Rain.... An Observation

As he stood there with the cool breeze blowing through his hair, he searched to find himself. He could not.

All he could see with his blank stare was the tree’s leaves turning over in unison, like the applause of a grateful audience.

Then it began, one or two drops at first, then rising into a gradual crescendo as the rain fell.  It walked across the field slowly, yet at the blink

Of an eye it was upon him.

It surrounded the porch on which he sat and held him in its arms as it danced. He was lost in the quite calm that the rain made as it echoed off the tin roof and streamed down the gutters.

For a moment he was the rain and it was him. His mind raced at the sight if this beautiful and mysterious dance that was being performed before him as each drop danced into puddles.

A dance that now involved him, but who was he that the rain should choose to reveal itself, to fall and shower him in its magnificence.

Then, much like it had started, it was over, the rain was gone and once again he was alone.

Soon, the sun would swoop down and steal away all the gifts so graciously left, and there would be no evidence of the beauty he had just witnessed.

Many others would pass by and have no recollection of what had taken place here, but he would know.

He would remember and he would wait until once again he was graced by the dance, and once again he would surrender.

The sun will shine.

Does not your heart cry out? Does not your very soul morn?

We are the lovers, we are the peace makers; and yet, where is our peace.

Are we not reminded with every beat of the heart in our chest of the hurts we have known and the betrayal we have experienced?

Do we not bear witness to the most basic of our flawed nature?

I have cursed at the sun for shining its light, and yet felt its warmth rejuvenate me.

Yes we have cried, and yes we have hurt, but rise up I say to you, rise up and meet the morning sun.

Embrace each ray of light that shines upon your face for we are the lovers, we are the peace makers, and peace shall be ours.  

Ode to the Blackberry

The English call them bramble and in the south, nothing says summer like the fruit that hangs from its vines. I’m speaking of blackberries of course and this summer has been a spectacular year for this wild berry in the Kelly house. It’s early July and to date we’ve managed 14 lbs. of blackberries thus far. While the wild berries may not be as naturally sweet as the store bought berries there are plenty of recipes for this little berry. The tangled web of thorns and vines keep many predators at bay but for those who are persistent and willing to encounter a few scrapes along the way the reward is well worth the effort put forth. Here is what I call an Ode to the blackberry and few of the items we’ve made this year with this year’s berries.

Oh bramble bush of berry and thorn

On the path that lays clear and worn

Once more I’ve come to reap your fruit

That hang from your vine and thorny root

You scratch and claw and resist until I’m done

As I pick away in the summer sun

There will be cobblers, pies, and jelly for all

And wine with dinner come this fall

The berries on your vines are only a part

Of the thing I love that sets you apart

For as we pick in the beautiful weather

You give great cause to bring my family together

The South Holston April 2014

The South Holston (SOHO) is one of the premier trout tail waters in the eastern United States.  When my friend Russ notified me that the SOHO would be maintaining a flow of only 200 cfs we made plans to fish while the water was low.  In a normal year the sulfurs would be hatching and the fish would be looking up by now, but this winter has refused to subside and in return most of the hatches have been delayed awaiting the warm sun of spring. 

We arrived in Bristol eager to make our way to the water.  The high peaks of the ridgeline had a clear line of demarcation and the snow that covered those peaks was a majestic site set against the back drop of a clear blue sky.  While we put on our waders and gathered up our gear it was spitting snow and we noticed how stained the water was from the rains the previous night.  We surveyed the water and selected entry locations and both Russ and I set out to fish.  The wind was at my back but I could feel its sting on my knuckles which were already cracked and brittle from a cold winter.  We fished only a short while before realizing this spot was unproductive so we didn’t bother to take off our waders before loading up and moving on. 

