Fishing the French Broad: Life Lessons

Big Warm Rivers = Bountiful Bass

I have fished large, warm rivers all across the country. Every single river has had an abundance of bass species. Most have smallmouth bass, but some also have largemouth bass, striped bass, hybrid bass, and white bass. All bass species are predators: they eat things that move. Moving or twitching presentations of anything that represents a natural food source will initiate a strike. Natural prey for most bass includes minnows, worms, lizards, crawfish, any other resident fish species, aquatic insects, and when the bass get large, literally anything that gets close! I’ve watched bass eat mice, snakes, and even baby ducks! Bass eat moving protein.

Respect the Power of the River

Big, deep water, strong current, and underwater obstructions make caution the order of the day when fishing big rivers. Respect the river’s power and deadly force. Don’t test it. Be prepared. If you are going to wade big water, wear a life preserver. Several companies actually make fishing vests that are life preservers and they are reasonably priced. Using a wading stick is also highly recommended. I can’t emphasize strongly enough how much one more point of contact with the river bottom increases stability. A wading stick and a life preserver can do exactly that, preserve your life.

Revelations

Unhurried time on a river can yield some of life’s most important epiphanies. Life away from nature is often too fast-paced and loud to generate this depth of import. Let the voice of God in nature whisper strength to your soul.

“Long ago rain fell on mud
And became rock…
But even before that,
Beneath the rocks,
Are the words of God”

----A River Runs Through It

Fishing: Swift Water Survival

*Caveat* Let me just say that this entire scenario is an embarrassing display of bad judgment. It was testosterone motivated and should never have happened. Unfortunately, I have many such stories from my younger days.

The next day it rained and the river swelled. Jeremiah wanted to go fishing again and we went to a section of the river that was a bit deeper and less placid than Gary’s cabin. I decided on this spot for two reasons, it had always been productive when the water was high, and Jeremiah assured me that he was a strong swimmer. I told him that there was a good possibility that we would have to swim to some of the fishing spots and he said he was up for it.

We waded out waist deep and it became apparent that the swim was going to come sooner than later. The area I wanted to fish was on the other side of the run. It dropped off to about eight feet deep and was around fifty feet long before it shallowed up. I asked Jeremiah if he was ready and he gave a self-assured nod. As we pushed off into the current Jeremiah sank like a stone. He kicked to the surface just long enough to hack out a lungful of murky water. We were in a deep predicament, pun intended. Jeremiah is a corn-fed Texan. Standing about six-foot two and weighing in at two hundred and thirty pounds, this rescue was going to be a challenge. When I got close to him I received the obligatory punches and elbows of a drowning man in panic mode. I reacted by diving under him and found some purchase on the bottom. I grabbed his feet and lifted him towards the surface. This tactic worked and he was able to get a breath. The problem was, I eventually had to surface for air and when I did, Jeremiah dropped like an anchor again. Once again, I dove down, found bottom, took his feet and pushed him to the surface. We continued this scenario several more times before the current laid us up in the shallow tail out at the bottom of the run. We sat there for several minutes, stunned and spent.

Later, when Jeremiah had a family and was pastoring a church, he used this story as a metaphor of his spiritual life. He said he really thought he would be just fine. He could swim. But he had never swum in the current of a mountain river with boots on. He became helpless and desperate. He likened the situation to realizing his need for Christ. He said, “When I realized that my sinful choices had separated me from God, I felt desperation.” He said he wouldn’t be alive today without someone caring enough to dive down into his desperate situation and lift him up. “That’s what Jesus did for each of us,” he shared. “He descended into the desperation of sinful humanity and made a way, through His cross and resurrection, for each of us to be rescued, saved, lifted up from the effects of our sinful choices. We just have to stop fighting and let Him lift us up.”

There is an old hymn called Love Lifted Me that says,

“I was sinking deep in sin, far from the peaceful shore,
Very deeply stained within, sinking to rise no more.
But the Master of the sea heard my despairing cry,
From the waters lifted me now safe am I.”

Both Jeremiah and I made unwise decisions that day. I grew up swimming in mountain rivers. I have swum often to desirable fishing spots. Since this experience I have never led another person to do this. I am sure Jeremiah is more cautious about allowing testosterone to influence decisions to dive into similar situations. That said, I am grateful for God’s grace to watch over us, even when our decisions are dim-witted. My wife has often said, “Your guardian angel is going to need a vacation.”

River Realization

One Summer, a young man visited me from Texas. His name was Jeremiah Dollgener. I had met Jeremiah when he was ten years old. I was attending Bible College in Texas at the time and ministering at a church near the Red River. Largemouth bass fishing is excellent in North Texas and I introduced Jeremiah to the activity. He was just a little kid in a small town looking for something to do. I didn’t have any children at the time and saw it as a good opportunity to invest in a kid’s life. Through our bass fishing trips, Jeremiah learned about fishing and faith. (Jeremiah eventually attended Bible College and Seminary. He and his wife Jessica served as missionaries in Uganda, and eventually returned to the States to serve a church in North Texas).

