Merry CHRIST-mas

Man (and woman) are capable of some most remarkable things.  History bears witness to the atrocities man is capable of committing as well as the feats of genius and unimaginable compassion.  Yet even in our most compassionate moments I have concluded there is no good in man expect through the Grace of God through Jesus Christ.  I suppose we are all born with a heart defect, for the path to sin is born with us.  As our bodies grown in strength from birth so too is the compelling evidence of our iniquities.  You see it in the first lie your child tells you or the toy that they refuse to share and as these children grow to adulthood the need for Christ becomes more and more apparent.  Just as we see the sin in ourselves and in our children and still we love them, Our Father also knows our hearts and his love is never wavering. 

 

In Isaiah 55:8 The Lord said "For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,"  and so it must be, because in spite of my good will towards my fellow man I could not willing submit my child to be mocked and ultimately killed for the sake of man.  In knowing all things, how bitter sweet it must have been to watch Mary bring forth the Son of Man on that glorious night only to know what his fate would be some 33 years later.

 

Each year we exchange gifts as a means of celebrating Christ's birth and yet he remains the ultimate gift. Word became flesh and walked among us.  God revealed himself to man in a new way and for this we will never be the same.  As we open our presents let us never loose sight of the gift we have been given or the states of our hearts without the love of Christ to fill them.  Perhaps that great theologian Linus from Charlie Brown's Christmas said it best when quoted the gospel of St. Luke to make Charlie Brown see what Christmas is really about.

 

"And there were in the same country sheperds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you: Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men." 

Merry Christmas to you all and God Bless.

Brian

HAPPY THANKSGIVING

It’s the Tuesday before Thanksgiving.  In the past Thanksgiving was nothing more than a few days off from work, a time to gorge, and a springboard into Christmas.  In my thirty six years I’ve seen enough good and bad in this life to reflect a little longer on this holiday. 

When I was a child there weren’t many pilgrimages outside the city limit of my home town and in my teenage years I grew to love a good road trip.  The worse part of the trip was always those last few miles.  The anticipation of new adventures seemed to slow time itself down and the miles would go by at a snail’s pace.  If only life were this way.  Life is more like a wave in the ocean.  When you are out at sea you look at the shore line and it appears so distance on the horizon, but the closer that wave gets to the beach it’s speed seems to increase and such is life.

It is not lost on me that these truly are the prime days of my life and I have so much to be thankful for.  I have a loving and merciful God, a tender and patient wife, and two healthy children that want for nothing.  I am no saint, like more individuals I would love a bigger house, a cooler car, and more guy toys.  If I am being honest there is nothing more in life that I really need.  God is good!  When I tell people that I am more blessed than I deserve it isn’t a play at humility, it’s a heartfelt response. 

I am thankful that my children have never known the feeling of true hunger and that my entire family is in good health.  The headlines are full of tragic stories of heart ache and loss and I am truly thankful that I have experienced a limited amount of both in my life.  Thanksgiving isn’t about black Friday, eating gluttonous amounts of food, or extra days off work.  The third Thursday of every November has been set aside to reflect on the many blessing we have each been given.  I am thankful that I have another year to celebrate with my family and friends and I am surrounded by people that care for me.  As you read this blog I hope you have taken a brief moment to give thanks and that you have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

God Bless,

Brian

Yellowstone -Day One

Fresh off the excitement of fishing the Big Horn River we loaded into the rental car and it was off to our new home for the next five nights just outside the Northeastern entrance to Yellowstone.  The three hour drive from Fort Smith to Yellowstone was capped off by our journey over the Bear Tooth Pass.  This stretch of road was like none I had been on before.  The elevation goes from 5500 in the city of Red Lodge to nearly 11,000 feet.  The views from the top of the mountain are reminiscent of the deep valleys carved in the Alps.  The Smoky Mountains have been worn by the elements and time and while our lush green mountains burst forth with life, it is easy to see that life along this portion of the Bear Tooth Pass is difficult, and yet some animals thrive here.  We topped the mountain to find a beautiful herd of snow white mountain goats grazing. A wise man once said “the will to live is a powerful thing.”  I am certain he is right.

            We passed through Cooke City and made our way to Silver Gate to check into our cabin.  I would estimate Silver Gate to be a town of roughly 15 buildings if cabins were not included.  Upon check in we were greeted by Doug.  Doug wasn’t exactly mister personality and seemed to be to be a curmudgeon of sorts.  His answers were short and to the point and we had only just met before his deep raspy voice uttered a warning “There is a bull Bison feeding on the grass in front of your cabin and he commands the utmost respect.”  While I appreciated the warning, the three of us had no plans to slap it on the butt and run, but Doug’s warning did serve as a reminder that this wonderful place is full of beautiful and dangerous animals and they all must be respected.