 The pulls offs alongside the river were eerily empty and we questioned if the local fishermen knew something we didn’t.  We pulled under the Weaver Bridge and waded out to test our luck at the small island and saw a couple fly fishermen already working the right bank.  They fished long enough to pull two very nice browns from the bank before calling it a day.  Russ and I assumed their position without so much as a strike and we were worried that our two hour drive may be for nothing.  Now the sun was overhead and the cold morning had given way to a windy but pleasant day.  We loaded up once more and headed for the weir dam.

Russ with the largest rainbow of the day!

We arrived in the parking lot to find other’s already fishing and catching rising trout.  I stepped into the water and noticed right away how crystal clear the water was.  There are no feeder creeks here to stain the water and I was optimistic about our chances.  I tied on a number 20 zebra midge and adjusted my strike indicated to what I thought would be the right depth.  Russ was into fish immediately and had probably landed 8-10 to hand before I had my first fish in the net. This was a day in which Russ caught the first fish, the largest fish, and the most number of fish and I couldn’t have been any happier.  It took a few more adjustments to the strike indicator depth and I too began to get strike after strike.  Several fish broke me off before I adjusted to the ever so slight strikes these fish were providing.  When an opening came Russ moved down into another area and advised that I should move with him.  I was somewhat reluctant to move since I felt like I was finally dialed into the fish where I stood; but as I watched him gets strikes on almost every cast I all but ran to fish beside him.

What was to take place for the next two hours was like nothing I had ever seen while fly fishing.  I’ve fished several tail waters in Tennessee as well as out west and I’ve been covered by caddis during an insane hatch on the Big Horn River in Montana, but I’ve never seen feeding such as this.  While the surface wasn’t bubbling with trout, heads where emerging from the water in a ten foot seam that yielded

Not gonna set any records.....but I'll take them all day long!

strikes at almost every cast.  Russ and I were not “fishing”, we were “catching”…and in large numbers.  I would estimate that I took no less than 30 fish from that hole and Russ had to have taken many more than I.  Each time I cast my fly would only touch the water before the strike indicated sank and another fish was on.  I caught fish after fish with a pent us fury as if I were making up for every one that ever got away.  This was fine for the first 45 minutes and then I realized something. I missed the challenge of which fly would work, and what depth to fish it, and whether there were even fish in the area I was casting.  I’ve returned home from many fishing trips disappointed by the difficulties I encountered on the water and frustrated by the low numbers of fish caught.  Now I found myself having no problems catching a fish on almost every cast and in truth, it became boring.  Here is my advice to any fishermen that may read this blog; celebrate the days when the weather is nice and the fishing is easy, but don’t forget to relish those days when the weather is rotten and the fishing is slow. It’s not just catching fish that bring us back to the water.  It is the challenge and the hope that a fly may be cast and a trout may rise.      

My Only Love

The harvest moon hung high on the horizon and it’s light clothed us as the nights chill just began to settle in. The porch upon which we sat offered open views to the yard and neighborhood below and while our children dreamt we talked. We gazed into one another’s eyes as best we could in the dim light and we remembered. It is these conversations I enjoy the most. We laughed at the ideas we had when we were young newlyweds with no money and a dream. We had ambition and energy and where we are now is where we always wanted to be. Our voices would crack as we discussed those hard times in life we saw together and those we have lost. More than anything it was the quite conversations we enjoyed. Some moments words can’t suffice. In a single gaze you can look into that person’s eyes and see your children being born, the tears you’ve shared , and the struggles that were fought together. No one else was there to see the tender underside of my life, but she was. In seventeen years the laughs have outweighed the tears and the love we share burns even brighter than the day we exchanged vows and made a promise of forever. Only now, hindsight offers a clearer view of those vows because for seventeen years we have lived them. In the distance a barking dog is heard and the Katydid’s song plays in the background as constant as the ocean’s waves. Her eyes grow heavy from the sleep that is trying to invade. The conversation has gone silent and she takes one more deep breath before she stands to go in. Exhausted from the day it’s time for rest. “Love ya” she says as she kisses my cheek before heading in. “I’ll be in soon” I reply but I can’t stop reflecting. Each memory plays like a film in my mind. What a life we have shared. My only love.

