“In the slanting sun of late afternoon the shadows of great branches reached from across the river, and the trees took the river in their arms. The shadows continued up the bank, until they included us”
― Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It
My Dad landing a trout on the Tuckasegee River
When I entered double digit age it was time to venture into bigger, deeper waters. Caney Fork Creek feeds the mighty Tuckasegee River (pronounced ‘tuck-a-SEE-gee’). It is the largest trout fishery by volume in the Southeastern United States. This remarkable river was the home of the 2012 USA National Fly Fishing Championship. It is my home water. My first cast with a fly rod was on this river. My first EVERYTHING with a fly rod was on this river. I landed my first of every southeastern trout species here (rainbow, brown, brook) on dry flies, wet flies, nymphs, and streamers. I caught my first smallmouth bass, rock bass, shell cracker, bluegill, and chub on flies in this river. My identity as a fly fisherman and the techniques I’ve employed across our nation and around the world were honed in my adolescence on the river we called the ‘Tuck’.
“If fishing is a religion, fly-fishing is high church.” –Tom Brokaw
The first trout I landed on a fly from the Tuckasegee River was quite accidental. I was trying to get the hang of standard casting but probably looked like I was being attacked by a swarm of Africanized bees. I knew nothing about fly-fishing except that it looked like a classy way to pursue fish! I had purchased a few pre-packaged trout flies at a big box store. I tried every fly and lost all but one in the kudzu vines and trees. Daylight was fading fast and I tied on the one fly I had left. It didn’t look like any bug in the known creation. I didn’t know the name of it then, but it looked like a poorly tied Silver Butcher. The wet fly had bright blue hackle and silver tinsel on the body.
I was standing in a turn of the river that would produce dozens of fish on flies in subsequent years. (In fact, it is the same place in the picture above where my dad is landing a fish. What you can’t see is that I have a fish on while I am snapping the picture! He and I had double hookups all evening in this spot).
My manic, amateur casting made my line a knotted mess. I started stripping and tugging in the hopes of straightening it out. I yanked off a country mile of fly line before the little bit that remained on the reel lay flat and tangle free. Frustrated, I began hastily cranking in line so I could put an end to my fruitless endeavor and drive to town for a chili dog. About three seconds into the retrieve, whammo! A fat trout hammered the Silver Butcher and absconded downstream. The reel sang as the white backing zipped through the eyelets. Eventually I was able to turn the fish and a few minutes later the silver slab was cradled in my net. All I knew to do was push the ‘repeat’ button. I stood in that same spot stripping off copious lengths of fly line, stripping it in with short bursts, and bam! Three more fish fell prey to the cheap, silver fly before it disintegrated and darkness descended on the big river. My journey as a fly-fisherman had begun.
“If fishing is a religion, fly-fishing is high church.” –Tom Brokaw
The first trout I landed on a fly from the Tuckasegee River was quite accidental. I was trying to get the hang of standard casting but probably looked like I was being attacked by a swarm of Africanized bees. I knew nothing about fly-fishing except that it looked like a classy way to pursue fish! I had purchased a few pre-packaged trout flies at a big box store. I tried every fly and lost all but one in the kudzu vines and trees. Daylight was fading fast and I tied on the one fly I had left. It didn’t look like any bug in the known creation. I didn’t know the name of it then, but it looked like a poorly tied Silver Butcher. The wet fly had bright blue hackle and silver tinsel on the body.
I was standing in a turn of the river that would produce dozens of fish on flies in subsequent years. (In fact, it is the same place in the picture above where my dad is landing a fish. What you can’t see is that I have a fish on while I am snapping the picture! He and I had double hookups all evening in this spot).
My manic, amateur casting made my line a knotted mess. I started stripping and tugging in the hopes of straightening it out. I yanked off a country mile of fly line before the little bit that remained on the reel lay flat and tangle free. Frustrated, I began hastily cranking in line so I could put an end to my fruitless endeavor and drive to town for a chili dog. About three seconds into the retrieve, whammo! A fat trout hammered the Silver Butcher and absconded downstream. The reel sang as the white backing zipped through the eyelets. Eventually I was able to turn the fish and a few minutes later the silver slab was cradled in my net. All I knew to do was push the ‘repeat’ button. I stood in that same spot stripping off copious lengths of fly line, stripping it in with short bursts, and bam! Three more fish fell prey to the cheap, silver fly before it disintegrated and darkness descended on the big river. My journey as a fly-fisherman had begun.