I believe Jeremiah was twenty or so when he came to visit. My son, Jake was about nine. We went down to Gary’s cabin and spent the day fishing. It was a hot one. The fish were biting and we had a blast. In the heat of mid-day, I waded out to take a rest on the porch of the cabin. There was a porch swing and rope rail. I rested my feet on the rope rail and gently swung myself back and forth as a mild breeze enhanced the amenable shade. What I saw from this vantage was a large man fishing beside a little boy. A knot formed in my throat. The man standing in the river was the little boy I taught to fish when I lived in Texas. The little boy at that man’s side was my own son, Jacob. Where did the time go? I blinked and Jeremiah grew up. I would blink again and my boy would be a man. Time became a more precious commodity to me that day. I’ve blinked a few times since. My son Jake IS a man, leading men of all ages on fishing and hunting adventures vocationally.

Fishing the French Broad River: Part Two

The French Broad is probably the most productive river in the country for catching fish year-round. But late-summer fishing is epic. With a little guidance, a novice fisherman can easily land thirty or more fish in a day. My son and I would often lose count, but we had times (often just half-days) in July and August that we landed over a hundred fish. Everything in the river will attack a garden fly, but if we just wanted to target the smallies, we would go artificial. On spinning rods, a small, pumpkin seed lizard, Carolina-rigged is very effective. Also, they will slam rubber hellgrammites bumped along the bottom. On a fly rod, they hammer streamers and muddler minnows.

Sometime after Melissa returned from her vacation, we had the opportunity to talk fishing over lunch in the break-room. She told me she enjoyed fishing very much, but didn’t know where to fish in the area, having moved recently to the area. Our store was only a mile, as the crow flies, from the French Broad. I offered to introduce her to the river and she obliged.

My wife Melissa with a French Broad smallmouth

A channel catfish from the same spot

It was a bright, warm, day. After meeting at the store, we rode together to the river. It was warm enough to forego waders and just wear shorts and wading shoes. Melissa decided to get some sun, so her fishing attire was minimal. I tried to stay focused on the task at hand. She and waded out to the middle of the river and began to fish. We landed a couple of small bass before we heard the first rumble of thunder. Thunder? The sky was blue. As we looked up, dark clouds boiled over the mountain from the South and we saw the first bolt of lighting over the ridgeline. We scrambled for the bank, I helped her up first, again trying to focus, unsuccessfully, on just the task at hand: don’t get fried by lighting! Hailstones, at least golf-ball sized, began pelting the river as we clambered for cabin porch. The temperature dropped drastically and we were stuck shivering but sheltered, watching this amazing, unprecedented (at least in my experience) display of terrible beauty. The bright sky had rapidly transitioned to dark gray, lightning bolds exploded around us, hail pummeled water in great splashes and reverberated the tin roof of the porch vociferously. I put my arms around her naturally as we witnessed, wide-eyed, the awesome spectacle. Then, as quickly as it came, it blew past. The sun came out. The temperature rose. And the most stunning rainbow we had ever seen, materialized above the river.

The backstory is that Melissa and I had both experienced tragedy in our lives. Both of us had been married and had spouses leave. I had lost a fourteen year-old daughter the year before. Our lives were broken. We were both followers of Christ and trying to keep the faith. Though devastated, we kept putting the pieces of our broken lives before the Lord in prayer. We asked him, by His grace, to bring hope into our lives once again. If you know the story of Noah, from the Bible, the rainbow represents hope. It represents the promise of God to protect and provide. For Melissa and me, that day on the river was a message. We had both experienced a terrible and unforeseen storm. These circumstances had brought us together. God was speaking our story through a natural spectacle (Romans 1:19). We didn’t discuss the meaning of this experience right away. In fact, it would be many months before we went on an actual date, but it was the beginning of a friendship. There was nothing romantic in these initial months, but we started spending our days together. We fished, hiked, hunted, shared meals, and worked together. Nearly every waking moment was spent with this woman, who soon became my best friend. After nearly a year of just hanging out together, it became something more. We had never kissed or even held hands, but I knew we were supposed to be man and wife. Melissa and I have been married now for several years. We still spend as much time together as possible hiking, hunting, camping, and fishing. I am a blessed man. She makes me feel like I’ve won the lottery every day, except I know that my life with this woman, who shares my every passion is the pinnacle of providence.

Fishing the French Broad River: Part One

“Down through bare fields and by many a hedgerow the streams from the high country flow,

Down to join and swell the big river that into a huge water-way grow.”---Francis Duggan

The French Broad River is the ‘huge water-way’ of the Southeast. It is the flowing basin of a thousand gathered streams, carving its way through the mountain gorges of Western North Carolina into Tennessee. Prior to the Revolutionary War it was owned by the French, thus the name. The Cherokee Indians called it the Agiqua meaning ‘wide or broad’. It flows for over two-hundred miles before joining the great Tennessee River.