            We unloaded our gear and settled in for the night.  When morning came we packed a lunch and head out.  We decided to start the day off by fishing the confluence of the Lamar River and Slough Creek.  We parked the car and headed out across a field and over some bluffs to where we anticipated the river to be.  I scanned the horizon for wildlife and more specifically bear, but found nothing stirring.  We made our way down a steep bank to an entry point and the beautiful and fabled Lamar River lay in front of us.  I once again scanned the horizon to make sure we were alone and we began to fish.  This portion of the river was rocky and the large boulders offered perfect pools for the trout to thrive.  Our plan was to work our way up the Slough Creek, but we noticed some other anglers down stream that appeared to be heading there as well, so we decided to remain on the Lamar.  We stopped to fish a couple of spots and with lightening speed the other anglers bolted past us and settled in to the area Garret had intended to fish.   Let me take brief moment to explain proper etiquette in this situation.  Since most fly fishermen work their way upstream the proper thing to have done would be to by pass us as we fished and allow at least a couple hundred yards between us.  We surmised that one of the individuals was a guide and I suppose when you are fishing for your rent etiquette goes out the window.  Needless to say the fishing was slow because the anglers ahead of us were either catching the fish from the prime spots or spooking the fish that were there.  Jim and Garret both managed to catch a few fish but not in numbers any of us expected from such a legendary river.

            We reached a location that seemed like an ideal spot to stop for a protein bar and some water.  In front of us was a large pool that seemed the perfect location to hold large Cutthroat Trout.  We noticed that the guide and his two followers had exited the water and were heading towards the car as the sun began to hang low.  I was fishing a small pool about 100 years ahead of our resting spot when I noticed a gathering of insects in the air.  They appeared to be Caddis, so I quickly tied on a Caddis fly and cast into the seams I assumed the trout would be. I had only cast a few times when Garret and Jim called for me to come back.  As quickly as possible I made my way back to the large pool they were working. Garret yelled to me “Switch to a Blue Wing Olive.”  I made it back to where they were fishing to see the water alive with feeding trout.  I looked through my fly box but I didn’t have any Blue Wing Olives.  This was my best opportunity to catch my first Cutthroat Trout and I didn’t even have the fly they were feeding on. 

I suppose my excitement showed through because it was then that Jim’s nature as a true gentleman showed through.  “I have a Blue Wing Olive you can have and I already have one tied on, here, take my pole and I will tie one on your line while you fish my pole.”  This simple act tells you all you need to know about Jim.  I took Jim’s pole and waded into a good casting location.  The fly hit the water, the line went tight, and the fight began.  I netted the fish and was surprised to see a Rainbow Trout instead of the revered Cutthroat.  At this point Jim had tied the Blue Wing Olive on my line so I gave his pole back and continued to fish with my pole.  I cast into the feeding frenzy again and within the third or fourth cast I had another fish on.  This fish was larger than the Rainbow I had just netted but I wasn’t sure of the species.  I fought the fish and after it weaved from one side of the pool to the next he grew tired and was ready for the calm of my net.  I had traveled nearly 1900 to be here and at dusk on the fifth day of this wonderful adventure I finally netted my first Cutthroat Trout.  It was a large and beautiful fish and I was as excited as a school boy with my catch, but there was little time to celebrate because the fish were still feeding.  I took a few pictures, watched as my first Cutthroat swam from the grips of my hand back into the pool and with that I was ready for more.  We continued to fish the pool until the hatch ended and we all had success. 

The sun broke the horizon greeting a day full of promise.  The three anglers in front of us, and the disappointment of reeling in no fish during the morning and mid day hours was now gone.  I took five fish from the pool we were in and witnessed the type of hatch and feeding I had previously only read about.  As the sun relinquished its grip on the day and began to set, a Wolf stood over a bluff and looked down on us as though he were the gate keeper for this beautiful land.  The land around us changed colors as the sun made its retreat and the page was closed on the most exciting day of fly fishing I’ve ever had.

            Later that evening as Garret and Jim sat around the table sorting and arranging their flies in each box like a miser counting his riches, my mind was still on the water recapping the extraordinary day.  It was now easy for me to see why Garret and Jim make a fly fishing trip each year.  This year marks the ninth trip for them.  Breathe taking scenery, prolific hatches, and pulling several fish from one hole have been a normal part of the adventure.  I had many people ask me prior to the trip if I would grow weary of fishing everyday and spending eight days with the same two guys.  I can’t speak for Garret and Jim, but for me it was a nice reprieve from the real world.  This trip wasn’t about Old Faithful and the other tourist spots Yellowstone has to offer.  Fishing with two guys allowed me and at time forced me to step outside my comfort zone and experience the park.  A majority of the visitors never get more than 100 yards away from their car and call this “seeing” the park.  Today I was lucky enough to be part of the park and it’s a day I will not soon forget.   

The Big Horn River

I have flown across the country from Tennessee to various cities on the west coast several times.  Like many people I have found myself looking out the window of a plane wondering, “What’s down there?”  On September 6^th, I found at least a portion of the answer.  There is unsettled land as far as the eye can see, majestic mountains and valleys, and people who live lives a little less rushed than the one I have come accustomed to.  The other thing I found is some trout waters worthy of the lore that has been written about them.

