My folks came down this weekend and Dad and I did some fly fishing. I got five trout yesterday, babies, and if you total their length I might’ve had one keeper. They say if you can throw the pocket water in the Smokies, then the fishing is easy anywhere else you go. The trout we have are educated, and dumb fish visit Gatlinburg.
When biologists do their electroshock studies they find 2,000-4,000 trout per average mile. You would think that many fish would be swimming around in schools. What it means is that any place you think there might be a fish, there are three. And if nobody bites, well you’re not that good.
Dad and I had a good time, even without fish. Fly fishing can be as relaxing as you want in the big pools, or like a tactical advance, stalking the beast lurking below with a bug and a stick and forget everything in the world except the physics of your line and where the current takes it. Good fishermen master presentation. Fishermen like me wonder, “Where the heck is my fly? I can’t even see it.”
Somewhere this morning there is an old man throwing hand tied flies with vintage bamboo in the foggy mountain morning. He peers under a rock to match a hatch that he already knows, and he bounces his eyes over a piece of water with its sitting fish like people by the coffee pot or speaking in hallways. Happy happy Monday.
Today is hopefully my last day wired shut. I see the doc tomorrow morning and will hopefully get removable rubber bands. After that, bottomless Spaghetti.