I started fishing the French Broad about the same time I began fishing the Big Laurel, but the target species was different. There is so much surface area on the French Broad that it heats up beyond the tolerances of any trout species. Its warmer waters are perfect, however, for the beautiful, bronze-colored, small-mouth bass. The big river bulges with these beautiful bass.

The French Broad is a special river to me for several reasons, the foremost of which is that I met my future wife there…well sort of. I had been working at a large retail store in training and personnel. Employees would come to my office to request time off and because I had a good rapport with them, they would often tell me their vacation plans. The store’s inventory manager was a young, attractive, smart, strong, and somewhat introverted lady named Melissa Smith. Eventually, she came in to request vacation. I asked her what her plans were. She said that she would spend most of her week in a deer stand in the woods. I asked who she would be hunting with. She said, “Just by myself.”

Now, if you are an outdoorsman and an attractive female reveals that she is also an avid outdoors-woman, it generates some powerful, deep-down, “I hope my face isn’t bright red…am I sweating?…I think I need some air,” kind of reactions. I held my composure and said something profound, along the lines of, “Awesome!” So, I had met Melissa, the inventory manager, but didn’t really get to know her until we decided to go fishing together on the French Broad River.

Fishing the Laurel: Life Lessons

Find Maestros

There is always a ‘Maestro’ out there to pick up some tips and tactics from. Most are willing to share them if you are humble in your approach. When wanting tips from a sage, be careful to compliment them and ask if they would be willing to share some advice. The ‘hat in hand’ approach has worked well with me through the years and I’ve gotten to know some wonderful people who think like a fish. When you are being taught by such a person, try to do everything the way they do it, even if you are used to doing it another way. It is a great compliment to them when you imitate their techniques and strategies. Don’t try and demonstrate something you know, unless it is asked for. I have read somewhere, “Arrogance and ignorance go hand in hand.”

Unplanned Majesty

As you go along, purposeful in natural pursuits, you will encounter unplanned majesty. Savor it. Majesty is anything that inspires awe and joy that has absolutely nothing to do with you. Most people feel a degree of happiness when folks make a big deal out of their accomplishments, but majesty is something more. The delightful doe that I encountered on that misty morning on the Big Laurel brought a huge smile to my face, but there wasn’t the slightest connection of that event to any personal accomplishment of my own. It was pure, serendipitous, majesty. As a man of faith, I believe God’s majesty is revealed through His creation/creatures. “For ever since the world was created, people have seen the earth and sky. Through everything God made, they can clearly see his invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature. So they have no excuse for not knowing God,” Romans 1:20. Majesty is a key attribute of God. The natural creation is perfumed with it. That is why you can look at some beautiful river, stare at a snow-capped mountain, watch animals in their native habitat, or gaze at stars on a clear night and feel a deep level of satisfaction and sometimes, pure joy. In those moments, we are breathing in the perfume of God’s majesty.

Pass it On

I am glad my son loves to fish. It has kept him away from other vices and addictions. It also creates a relational bond that gives you something to do together until all your teeth fall out. Even after your choppers are gone, you can cast from the seat of your motorized Rascal beside your gray-haired child. They can pass the activity on to their little rascals. I don’t know of any pastime that imparts more patience and appreciation for nature than fishing.

Become a Year-Round Angler

There is a level of tranquility in wintertime fishing that is often unattainable in other seasons. Warmer weather brings swarms of people to the rivers and lakes. With the right gear, cold-weather fishing is relatively comfortable and surprisingly productive, if winter tactics are employed. Remember that fish feed most in the middle of the day in the winter months. They are typically in a nose-down position near the bottom. If you are fly fishing for trout, get familiar with your small, bead head flies and fish them low and unhurried. The deeper, slow-moving pools will hold winter fish. A trout will not strike aggressively in cold weather. Their take will be a gentle sip. It is imperative to watch your fly line and lift to set the hook of there is any hesitation or slight twitch in the line. Some kind of small, strike indicator (a piece of bright yarn or adhesive foam) attached where the fly line and leader connect is helpful in detecting these delicate nips.

Catching Winter Trout

I love to fish when the banks of a stream are blanketed with snow. I’ve often heard people say that fish get lock-jaw in the wintertime and it is time to just stay home, tie flies, reminisce, and wait for Spring. I beg to differ. Winter trout fishing has yielded some of my biggest fish and can be extremely productive, but not with the same tactics employed in other seasons. The times and manners change drastically and many fishermen just don’t know how to adjust. If you fish the same way in winter and you do any other time of the year, you’ll get skunked. In other seasons, trout feed early in the morning and late in the evening, just like the average human. But on a cold, winter day do you ever find yourself just wanting to stay in bed until it warms up a bit? This is exactly what happens with a trout! Instead of feeding early, they wait for the temperature to rise. Mid-day is the time to catch trout in the winter months. Also, aquatic insects are in their smallest, larval stages during this time. These tiny morsels begin to squirm on the bottom and reveal themselves to hungry trout as the slanted rays of mid-day sun pierce the chilly water. So, obviously, trout are not prone to rise during the winter season. They pick a nymph and scud lunch from the bottom of the stream.