The plane landed in Billings, Montana and as night fall set in we made our way to our home for the next three nights in Fort Smith. On day four we would make our way to Yellowstone for another five nights, but the first three nights belonged to Fort Smith and the Big Horn River. This trip was planned for two purposes only; it was intended to offer three guys an opportunity to fly fish and relax.    We arrived late, unpacked, and settled in for our first night.  Day light and a glance out the window offered us the first opportunity to get some fishing information to start our day.  A fellow angler, Bill, was already in the gravel parking lot cleaning his fly line and preparing for his morning.  Garret approached, made introductions, and Bill was quickly willing to offer any knowledge of locations to fish as well as flies and the set up that seemed to be working.  The Trico hatch has been fairly consistent each morning so we headed out to the three mile marker to explore and fish. 

The Big Horn is a large and wide river that lends itself best to fishing from a drift boat but today we didn’t have a drift boat so we walked the bank passing by several fish feeding until we settled into an area we could wade in.  I tied on an Adam’s dry fly with a Bead Head Pheasant Tail as a dropper.  On my second cast my line went tight, the reel began to zing, and just like that I yelled “fish on.”  I could feel that this was a nice fish but I wasn’t sure of the size or type.  The fight lasted a few more minutes before I found a nice Rainbow safely in my net.  I would estimate this fish to be 16-18”.  I had only released my fish a few moments before I saw Garret’s pole bend and within 10 minutes of wading into the water we had hooked two fish.  I looked upstream at Jim, but he had seen no action thus far.  I was starting to think this could be a day in which my arm would be tired of reeling, but little did I know this day would be more like Jim’s morning with little action.  Within 30 minutes of wading into the water the hatch had apparently ended and like a light switch the fish turned off and the rises stopped.   

We fished several more stops with limited luck before heading back to the cabin for some rest.  The next day we rented a drift boat and had 12 miles of river to fish in a 12 hour period.  Garret took the helm and with oars in hand we headed down stream to find a premium fishing location.  We anchored the boat on shore and found a spot where the fish seemed to be feeding.  The Trico hatch had just begun and there were plenty of eager fish rising to feed.  I’ve often heard it said that when fish are feeding they will take most flies, I can tell you with confidence now that this saying is wrong.  Garret was able to land two fish and Jim had a few hits with no takers.  In spite of trying almost every fly in my box I couldn’t get a Trout to consider any of my offerings.  We had a long day ahead of us so we loaded back in the boat and headed down stream.  At around the 8 miles mark both Garret and Jim had caught fish and I was being skunked.  At this point I was behind the oars and to say rowing a drift boat didn’t come natural to me would be an understatement.  We came to a fork in the river and I decided go right down a smaller stretch instead of left where the main body of the river flowed.  We stopped the boat and decided to fish the area.  Jim cast into a swift run of water and began taking fish.  None were going to break any size records, but they were full of fight.  Garret and I soon joined the action and the three of us were pulling fish from this seam of water.  Jim had a difficult fish on so I leaned my pole against the boat and waded out to help net him.  A few minutes of wrestling and the fish went from my net to Jim’s hand.  I turned to grab my pole and didn’t see it where I had placed it.  It wasn’t in the boat nor submerged under the water.  We searched before Garret used his pole to do a reenactment and sure enough as soon as I set my pole down against the boat the water lifted the reel from the bottom and slowly tugged until the entire pole was in the main current and only a memory.  I’m certain it settled into one of the deep pools further downstream but for me my first fly rod was gone.  Luckily I had brought my 3 weight rod as a backup but it wasn’t made for this size water and this size fish.  There was nothing to do but load the boat and press on.

The oars were still in my hands and we were only seconds into our launch back into the water before I realized there wasn’t enough time or water to steer and we were at the mercy of the current.  The right oar crashed against the shore and Jim grabbed it before it was left behind.  The current pushed us against the bank and we all ducked as not to be hit by the low hanging tree.  We cleared the tree but the boat had turned sideways and the ripples of water we were in were swift but no deep.  The boat came to rest on a shoal with a load thud as it smashed into the underlying rocks.  We didn’t notice any water coming in so Jim pushed us back out and we finally made it back to the main body of the water and the peaceful calm of the Big Horn.

The stop had resulted in some pretty rough boating and the loss of my first fly rod, but it had yielded dinner as several of the Rainbow and Brown Trout we caught were kept for the evening dinner.  We left the boat where we were instructed and drove back to the cabin.  I was fully satisfied with the five fish I had managed on the day.  Jim and Garret caught more, but I didn’t mind.  The fish I caught won’t be remembered nearly as much as the four miles I served as a drift boat rower.  Jim stayed at the cabin to prepare the fish and Garret and I decided to try and catch the Caddis hatch that evening.  Like clockwork the Caddis hatch began and the fish began to feed.  I had a Caddis fly on and although I made repeated casts to feeding fish I couldn’t get any to take.  I wasn’t surprised; the hatch was like none I had ever seen.  The Caddis were so heavy in the air they were crawling all over me and everything else in the area, the chances of a Trout taking my fly when there were thousands of Caddis in the water was unlikely.  On the way out there was yet another reminded that I was no longer in Tennessee.  Darkness had set in and I noticed movement ahead on the trail.  I wasn’t certain what the animal was at first but after putting a light on the animal in the tree to my right Garret and I agree it was our first sighting of a wild porcupine.  We returned the morning with Trico Spinner flies in hand all were able to catch fish before heading to across the Bear Tooth Highway to Yellowstone.