Yellowstone 2014....4000 Miles and a Lifetime of Memories

My life is composed of rhythmically timed events. Long before the sun has even burned the haze from the mountain tops my alarm sounds and the day begins.  Lunch is always from 11:30-12:30 and more times than not I’m in my car by 5:00 and heading for the sanctuary that I call home. How often do you say, “why not”?  To be honest, I say it far too few times.  When my brother-in-law and I added up the costs of an Elk hunting trip out west and we decided it wouldn’t be possible right now, I suggested we do a fly fishing trip to Yellowstone instead.  The costs are far less, we love the fly fish, and the scenery is magnificent. Since he works for a car rental company and can get a sweet deal on a rental, I thought to myself…..”why not?”  I’ve always talked about driving cross country and this would be a great opportunity to do so.

When I told my brother Patrick about our plan he decided he would also like to come along. So the plan was set; three guys, a rented mini-van, and 4000 miles of total driving. Sure, that sounds like a great plan. I won’t bore you with the details of the drive other than to say it was long…..it was very long.  When you have driven and you think you MUST be getting close, you’re not.

We arrived at Roosevelt Lodge around 3:00 p.m. on Sunday.  As soon as the door was opened we realized we may have to rethink our planned sleeping arrangements as the small rough rider cabin certainly lived up to its name.  We were happy to be there and our mind had already switched to fishing so there was little time to debate about the shoebox we would call home for the next four nights. We unloaded our bags into the small cabin and headed out to find some water to fish.  I knew of a spot that was very productive during my last trip to Yellowstone and drove us out to the Lamar River and the pool that was once my honey hole.

We arrived to find the water all to ourselves and we made our way across the sage filled meadow to the stream.  The plan was to squat on this section of the river and wait for a hatch to bring the fish to the surface.   The hatch never happened and we didn’t get so much as a look at any fly we threw.

The next morning we made our way to Park’s Fly Shop to inquire about the streams that were fishing well and to buy some local flies. Pink hoppers seemed to be the order of the day so we paid for our flies and headed out to the Gardner to fish.  We had some trepidation as we made our way down the hill side and a Big Horn Sheep watched our slow decent, but finally we settled in and fished below the high bridge not far from Mammoth.  I had several fish rise to my hopper and one leapt from the water but missed the fly altogether. James struck first when he pulled a beautiful brown from the stream and only a few minutes’ later claps of thunder and strikes of lightning forced us to scale the bank back to the van.  We headed back to our cabin to regroup and allow the storm to pass.

Tuesday morning brought new hope and we were on the water by 10:00.  The Soda Butte meanders through open meadows in the Lamar Valley before it empties into the Lamar River.  Bison roam the meadows and as tame as they appear their cattle like appearance is misleading.  Bison account for the majority of the injuries in Yellowstone to visitors each year.  As the three of us tried to fish a deep run of water a bull bison slowly approached.  He stepped closer and closer through the sage until he was at the water’s edge.  He didn’t stop there.  He proceeded to cross the stream and sent the three of us up the hill like mice running from a cat.  His only intent was to inform us that he was the dominate male.  I think I can speak for Patrick and James when I say, his point was well taken and we concur.   

 

As James paced the bank he noticed a large Cutthroat feeding in a seam of water right beside the bank.  I tied on a size 16 Pale Morning Dunn (PMD) and James guided each cast.  “No, a little more to the right” he explained.  Several casts later and the drift was perfect, the fish rose and took the fly, and my rod bend as he thrashed. Then in a flash he was gone.  Shortly after this I heard my brother Patrick yelling that he had a fish on.  Given this was Patrick’s second attempt at fly fishing I couldn’t have been any happier for him.  We all continued to fish the Soda Butte and the three of us all caught fish.  It was a late day and when we arrived back at the cabin to prepare dinner it was nice to have the smell of fish on our hands. 