It is important to have the right gear for winter fishing. Necessary clothing includes an insulated base layer, fleece top and bottom, neoprene chest waders, and waterproof jacket. Lightweight fishing gloves make fingers less numb and more nimble. Headgear like a wool or synthetic beanie is essential. Always carry an extra set of clothes in case you fall in! One January, I had a fishing buddy that slid down a rock into a pool well over his head. We had been flicking the ice from our rod tips all day long. It was frigid. He didn’t bring any extra clothes, so he stripped naked and sat in the truck with the heater on. Several people passed by in slightly larger trucks. Their downward glance as they passed our little Ford gave them more than they bargained for as my shivering friend sat battling hypothermia in the buff. The primary flies to carry are little bead head nymphs and scud patterns sized sixteen and smaller.

One January morning, after waking to freshly fallen snow, I decided to grab my winter gear bag and head down the mountain to the Big Laurel. As I drove, the sun rose over the whitewashed hills and made them sparkle. The temperature was around twenty degrees Fahrenheit. I drove to a bridge on the upper section of the river. It is an easily accessible spot and gets hammered by fishermen in the Spring. It would be highly unusual to find a place to park in the warmer months, but on this day, the river belonged to me. This is another reason I enjoy these midwinter jaunts. I eased into the river and began my high-pole presentation of a scud and nymph tied in tandem. The flies need to drift very slowly, ticking the bottom. Split-shot sinkers attached, one six inches above the top fly and one between them does the trick. High-poling is the technique of keeping your rod tip high and your line as vertical as possible, following along with your flies as they kiss the bottom of the stream.

I caught several firm brook trout and rainbows, wading slowly down the river, periodically flicking the accumulated ice from the eyelets on my fly rod. I came to shallow riff in the river angling into a long, deep pool. It is a magnificent trout lie. I had no doubt that I would hook several nice fish here, as I had often in the past. A large boulder sits at the top of the riff. I carefully moved into position using the big rock for cover. Just as I was about to make the first drop, a voice rang out firmly, “You know people think guys like you and me are out of our minds to be fishing on days like this.” The voice came from the bank of the river, just fifteen feet or so behind me. The fisherman was clad in brilliantly camouflaged winter gear. I hadn’t seen him at all as I approached the boulder from upstream, even though he was always in my field of vision. It turned out that he was the Chairman of North Carolina Trout Unlimited. He said, “I don’t have to ask you if you’re having any luck because I’ve been watching you for a while.” I had landed several trout on the stretch above the riff. I noticed he was using the exact same set up as me, small tandem scuds with tiny split-shot in the middle. He said that it had been a very productive day. After a bit more chit chat, he continued in his state of quiet observation and resumed my position to fish. As I expected, this run produced four nice trout.

Raising a Fisherman: Part Two

As I recall, it was early Summer. We got to the river just after daybreak. I could tell it was going to be warm and bright, but the cool, dawn mist hung in the air and hid the sun. I chose an area fairly safe for a little boy. It was a slow, flat turn in the river that couldn’t be seen from the road. We parked the truck and donned our waders. The rods were rigged and ready. We had tied everything up the night before. I had taught him what I consider to be the essential knots of fly-fishing, the Duncan’s Loop and the Perfection Loop. He rigged his own rod using Duncan’s loops. This was no small accomplishment for a little boy. I’ve taught fly-fishing clinics to grown men who struggle with the process. Rigging a fly rod includes attaching backing (a braided line) to the reel first. Then you have to connect your rubberized fly line to the backing line. Then you attached a tapered monofilament leader to the rubberized fly line. Then you attach your dry fly to the end of the tapered leader. Because we were fishing the dropper rig, a section of tippet (small diameter fluorocarbon fishing line) is attached to the hook of the dry fly. And finally, a small, bead-head nymph is attached to the tippet. Jake could do this by the age of seven.

We walked silently through a grove of trees and came out on the bank of the river. I whispered to Jacob that we should take a little time to ‘read’ the water. All too often, fishermen approach an area to fish very quickly and begin casting right away. I have found that if you can stay fifty or sixty feet away from the water, crouching to keep a low profile, trout will reveal themselves. They will either be rising to sip bugs from the surface or finning, tails up and nose down, picking nymphs from the bottom. Sometimes they just slowly drift one way or another. Either way, they can be seen by careful observation even though they are magnificently camouflaged. At first they are almost indistinguishable from bottom rocks, but rocks don’t move. Eventually, a trout will move. Once the fish gives away his location, a good fly-fisherman will move covertly to a location where a fly can be presented incognito. Trout can see upwards conically and outwards through the water for at least fifty feet. If they see you, it’s game over, typically. Spooked trout lock down in protection mode for a few hours.

