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.