That evening we sat on the porch of the Roosevelt Lodge with a stogie, a sip of bourbon, and simply relaxed. The conversation wasn’t about the stresses of work, the worries about our children, and the problems of life.  We talked about the fish we caught and the ones we should have caught and in the cool night air we simple enjoyed each other’s company and shook off the pressures we brought with us. We talked about God’s mercy and grace and we felt alive!

We decided we would do some site seeing and drive to the thermal areas of the park on Wednesday but not before we fished.  At 6:00 a.m. I was awoken by a slight chill in our cabin so I thought I would get coffee going and start the day.  The sun was already shining bright as I made my way to the bath house to get ready for the day.  Eventually Patrick and James gave up any hopes of sleeping in and we were back on the road driving back to the Lamar Valley.  We decided to fish the Soda Butte once again but on this trip we ventured upstream before the stream enters the meadows of the Lamar Valley.  We parked, put on our waders, and added additional layers before heading to the water.  The sky had gotten overcast and I was glad I remembered my fleece sweater. 
 The run of water we settled in was tree lined on both sides and a deep run of water cut its way through the center of the stream. Almost immediately the Cutthroat gave away their position as they fed on small insects on the far side of the stream.  A few casts later and we were all catching fish in this section of the water.  I’m always amazed at the number of fish that can inhabit a small area in a stream.  As we headed down stream to a gently flowing pool the strikes slowed but we managed to continue pulling fish from the water.

We fished until lunch and made our way to the western side of the park and the thermal areas.  It was my first time in this area and I don’t recall a time I have seen more “trout looking” water than the Fire Hole, the Gibbons, and the Madison.  Unfortunately the water temperatures had already risen to an unfishable level but perhaps one day I’ll be back in time determine if these waters live up to their reputation.

Thursday brought our last day of fishing and determined to catch dinner we made our way to Tower Creek for some of the Brook and Rainbow trout its waters held.  It was a warm day and we all decided to wet wade.  I settled in behind a large rock that had created a log dam on this beautiful little stream and within a couple casts I had my first fish in hand.  The small Brook trout looked to be the same as those in the Smokies and I had serious concerns as to whether the entire population was this size.  If they are, I thought to myself, we better come up with another plan for dinner.  A few casts later and I had my first dinner sized fish; a rainbow that fell for the lure of my pink hopper.  Within a quarter of a mile of fishing on this stream we already had enough fish for dinner and the pressure was off.  All other fish caught were bonus fish for fun and this little jewel willingly gave up quite a few fish.  When we had all felt it was time to leave we started taking note of the bushes of wild berries all around us among the deadfall.  I could recognize the wild raspberries but there were two other types that I had never seen.  This entire area would be a berry buffet to any bears that happened to settle in for lunch.  When I am fishing I generally think of nothing but the perfect drift with the perfect fly and a perfect strike.  Perhaps this is a character flaw, but it is also why I fly fish.  On the hike out we were much more “bear aware” and we were all doing our best “HEY BEAR” to alert any bears to our presence.  Luckily we didn’t see any bears and we decided to clean our fish on the stream side before heading back to the cabin at Roosevelt Lodge to cook them.

 Patrick decided one more cast was needed and with it he brought to hand the largest and more vividly colored Brook trout of the day.  Like pioneering men who passed through this land a hundred years earlier we held our chin high as we made our way back to the van with our bounty in our hand as if our families depended on our angling skills for dinner.  James seasoned the fish and started dinner and within an hour we sat in the shade of a tall pine and enjoyed trout that had only hours earlier been swimming in Tower Creek. 

 There is a draw to this place that is unmistakable.  The wildlife you see makes you feel more alive and serves as a reminder that there was a time when the west wasn’t tamed. As we prepared for our last fishing of our trip we decided we would try some of the advice we’d been given on the Soda Butte by two other fishermen and he headed out.