Fort Smith Montana is little more than a couple fly shops and some rental cabins, but this town and the Big Horn River were exactly what I expected.  The terrain looks like the wide open spaces you see in the old western movies with bluffs overlooking prairies and the meandering Big Horn River slowing flowing to make the backdrop such that words can’t describe.  It’s certainly understandable why this is the big sky state and yet this was only the first couple days, Yellowstone awaits us and as we made our way out of Fort Smith for Billings  I was eager to see Yellowstone.  

Fall Hunting

This morning I stepped from my door on my way to work and for the first time this year I felt the coolness of fall in the air.  Like many who live in this area fall is my favorite time of year.  Fall represents a microcosm of what makes East Tennessee such a special place.  Football season will be in full swing, fall harvest is underway, there are festivals in virtually every small town, fishing is not only good, but beautiful because of the foliage, and hunting season is about to begin.

Last year was my second year of deer hunting and the first year in which I was successful.  While many grow up hunting and never forget their first kill as a child, the same is true as an adult.  I had gone to visit my brother Donald in eastern North Carolina for a week of fellowship and hunting.  I often find it odd to hear stories of brother’s who don’t speak or have interactions.  My two brothers are probably my two best friends and short of my wife, they know me better than anyone. Spending time hunting is a great family time for me.

We woke early and had breakfast at lightening speed, which is typical for Donald.  I’ve learned from previous experience that I had better eat while I can because with Donald, lunch is always optional.  It was a glorious November day.  The morning chill was just cold enough to necessitate the need for a jacket and make you feel alive.  When the dogs were loaded we headed to meet up with the other guys on the days hunt.  Introductions were made and it was time to hunt.

Following the advice of his friend Bryant who owned most of this land, Donald drove me to a spot where a platform had been built beside the canal separating two large fields.  I reached the platform and wasn’t even settled in when I heard a twig break.  I turned in time to find a nice six point buck jumping back into the wood line.  There wasn’t even enough time to get a shot off.  I stood surveying the wood line for well over an hour.  I could hear the distance roar of dogs barking as they found the scent of deer.  As the roar would get closer I would imagine a whole herd of deer busting from the wood line like wildebeest but that didn’t occur.  The dogs would get close and then they would move away until I could only faintly hear their cries.

In that quite peaceful moment before the sun had even burned the haze from the field I sat staring at the yellow, orange, and red leaves in the wood line when my deer stepped out.  His rack wasn’t impressive, but he had size, and he was a buck.  He surveyed a path but before he could proceed I raised my shotgun, found him in my sites, and fired.  I knew I hit him because the shot knocked him to his knees.  He quickly scrambled up and tried to make for the wood line but my sites were still on him and my second shot guaranteed this day to be his last.   He managed to cross the canal before falling and that is where I found him.  He was an older buck, but his antlers never grew properly.  This explained why such a big bodied deer had only cow horns.  What should have been a six point buck instead had two antlers. I respected this deer like all of the others taken each year, but there is an order to life and this deer was to provide meat for me and my family.  Life is fragile and his life was not wasted. 

A few days later my brother-in-law James came down and I was there when he took his first deer as well.  I recall the excitement we both felt having walked into the fields together. We would text one another from our tree stand to see if anything was moving. I recall hearing what sounded like a canon going off.  I quickly send James a text “You?”…..”Yes” replied. “Get him”…..”Yes Sir” and with those few words our trip was a success. These are memories I will always carry.  The stories my kids will be tired of hearing.  Many weeks of preparation go into hunting and the costs in dollars and time is surprisingly high, yet when you are there in that moment it’s you, the deer, and your one shot and it’s all worth the time and cost.  Yes, fall is in the air and hunting season is almost here. 

Yellowstone Primer

I have a healthy fear of Grizzly bears.  Those who know me better would say this is an understatement.  Since I live in Tennessee I don’t have to worry a great deal about coming face to face with a Grizzly.  So it’s only logical that a man with a fear of Grizzly bears would sign up for a week long fly fishing trip in Yellowstone National Park, right?  Some things in life are worth the risk.  

In less than four weeks I will embark on a “man trip” to Ft. Smith Montana to fish the Bighorn River for three days.  When we leave the Bighorn we will spend the next five days fishing various rivers and creeks in Yellowstone.  Yellowstone embodies the American West.  I can think of no wilder place in the lower 48 than Yellowstone.  Where else do herds of Bison roam, packs of wolves thrive, and yes…..there are Grizzlies.

 So with bear spray in one hand and my fly rod in the other, I will venture into this wilderness in the pursuit of some of the most majestic scenery in this country and some of the most fertile trout waters in the US.   I am sure this will not be the first post about this trip, just as I am certain the memories I will make will last a lifetime.  I have never been to Yellowstone and yet there is something about this place that beckons men to come.  Like the Sirens in Homer’s Odyssey this place draws you in and something deep inside of you feels you must go.  I can hear the song as clearly as the wind blowing through a meadow and in four weeks I will answer the call.

Emily's First Fly Trip

In the event that you are one of the few people who read my Blog you had to know this was coming.  Last weekend I took my son on his first fly fishing trip……yep, you guessed it.  This weekend was my daughters turn and like the weekend before it was a memory maker.