We were crouched on the bank about seventy-five feet from the water. Within five minutes, several trout materialized. A couple of nice ones were feeding in the eddy below a large boulder. Jake judged the boulder to be good cover and sneaked into position, climbing the upstream side of the large boulder. He was able to stay hidden, and with a flick of the wrist, drop the flies in behind the rock. It was as if the brook trout was waiting for them. He bit the Renegade aggressively and Jake played him out. The next generation, Reel man fly fisherman was hooked that day.

Today, Jake is a professional fishing guide in Washington State.

Raising a Fisherman: Part One

“A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip—
Oh, I envy them, as I see them there
Under the sky in the open air,
For out of the old, old long-ago
Come the summer days that I used to know,
When I learned life’s truths from my father’s lips
As I shared the joy of his fishing-trips—
Builders of life’s companionship!”
---Edgar A. Guest “A Boy and His Dad” excerpt

My Son Jake

My son caught his first fish on a fly in the Big Laurel River. I taught him how to tie a couple of fly patterns before he could read. He landed his first fish on a fly he had tied himself. I’ve never known a child to fall in love with fishing, of every kind, more deeply than my son. I thought his passion for fishing might diminish over time, but it hasn’t. It has intensified. When he entered his teen years, I remember thinking, “Jake’s gonna have to learn how to make a living fishing because it’s all he wants to do!” That’s exactly what happened. Currently, he works as a pro fishing guide and manages the fishing department of a marine store in Everett, Washington.

I introduced Jake to fly-fishing while he was still in diapers. I would take him out in the backyard and, holding the fly rod with him, we would make casts toward a white paper plate I laid in the grass. The ‘fly’ was a little red piece of yarn. I told him that when he could make the yarn hit the plate over and over again (from a distance of about thirty feet), he would be ready to cast to a real fish. He became obsessed with the game. Before long, the accuracy of his casting would amaze friends and family as they watched this tiny tot fly-fisherman practice in his backyard.

He displayed the same interest and tenacity when it came to the delicate and tedious process of fly tying. He was producing Renegades, Blue-wing Olives, Elk Hair Caddis, and bead-head nymph patterns before he entered grade school. He began modifying flies (as he had seen me do) adding his own personal touch. At the time, I was ministering in a mountain church called Woodland Hills. The pews in the church were upholstered the color of Dijon mustard. Jake and his buddy, Jared Wallin, picked fuzz from the pews (probably while I was delivering a sermon) and used it as dubbing for their dry flies (dubbing is any yarn or yarn-like material used for the body of a fly). It was on one of these inventions (Jake called them ‘Jesus’ flies) that my son caught his first trout on the Big Laurel River.

Big Laurel Trout Fishing: An Unexpected Delight

“All that moved was her pivoting ear
the reddening sun shining through
Transformed to a color I’d only seen
In a photo of a child in a womb.”
------C.K. Williams, “The Doe”

A few years later, on a brisk, Spring morning I ventured to one of my favorite spots on the Big Laurel. It was not an obvious holding area for trout, but it was always stacked with fish. Most of the time, trout like a bend in the river. The varying depths and current speeds allow them to adjust their temperature and feed with minimal effort. The deeper water is cool, offering comfort and protection from the mid-day heat, like sitting in an air-conditioned room. There is a current ‘seam’ between slower moving (moderate flow) water and the faster current on the outside of the turn. Trout can rest on the edge of the moderate flow and pick from the smorgasbord floating by.

But this fishing hole was different. It’s a long, straight stretch of water that would not catch the attention of most passing fishermen. The road runs parallel to the river but one can only see the side farthest from the road. On the near side, the water is deeper, with rock formations that make seemly cover for brook trout. I usually approach this area from the far, upstream side of the river casting a dropper rig perpendicular to the road and letting it swing through the strike zone. It’s very effective

On this particular morning, the dawn mist was hanging on the water and fields with distinct shafts of sunlight cutting through here and there. The effect was surreal. All I could hear was the gentle gurgling of the river and a calm serenity settled over me as I situated for the first cast. I closed my eyes to take it in. After a couple of deep breaths, I was jolted and splashed by what sounded like a tree crashing into the river about ten feet behind me. Spinning around, to my amazement, I was nose to nose with a big, whitetail doe! Our eyes were locked only inches apart and we both stood perfectly still like this for several seconds. Then I said, “Well aren’t you a pretty girl?” The lovely deer cocked her head to the side, reminiscent of our family dog when we would speak to her as if she was human. I continued speaking to the doe and she kept tilting her head as if she was trying to understand. Eventually, I said that I had come to do some fishing and turned my back to her. She never ran. She would take a few steps, then watch, as if trying to stay out of my way. She continued this pattern of a few steps, stopping, observing curiously for three or four minutes. Curiosity sated, she climbed slowly up the bank and crossed the road. I am grateful and blessed to carry the memory of this resplendent creature.