We’d had the joy of catching Cutthroat but now we wanted bigger fish.  So, just as the advice we had been given suggested I scaled the rocks where the stream makes a dramatic turn and I nymph fished with my strike indicator set at five feet.  It was only a few minutes before I missed my first large Cutthroat but when I adjusted to the difference between the current and a strike I was landing fish soon after.  I caught at least six fish from this small steam of water, none of which were less than 16”.  As the sun hung low over and the overcast sky darkened the valley before us, we heard a lone wolf howl on the hill side just behind us.  His howl was answered as to grant us one last memory of what had been an amazing week.

The South Holston (SOHO) In Spring.

    

Russ and I had fished together before in the Smokies but this was an opportunity that I couldn’t pass up.  Russ had insider information on the South Holston and I had always wanted to fish this Tennessee jewel.  I met Russ sometime after 4:00 am at the local Hardee’s parking lot where I was introduced to John and Dave.  We piled into Russ’s Ridgeline and like a shot from a canon we were off.  I remember thinking as we passed the Bristol Motor Speedway how fitting it was to see the speedway because after the two hours in the back seat of Russ’s truck I felt like part of a Nascar team.  We drove to the spot we had been given directions to and suited up.  We waded into the water and right away we began to question either our location or the directions.  We were told to expect ankle deep water but instead we found nearly thigh deep water that was difficult to wade.  This prompted a double check of the TVA release schedule and just as it stated the generators were sluicing minimal waters flows.  Our failure was to look past the generator schedule to the actually flow rate.  The water was still high from the previous night’s release.   

 

We made the best of the situation; walked up to the second bridge and began to fish.  The water was waist deep and choppy and my enthusiasm for this mythical river began to wane.  There were a few pockets of very nice water but there was no activity on or below the surface.  There was a very nice hatch of Sulfurs and still there were no fish rising.  A drift boat moved over an area too deep for us to wade and had several strikes confirming this water actually holds trout.  An hour into fishing this area and Russ finally hooked up and it lifted the spirits of the whole group.  We decided to explore and as we drove down the road we were greeted by pulls off already full of fishermen and cars or private property signs.  We eventually made our way below the dam, picked our spots and fished.  I hooked up within thirty minutes and the trout were very active but finding a fly to interest them was very difficult. 

 I could see other fishermen catching fish but in all I managed one fish and Russ likewise only brought one fish to hand.  It was around 4:00 when we decided we would prepare for the long drive home.  Feeling somewhat defeated and disappointed we drove down river road and headed home.  The pull off areas were now empty and we decided we would try one more spot before calling it a day.  The wading was treacherous due to the amount of water and the slope of the rocks.  Standing on the top of the rocks was a safe bet but the down slope was immediate and any false steps would surely result in waders full of water or worse.  I began to see random splashes of water and realized a light hatch of Hendrickson’s or Light Cahill were coming off.  This was all it took to wake the trout up and I saw large beautiful trout leaping from the water.  It was very technical trying to cast to these locations because there were only small pockets in which to lay the fly in order to get a good drift.  I tied a Light Cahill in size 16 and surveyed the area. I looked down stream and Russ, Dave, and John had abandoned their fly rod but all three were catching large Brown trout on spinning rigs.  Scanning the water before me I would wait for the trout to give away their location and I would cast into the lane where the trout waited to ambush its prey.  The time passed rapidly and for two hours the four of us enjoyed our best fishing of the day.  I began to realize how magical this place must be by drift boat.  The large Brown’s I saw leaping from the water like Humpback whales were out of reach.  They were simply too far to reach by casting and too dangerous to attempt to wade to.  We all managed some nice fish that evening and as we drove back to Knoxville we had all but forgotten the difficultly we encountered most of the day.  Three hours of solid fishing made up for the six hours of disappointment.  This sense of expectancy is what brings the fishermen back to the river’s edge time and time again.