My Saturday’s have been the same during these dog days of summer, the coffee pot is on auto start and my truck should be on auto pilot.  My theme song is ready to go in my CD player and call of the Clinch is again fresh on my mind.  Emily and I made our way to the water this morning to lay claim to my favorite spot.   The sky was overcast and the fog seemed especially thick.   I tied a #18 olive scud and started this day like the past few weeks, but there was no doubt the fishing was much slower.  As with Matthew, my plan for Emily was to hook as many fish as possible and have her reel them in.  It took exactly 20 minutes before Emily complained about being cold and retreated to the safety of the bank to defrost.  I squared Emily away and resumed my casting and drifting and after an hour of fishing I finally hooked my first trout of the day.  I knew it was a nice trout by the way he leapt from the water and ran with the line, but a man’s word is his bond so I called Emily over and handed the rod to her.  Just like that, Emily was trying to bring to hand her first trout.  What a beautiful fish we caught together.  The deep pink stripe running from gill to tail was as bright as an evening sunset.  This was a beautiful trout and I was proud that Emily was able to bring him in.

At around 8:00 my friend Garret found his way to us and we fished together.  I had hoped Garret could see the feeding frenzy I had seen a few weeks earlier.  While we did see the feeding, they were only moderately interested in our offerings.  The fog never lifted as it has in previous outings. Emily reeled in and held several fish this fine morning but it was her comment as we were leaving that has stuck with me.  “We are really lucky to live this close to the Great Smoky Mountains, aren’t we daddy?” I had to let her know that the Clinch isn’t part of the Smokies, but my 8 year old daughter’s statement was profound.  It validates the efforts I have put into making sure my children are able to enjoy fishing, hiking, and camping in and around these wonderful old mountains that we call home.  I hope we are able to enjoy many more trips together and as she grows she will maintain that appreciation for this area and what a blessing it is to be able to call it home.

Matthew's First Fly Fishing Trip

The past few Saturday mornings I have risen at 5:00 a.m. and in almost zombie like fashion found my way to the Clinch River for what has now become my Saturday morning routine of fly fishing.  On this fine Saturday morning I would be taking my son up for what would be his first attempt at fly fishing.  I vowed to spend one on one time with him on this trip showing him the nuances of the style of fishing I have grown to love.

A gentle nudge was all it took to wake Matthew this morning.  I loaded up the truck with our gear while he ate the cereal I placed on the table.  These are the times I wish I was more of a morning person, but in truth I'm not.  Sure I can wake up when work or more importantly, fishing or hunting require it, but if left to my own devices I could sleep until 8:00 every day without fail.  Neither Matthew nor I spoke much the first few miles of the drive, partly because I needed more coffee in me to start my motor, and Matthew was probably still half asleep.  The silence gave away its hold on the morning when I told Matthew that no successful trip to the Clinch could begin without listening to my new found theme song as least one time.  My brother-in-law James actually tuned me on to this song, but it's a song that should be in every fly fisherman’s music collection.  The song is by Steve Martin and the Steep Canyon Rangers (yes....that Steve Martin).  Steve Martin may have been The Jerk, but little did I know he is also one heck of a banjo player.  I played the song "Yellow backed Fly" and Matthew and I both seemed to be optimistic about our trip.

We arrived in the parking area and slipped into our waders and made our way down to the water.  We were not the first people in the water, but we were ahead of the crowd so I felt good about the day.  I want Matthew to enjoy fly fishing, but I'm also a realist.  I didn't learn to fly fish in a day and neither will he.  I guess I forget just how difficult some aspects of fishing can be for an eleven year old. We waded through the ankle deep water to the exposed rocks, but only hours ago these exposed rocks had water flowing over them and the algae was still present slowing down our progress. Speed was not the order of the day.  We finally arrived at my favorite spot only to find another fisherman already firmly secure and casting away.  We settled in upstream and began to fish.

It soon became clear that my plan to simply allow Matthew to cast (with my help) would not work.  It took me practically an entire summer to learn how to cast and work a good drift and Matthew too will have to put in his time to learn.  My new strategy was to try and catch as many fish as possible and let Matthew reel them in and net them.  This plan was a better introduction to let Matthew feel the tug on the other end of the line and after an hour with no fish, I was beginning to wonder if even this plan would work.  Finally the drought ended and I was able to land a Brown.  Matthew worked the fish well and netted him with ease.  Eventually we were able to work down river to fish with Matt P. and his father Tim.  This is when the fishing was at its peak. We caught plenty of fish and Matthew was extremely happy with our results.

 I looked across the river at Matt and Tim and I wondered how many outings like today's they have enjoyed.  The friendship between father and son is apparent.  When Matthew like Matt is married and expecting a child of his own, days like today are the memories I hope we can share.  I wondered if perhaps Tim also looked at my Matthew and remembered when his Matthew (Matt) was just an eleven year boy wanting to fish with his father.  These are the moments that bind us.  All too soon Matthew will know the trials of adult life, but today we were simply a father and son enjoying the river and the gifts it had to offer.  This wonderful day was capped off when I allowed Matthew to cast the fly rod by himself and his efforts were rewarded by a nice Rainbow that couldn't seem to resist the #16 San Juan worm we were fishing.  Matthew later told me this was his favorite place to fish and the best trip he has ever been on.  My hope is we can share many more together.  Proverbs 22:6 says "Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it."  I am doing my best Lord.  I hope for Matthew's sake this includes fly fishing.