Landing Trout in the Big Laurel

The Maestro
“I may not be as strong as I think, but I know many tricks and I have resolution.”
― Ernest Hemingway, The Old Man and the Sea

The Big Laurel River flows through a peaceful valley in the northwestern part of North Carolina, just a few miles from eastern Tennessee and southern Virginia. It is known for producing unusually large brook trout. The average size of a Blue Ridge brook trout is about eight inches. In the Big Laurel, it is not unusual to catch them in the sixteen-inch range. I have landed an occasional fish over twenty inches. I’ve never seen brookies of this size anywhere else.

My Wife Melissa with a Monster Brookie

I first fished the Big Laurel as young adult. I had become fairly proficient and productive in the art of fly-fishing. That is, I rarely got ‘skunked’. I caught fish regularly and had begun to get requests from aspiring fly fishers to give lessons. On one particular occasion the trout were being finicky. The water in the Big Laurel is gin clear, so I could see the fish. Using polarized sunglasses, I could watch them rise toward my flies, abruptly lose interest, and sink slowly back to the bottom completely disinterested. I stood there disillusioned. A bit dejected, I decided to walk back to my truck vacillating as to whether or not to hang it up for the day.


I noticed an elderly man, standing in a spot I had fished earlier unsuccessfully. This was not the easiest place to navigate. The banks are steep and the water swift. I could imagine him gingerly navigating the rocky trail down to the river, relying heavily on the support of his walking stick. I decided to find a shady spot to sit and observe, if for no other reason than to watch over the old fisherman and rescue him if he lost his footing. Standing thigh deep in the powerful river, he stripped out a good amount of line (more than I thought he could handle) and he readied himself to cast. I could see fish suspended in the current seam about seventy feet from him. He lifted the line smoothly and swiftly from the surface, performing a masterful, double-haul cast. His presentation was right on the mark and no more than five seconds later, his rod was bowed under the pressure of a nice trout. I watched this maestro land ten or so fish without a shuffle of his feet. I was mesmerized.

Photo by Nick Bragg

I asked if he minded me coming a little closer just to observe and learn. He said, “By all means!” I told him that I had cast at these same fish without any luck and humbly requested any insight he was willing to impart. He said, “Sometimes these big brook trout just get persnickety. It’s like when your sitting in your easy chair and you would like a snack, but not quite enough to give up the comfort of your chair and exert energy. They will rise up to take a look but their too lazy to bite.” I told him that I had watched them do exactly that. That’s when he introduced me to the dropper fly. He was using a dry fly as an attractor. On the back of the dry fly, tied directly to the hook with a slip knot (Duncan’s Loop) was a sixteen-inch tippet line with a Copper John nymph attached to the end.


The dropper fly rig is perfect for finicky brook or rainbow trout. There reaction to the dry fly is the same: they rise to toward it and slowly back off. Only this time, a dainty little morsel touches their nose on the retreat. They can’t resist. It’s effortless to sip it in, like someone bringing you a slice of cobbler while you sit your easy chair.


I have used this dropper fly set up for many years now with great success. My favorite set up includes a very buoyant dry fly (e.g. an Elk Hair Caddis or a Renegade) and a small bead-head nymph pattern (e.g. a Copper John, Mermaid Fly, or Scud). Those of you who fly fish regularly have most likely seen a rainbow trout ‘tale-slap’ a dry fly. They rise lazily toward the surface to investigate and with a quick turn they splash the fly with their tale. The dropper rig tends to lasso a tale slapper and stick it in the tail. A twelve-inch fish hooked in the tail fights like a twenty-inch trophy! The dropper fly rig, properly presented, results in many more hook-ups and turns a day of fishing into a day of catching.

Life Lessons: Fishing the Tuck

Intentional Memories

Be intentional about making positive memories. Absorb the details of adventure. Make it personal. Sitting here writing, I can almost feel the cool water swirling around me and the sun burning away morning mist as a trout rises to sip my blue-wing olive fly. While tapping away on my laptop, I recall the surge of a weighty trout ripping downstream. I reminisce about gentle hesitations of my fly line triggered by a sub-surface slurp of a bead-head nymph.

Purposely generate positive memories for others. I want my children and friends to say, “Remember when…,” with a big grin on their faces. I can watch the mental reel of my wife and son landing fish where I hooked my first fish on the fly. I recall the whoops of family and friends fishing the big water together. I remember the taste of trout grilled over a fire with sides of fried potatoes and onions. I recollect stories and jokes told by the campfire spawning convulsions of laughter. These are the treasures of life…and they are yours to make. We only have so much time here.

Try Something New
The paradox of contentment is that happiness requires a balance of the familiar and the new. A person cannot be fully content with only the familiar. A person can’t be at peace if everything constantly changes. Equilibrium of novelty and familiarity is necessary to enjoy life fully. What does that have to do with fishing? For example, if you tie your own trout flies, happily produce your old standbys, but every now and then tie something a bit crazy. Once, my youngest daughter had a mermaid doll with a shiny dress. She outgrew the doll so I tied flies using the shimmering material from the miniature dress. Trout hammered them! My buddies asked me where I got the little nymphs. I told them they were custom ‘Mermaid Flies’. They were so effective that one of the greatest fly fishermen I know, a man who manages his own trout fishery, paid me to produce some for him. Appreciate the ordinary, but venture outside the comfort zone every now and then.

