?) assaults a poorly placed fly and in the very act of instinctively setting the hook and being connected with wilderness through a length of monofilament and tiny tuft of feather and fur I'm transformed from alien to native. Synapses, capillaries and muscles twitch in synced rhythm with the environment and I stand on the threshold of top predator.