A Post On Growing Old and Enjoying Life's Moments...

Each of our lives is like the rising of the morning sun at dawn.  It burst forth with beauty and wonder and no one knows what the day will hold.  Yet from the moment the sun rises it is destine to set and we seldom take stock of the day when the sun is over head at the noon hour.  Life’s joys too are taken for granted.  There are but a few small hours in which we fully understand the scope of these moments.  All too often the moment and is gone and the significance it played is only appreciated when we reflect back or we lose something that is dear to us.

Generations have grieved their losses; as too will I, for the time will come when my youth will leave me and I have suffered greatly and the only comfort I find is in the tender moments shared with those I love.  Their memories will haunt me like bitter sweet ghosts. Unable to set these memories free yet bound by the happiness they rendered.  There will be a time when my occupation passes me by, my children are grown, and the world begins to darken. This is the time when life, like the sun, slowly fades until there is light no more.  I pray the Lord will grant me eyes to see the moments of light in my life that they may keep me warm as I grow old, for only love endures through all time.  Yes generations have grieved, but only love endures through all time.

Another Great Day on the Clinch

 I have always heard the old saying “if a tree falls in the woods and no one is around does it make a sound?”  Today I asked myself this same sort of question after spending another Saturday on the Clinch.  The truth is that this mornings trip went as well as any trip I have ever had. 

I woke at 5:00 a.m. and with military precision started my day.  My mornings are usually driven by Starbucks and Kashi and this morning would be no exception.  Gear, Coffee, and ceral bar in hand I was out the door by 5:20 and in the parking lot at 6:10.  This fine morning I was going it alone.  My brother-in-law James was back in Richmond, Matt had projects to complete, Garret had business to tend to and my kids were still tucked into bed.  Everyone I fish with had other plans that kept them from the water. 

As the sun forced a few rays of light through the dense fog sitting atop the water I could see the silhouette of a few other fishermen, this day I was part of the “early crowd”.  I waded in eager to see what the day would hold and to claim my prized spot.  The day was overcast and the cool mist of the Clinch lay like a wet blanket on the water most of the morning.  When I reached my fishing spot it was barely light enough to tie a fly on and I could hear the “hoot” of an owl in a near by tree.  The morning started slow and I could see there were two other fishermen a few hundred yards away.  They were close enough to see but with the hypnotic flow of the water and the distance between us I could only pick up every few words of their conversation.  Those words were much easier to understand when they were accompanied by the splashing of a trout as they reeled one in. I thought to myself that it’s nice to have fishing buddies.  Seeing them made me reflect on all of the wonderful fishing trips I had been on in such a short time.

Last year my wife and kids had a remarkable day on the Clinch, good enough in fact that I became almost obsessive about Trout fishing.  It was a special evening indeed.  The backcountry camping trip with Garret in which Garret and James were there when I caught my first Smoky Mountain Rainbow.  The hiking / fishingtrip  Garret and I took to Abrams Creek which I previously posted on, was primarily because of an earlier succussful trip James and had taken to Abrams.  All of these outings share a common thread; all of these trips were shared by friends and family. 

This thought of companionship first came to mind again when the fishing started to heat up. I caught my fifth Brown Trout of the morning and found myself wishing James, Garret, Matt, or the kids were here during such as prolific morning.  I netted a total of 14 rainbows and browns on Saturday, the largest of which was 13.5”.  It was without a doubt my most productive day and a fly fishing dream come true. Yet as enjoyable as it was to catch all of those fish, it was a little less meaningful without having someone to share it with.  If my children had been with me on a day like this it would remain part of Kelly family folk lore for years to come.  Instead, I fished till the water began its swift rise, drove home, and when asked how the fishing was my reply was “it was great.”  That’s really all I could say.  Unless you feel the cold water on your wading socks, the tightening of the fly line in your hand, and hear the splash of a Trout rising to the surface there is no need for any more details. 

The truth is that I don’t care what sounds a tree makes in the forest.  I’ll leave those deep philosophical questions to be answered by folks who do.  If you ask me why I love fly fishing I can tell you it’s the beauty of the cast, finding just the right fly that works, and the places I find myself with my fly rod in hand, but what truly makes fly fishing a passion is the memories I make sharing days like today with the people that I call friends.  Since no one was there to share this memory with me this post is my best attempt of letting all who care know what a wonderful day it was.

Tellico and Citico Recap

Fishing, like life is full of ups and downs.  There are days you will remember for a life time and days you wish you had just stayed home and pulled the covers over your head.  I recently had a day at the Tellico River and Citico Creek that started out as a “should have slept in day”, but before the day was over it would prove to be a memory maker.  Since the Tellico and Citico have some stocked waters and I was playing the part of the guide, I decided to take my brother-in-law James down for some easy fishing.  We had just experienced a really nice morning on the Clinch the day before but this is now Sunday and the waters of the Clinch would be rolling on high by the time we were home from church.

