Judge Not

My mind was in that odd space of thoughts with out thinking.  The road so familiar, the rising sun illuminating the mountain tops growing larger before me.  No blaring music or raging impatience- that was opening day in volume two.  Just the familiar turns in the road and the gazing down into the tannin stained water.  It's been said you can never step in the same river twice and the rains of  the previous few days gave the familiar flow an entirely new dimension.

The old mill walls are so out of place- a relic of a past civilization- one of the few remaining evidences of a center of commerce and industry in a now pristine watershed.  At the turn of the century  the furniture mills at the base of the these mountains sucked the lumber out of every accessible valley and holler.  They clear cut the entire region and built saw mills and even cotton mills right in the valleys to bring more finished products to the growing cities and towns below.  They clear cut the ancient hardwood forest and endured epic flooding which washed away the homes, towns and mills- finally in 1930 the last flood and the national depression won out and the area was never built back.

There's a sharp breeze that squelches the forecast of shirtsleeve fishing as I back up to nice flat slab of granite that outlines the crude fish parking area in the shadow of the concrete walls.  A perfect place to sit and wrestle neoprene booties into stiff wading boots.  As usual, I'm the first person here- its a week day and I make it a point to arrive early and get my pick of honey holes.

The old mill pond is favorite spawning ground, and as NC Wildlife.gov had predicted, the spawn had taken place on Monday and Thursday morning found a veritable armada of brook trout stacked gill to gill and head to tail at the back of the mill pond.  The first two casts connect, as does the fifth and six, eighth, tenth and eleventh and then I've lost track.  I'm in that zone of reading and reacting, oblivious to all things above the surface and talking gently to fish when a voice startles me from behind just as the fly disappears in a splash, "I was going to ask if you were having any luck. "  An involuntary spasm brings me upright and I spin around faster than I mean to- trying to hide how startled I am.  I just smile and nod.  He's a gray haired man in his late sixties or early seventies.  What looks like a hand carved wading staff in one hand and a long fly rod in the other.  He inquires about what I'm using and how many I've caught and asks if it would be OK if he crossed the stream well below me and then decides maybe he'll throw a streamer up here above me if that's OK.  I'm usually pretty territorial given that spin fisherman will appear out of the willows and step right into your back cast, throwing a panther martin a foot above your fly.  But this morning I'm into fish to start the spring season and I'm certain I will catch fish on every cast, all day, every day.  "Yep, that's fine, you'll slay em with a streamer."

A few more hits and misses and I've forgotten about him.  When I come back to reality 30 minutes later, he is still bent over his rod messing with line and streamers or whatever.  I"m not sure he has even cast yet.  15 more minutes pass and I'm becoming bored with this spot.  Same presentation, same result, same size fish, too easy, need to explore and try some other things.  As I turn around and make for shore my companion has walked down and greets me.  Turns out he is a semi retired judge from Charlotte.  Fished up on the South Mills on Tuesday after he had court on Monday.  I shared my locale and occupation and told him I worked my schedule around the spawn as best I could.  He smiled when I said, "I can be back to my office in an hour for meetings this afternoon, but, I may not make those meetings today."  He asked again about crossing down below me and I said that was fine, I was heading up stream and he decided he'd just jump right into my spot there, seemed that had worked out pretty good for me.  I watched him fiddle with a bobber style indicator and understood why he'd been wrestling with gear the whole morning.  I don't look forward to the day when fingers don't feel and eyes don't see.  "Well, good luck your Honor" I offered with no mirth.  With out looking up he shot back, "Don't worry, I never saw ya."   Our laughter instinctive as the rise.