Use a Wading Stick
Three points of contact are a necessity when wading big water (your two feet plus the stick). It significantly increases your stability and diminishes your chances of involuntary baptism. I’ve watched a few friends go down in frigid waters and I’ve had to fish a few out of the drink with lungs full of water. Wading sticks are not very expensive. Today’s versions are lightweight and collapsible so they don’t interfere with casting. Don’t traverse big water without a stick. It could be deadly.

Don’t be a Diddywick!
If someone is in your favorite spot, don’t make a big deal out of it. Leave them to it. The river is always ‘first come, first served’. Never, again I say NEVER infringe on another fisherman’s space. If fishing is therapy (and it is), then walking into a man’s fishing spot is like barging in on his counseling session with his therapist. Don’t be a Diddywick!

So what do you do if you encounter a true-to-form Diddywick? Well, I believe a true fisherman is a gentleman. As a gentleman, I ask permission to share a thought with the perpetrator. So far, even these ill-mannered anglers have welcomed the input when I have asked permission to give it. Then I say something like, “I’ve always viewed fishing as therapy. It is time to relax, unwind, and enjoy nature. When someone comes into the spot where I am fishing, it’s like a stranger coming into my therapist’s office when counseling is in session. Does that make any sense?” Most people get the drift and apologize after this analogy, but some just continue to look at you like a calf staring at a new gate. If you get this reaction, you have to make things very plain. Say something like, “There is a lot of river to fish. Do you mind finding another spot? Thanks and good luck to you!” So far, this has always worked for me

Unusual Fishing Techniques: The Art of Snangling

Snangling: Combining Snorkeling and Angling

I took my daughter and niece to a riverside park on the Tuckasegee River to sunbathe. While they soaked in the rays, I grabbed my mask and snorkel and waded out to a deep bend in the river. At my first hovering pass, fish scattered everywhere and all I saw was movement. By the fifth time I drifted over fish remained static and unthreatened; dozens of fish. Trout, were holding customarily in deep, darker water at the far side of the bend. I moved to the shallower, inside turn where I felt the current slow down and the temperature rise. Five large smallmouth bass materialized like green ghosts. Even closer to the inside bank a shoal of thirty or so red horses, some over twenty inches long glided like hovercraft, bellies barely grazing the bottom.

I started snangling about twenty years ago. The first thing that surprised me was the sheer amount of fish I saw the moment I submerged. A seasoned fisherman gains an uncanny ability to perceive fish from above as they lay camouflaged amidst rock and vegetation. I was a seasoned fisherman. I thought I could distinguish most fish in a run or pool. My first submersion in a trout stream with goggles produced sheer amazement at the number of fish that were invisible to me from above. I have seen dozens of fish in areas that I thought held one or two. Another surprise was how quickly the fish acclimated to my presence. In less than a minute they begin to feed, picking rocks for microscopic morsels or rising to terrestrials circling in small eddies above. I began to notice different species gathering in various locations based on water temperature, depth, and structure. Slow moving water that gets direct sunlight heats up several degrees compared to the faster, deeper, or shaded water in the pools. Trout typically hang on the edge of the current, just inside the shade, hidden in the shadows, deep enough to feel a distinct drop in water temperature, ready to ambush. Bass are sun seekers, shunning the shaded cool zones for direct light and warmth as long as it is just below the suckers and creek chubs also known as bass snacks.

I return to these locations armed with fly tackle and using the knowledge gained by observance, always catch more fish. Knowing where the fish hang out and at what depth allows an offering in the strike zone. Weighted nymphs drifted through trout at the proper depth under a strike indicator become deadly. Hoppers and muddlers floated through smallmouth at the right depth get smacked. Knowing that the fish are there and how they behave increases my confidence and catch rate.

Fishing with Toothless Diddywicks

The Tuckasegee River is designated Delayed Harvest water. This is a special label meaning a fisherman can only use artificial lures with a single hook and all fish must be released for most of the year. Over thirty thousand trout are discharged into the Tuck each year by the North Carolina Department of Fisheries. It transitions to General Water on the first Saturday in June, meaning fishermen can keep a daily limit of seven trout. I make it a point NOT to fish on that weekend because I can’t stand ‘combat’ fishing. My dad used to say, “On opening day you have to carry your own rock to stand on.” People who know nothing of fishing etiquette take to the water. Ernest Hemingway said, “Somebody just back of you while you are fishing is as bad as someone looking over your shoulder while you write a letter to your girl.”