We had lunch and headed down to Tellico Plains to purchase the required trout permit for our day of fishing.  Permit in hand we drove up the winding road to the Tellico River first and so began our fishing.  The heat was intense and the water levels were down.  These two things do not lend themselves well to a productive day of fly fishing.  Undeterred we worked our way down river to find an entry point and we began fishing.  The water was warm and there were little to no signs of trout feeding either above or below the water.  Bead heads, Tellico nymphs, and various dry flies were no match for these lethargic and finicky trout. We fished until James succumbed to the heat so we headed to the truck for some hydration and shade.  Since this trip was proving a very fruitless endeavor thus far we decided to use this time to drive to Citico Creek as we made our way home.  If James felt better we would stop and if not we would drive through and wave to the trout on our way home.

Let’s recap the day’s events. We drove an hour, paid an additional $5.50 for the trout permit, and caught nothing but a near sun stroke.  James was feeling somewhat better but he decided to be an observer for the rest of the day to document any catches I may make. The first trout documented lead me to believe this was a day that would have been better served reminiscing about the morning before on the Clinch when the fishing was good and the water was cold.  The fish was in fact a trout, but it has to be the smallest trout on record caught on a fly rod.  I don’t know how the little guy (or gal) was even able to fit the fly in its mouth.  There were one or two other 4”-5” trout caught but nothing to be excited about in stocked waters. 

I stopped at a few more beautiful seams of water before finally deciding we should call it a day.  The sun was hanging low by this point and the day had tested our resolve.  On the way out as we drove down into flat land and even warmer water the hopes of catching sizable trout on this day vanished like the sun as it began to set.  I told James I wanted to make one more stop at an area that I had caught red eyes in using my spinning rod last year.  This time I had my fly rod and no idea what to expect.  At this point I had abandoned my waders and I was amazed at the warmth of the water as I stepped in.  I’ve taken baths that didn’t have water this warm.  I cast a Tellico Nymph in the idea locations and drew no addition from a single fish.  As I made what I decided would be my last cast, I allowed the fly to drift through a large pool as I headed down stream and back to the truck.  What initially felt like a hung line soon sprang hope eternal within me as a saw the small mouth Bass streak in front of me.  The rod bent, the reel began to “zing” and the fight began.  This was the largest fish I’d had ever hooked with my fly rod and I wasn’t about to blow it by rushing him in and snapping the line.  James was there to capture the last few moments of the fight on video. 

I finally wore him down to the point that I could net him and just like that the day was worth the disappointments previously encountered. (At least from my standpoint….but hey, I caught the fish and I wasn’t the sick one so James may beg to differ) The net gain from this day was that I caught the smallest and largest fish I’ve ever caught.  Some days are pull your cover over your days and some days make memories you carry a lifetime.  This day taught me enjoy both.

A Morning on The Clinch

What would possess a man to rise from his warm comfortable bed at 5:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning?  What force of nature could pull at his heart with enough endearing whispers to cause him to rise even before the sun decides to clothe the day with its light?  The answer is a fly line and a fish.

 This particular morning the destination was the frigid tail waters of The Clinch River.   Like clockwork my brother-in-law and I rose at 5:00 a.m.  Coffee was in hand, a small breakfast was had, and we were on the road by a quarter till 6:00.  We pulled into the parking area above Miller’s Island at 6:30 on the nose expecting to find an open lot and open water.  Instead we found a lot half full.  Some fishermen had already made it into the water and the ones that remained seemed to dance around as though they were about to begin a race;  grown men with one leg in waders surveying the parking lot to see which if it would come down to a photo finish to get to the best spots.  I half way expected to encounter booby traps as James and I made our way to the water. 

One of the most beautiful things about being on the Clinch this early in the morning is you are promised a cool mist.  Depending on the time of year, this can be a refreshing blessing or a windblown curse that will chill you to the soul, but there is no questioning its beauty.  We made our way to a slower stretch of water to meet some friends of mine from work.  Matt and Tim had been there for thirty minutes and had already hooked one. This gave promise to a good day but the slow moving waters prompted James and me to move around to the front side of the Island where I’d had some luck before.   The move proved to be a good choice.

We found our way back to a spot that Matt had shown me once before and after getting settled in I could start to see the fish moving through the water around me.   James and I both caught trout. Most were rainbows, browns, and I even caught a Brook trout.  We saw several sizable fish swimming in the area but I suppose they got that big for a reason as we were unable to get any to take interest in our flies.  Most of the fish we caught were in the 10” range.  We had our most productive fishing on an olive colored scud.  There was a 20 minute period when the activity reached a high and it seemed that every fisherman in the area was pulling in fish.  What a joy it is to be on the water during these times.  Nothing seems to empty my mind like a fly rod and some open water.   

The dam was scheduled to release at 10:00 and as we made our way out ahead of the rising water the fishing seemed to really pick up. At 10:45 you could see the water level rising and as it did the surface seemed to almost quake with feeding fish.  James and I couldn’t help but stop and get a few casts in.  Within minutes we both landed a fish each and decided a day like today wasn’t going to get much better so we head back to the truck.  This is the force that made us rise at 5:00 a.m. and chances are we will rise again. 

Finding Contentment

I live a life of envy. I know this isn’t biblically correct but if I am being honest it’s the truth.  I continue to search for the one thing everyone seeks but very few find.  This search I’m on is for contentment, and the individual that I’m envious of is the Apostle Paul.  I read the Apostle Paul’s letter to the Philippians and I am moved by its simplicity and yet the remarkable truth in his words.

¹⁰ I rejoiced greatly in the Lord that at last you renewed your concern for me. Indeed, you were concerned, but you had no opportunity to show it. ¹¹ I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. ¹² I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. ¹³ I can do all this through him who gives me strength. Philippians 4

I used to think his message on contentment was instructing us to essentially settle for our position in life and be grateful for the blessings that we have been given.  I now realize his profound words are more about finding peace in your life. 

I am a man that thrives on security.  When you are a husband and father it’s not only prudent; it’s expected, to secure your home for your family but it does not stop with protecting your family from the bad guys.  I am also in constant worry about job security and financial security for it’s the latter two items that allow my family to enjoy the life we currently live. 

What I now realize is that Paul’s letter isn’t about settling, it’s about letting go of your fear.  It’s about coming to the realization that you are not in control.  His letter is about letting go….and letting God.  I must admit that I am not there yet.  My demand for order and control in my life is about fear and mistrust.   My inability to stop my worries and fears speaks volumes about my heart.  Proverbs 3:5-6 offers a clear view of an individual given over to God.  “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not lean on your own understanding.  In all your ways acknowledge him and he will make straight your paths.”  This is a very clear passage and one that Paul must have reflected on a great deal; one that perhaps I should reflect on a little more often.

One encounter with our Lord on the road to Damascus and his life charted a new course.  Prior to his conversion Paul was already well versed in the Old Testament, but after his conversion and the events that followed in his life he must have taken comfort in Jeremiah’s words “For I know the plans I have for you, “declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” 

I pray that as the Lord deals with me on this issue I will learn to find contentment.  I pray I can seize the opportunities the Lord provides without fear and each day turn over more of my life to the one that offers life.  Whether the Lord grants me a life of luxury or poverty my contentment rest on the fact that either way it’s a life in Him and that is all I need.

In Christ,

Brian

Abrams Creek Fishing

I began fly fishing in the middle of the summer of 2010.  I enjoyed hiking and fishing the Smokies most of last summer with little or no luck.  I never realized how difficult fly fishing can be.  The local fly shop told me I was learning to fly fish in one of the most difficult areas of the country to fish and it only took a few trips for me to believe them.  What a difference a year makes.  Last weekend my friend Garret and I hiked up to Abrams Falls from the Cades Cove entrance and fished the little horse shoe.  Garret is the individual I blame for getting me involved in fly fishing and he has been like my own personal Obi Wan Kenobi, trying to teach me the ways of the Jedi.  It was my first hike to Abrams Falls and it was not a disappointment.  We hiked the 2.5 miles up to the falls and started our day just above the falls.  I was the first to get my wading gear on, so I decided to get my line wet while I waited on Garret.  I knew it would be a productive day when I landed a nice little rainbow with my second cast.  We could have left at that moment and the hike would have been well worth the effort, but the day was young and we had lots more fishing to do.
  The scenery was as beautiful as any stretch of water I have every walked.  It's ironic to me that part of the beauty is in the rugged nature of the area.  Much of Abrams Creek is surrounded by steep mountains because the river flows through a gorge.  The most difficult part of fishing Abrams is without a doubt the rocks.  This stretch of water runs through the limestone in Cades Cove and the water is rich with life.  This makes for larger trout and slippery rocks.  These rocks are the most slippery rocks I have ever walked on.  To make matter worse, my right boot had a blow out a quarter of the way into fishing.  A new pair of boots could very well make the father's day list.
We fished various yellows including yellow sallies and caught several fish each.  I think I caught five trout and missed a few more.  This was my most productive day of fishing since I started fly fishing.  I read often of 15 trout days, perhaps this is normal for many of the most experienced fishermen, but for me five trout is a grand slam. 
I enjoy Tennessee football, Disney trip with the family, and hunting but there is something about being surrounded by God's creation that makes me feel alive.  There are little moments that stay with you; sometimes it's a hawk flying overhead, sometimes the crawdad you see on the rock, or the perfect cast that lands a fish.  The world around you is still spinning but these little moments belong to you, the river, and if you’re lucky; a good fishing buddy.

I have found in my 36 years something that seems to be common to every man and every woman. One's life must have structure.  My life is structured around my Lord and Savior, my family, my work, and finally the "other" portion which seems essentially a collection of the interest not associated with the first three.   The intent of this blog is to offer my perspective on this crazy thing called life with hopes of documenting the ups and downs that come along with middle class living, raising a family, and finding time for my own little adventures. I plan to write about family and friends as well as the adventures I have camping, hunting, and fishing. You can expect some reflective thoughts and perspective on the Grace of God as well. 

 

In Christ,

 

Brian