The one and only time I fished the opening day of General Water was with my friend Bill. We arrived at the river while it was still dark-thirty and were the first to reach the sacred turn. We caught several fish in the first few minutes gently caressing the water with our dry-fly presentations. Those first few moments were serene. But a deep voice soon pierced our tranquility with a veritable yell of, “Y’all catching anything?” A gigantic mountain man spouted these words mid-stride as he splashed through our fishing hole. He was armed with a spinning rod as thick as a broomstick. Dangling on the end was a spinner that looked like a big Christmas tree ornament. He zinged a cast between Bill and me like he owned the river. Now Bill is slight in stature and this mountaineer was well…mountainous. Bill trudged to the bank, threw aside his fly rod, and picked up a rock the size of a basketball. He sloshed back through the water and launched it into the river in front of the giant hillbilly making a massive splash. He said, “Their not biting here now you toothless diddywick!” I knew these would be the last words of Bill C. But the big man stood there, mouth agape, as Bill trudged off, grabbing up his fly rod and muttering, “toothless diddywick” under his breath.

I didn’t waste any time following Bill to the truck. I asked with a smile, “What the heck is a toothless diddywick?” He explained that where he grew up, there was a family by the name of Diddywick. They were forever following him around while he was fishing. They waited for him to hook a fish and promptly barged into his space to dunk an impaled night crawler. The Diddywicks were hillbillies in the truest form and not given to dental hygiene. Therefore, to Bill, anyone who invaded his fishing space was forever referred to as a toothless diddywick.

Photo taken by Joe Sepielli and Provided by Creative Commons

Fishing with the Silver Butcher

“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.

A Properly Tied Silver Butcher

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.

Highland Stream Fishing: Life Lessons

Go Beyond

As Lord Byron said, “There is pleasure in the pathless woods.” The highland streams are not easy to get to. That’s what makes them pristine and productive. The entire experience has a curative effect on the mind and soul. The stream is your path. The pursuit is primal. It is effect is therapeutic.

Conserve and Preserve

It is imperative to steward this treasure and preserve it for posterity. Gifford Pinchot defined conservation as, “The wise use of the earth and its resources for the lasting good of men.” When walking up the stream, try to stay out of the water as much as possible and walk on the tops of larger stones. Fish and other aquatic life lay eggs on the stream bottom. Trudging through the stream haphazardly can annihilate future fish populations in native streams and upset the delicate balance of the natural ecosystem. A true outdoorsman is genuine conservationist.

Leave No Trace

If you camp in a remote area, do your best to leave it in a manner that those who might come after you can’t detect that you were ever there. If you build a fire, carefully dig out an area and build the fire in the divot. Before you leave, cover it over so that it is undetectable. Black soot from fires last thousands of years. The same goes for human waste. Dig a cat hole and cover it up. Be sure to carry out anything you bring in. Learn to use a map and a compass, rather than marking trees, putting up stone cairns, or flagging. Good campsites are found, not made. It is not necessary to alter nature to find a good spot.

While Fishing: A Slithering Surprise

A Slithering Surprise
My family lived in town, but on the weekends we usually went ‘over home’. The highlight of my summer, as a kid, was going to stay at the farm for a full week with Papaw and Granny. A boy could find a thousand things to do or do a whole lot of nothing. I chose to do a whole lot of fishing!

One morning, I decided to dig some garden flies and take a long trip down Brasstown Road and fish below the falls. I went all the way down to Mr. Luhan’s house. Mr. Luhan lived in Florida and came up, like most Floridians, to escape the summer squalor of his home state, but he had not yet arrived. There was a pond behind his house that was usually devoid of fish until he arrived and had it stocked. I decided to start fishing in the creek just above his pond, but as I passed by, I saw movement along the edges of the tarn. Fish! Big lunkers were cruising the perimeter. Mr. Luhan must have called ahead and had someone stock the pond. I wish I could say that I wrestled with the temptation, but as a boy, I didn’t hesitate. I caught and kept three trout over sixteen inches before coming to my senses and heading on upstream. I caught several little stream trout and then trekked back up to the house. Guess who was leaning against the barn talking to Papaw? Mr. Luhan! He had to have driven past his own place to come up the mountain. I quickly tossed the three big fish next to the creek below the road and continued past the men on the way to the house.

I cleaned the smaller fish from the creek. Eventually Mr. Luhan left and I trudged back out past the barn to retrieve my cache of trout. Just before I jumped down the bank to reclaim my prize, I saw a slithering surprise! A writhing mass of water snakes were feeding on the fish! I stood there, gawking in horrified amazement. I’d never seen anything like it. It was a lesson, an omen, a portent about fish thievery I never forgot!


Note: I have come to realize that water snakes like trout like portly kids like cake. Places along a stream conducive to cleaning trout are often home to water snakes. They are conditioned to stay in these areas to feed. I’ve often stuck around after cleaning my catch to watch them glide out from under rocks to claim their prize. There is a snake in one spot on the Tuckasegee River that came out while I was sitting there cleaning my fish. I hand-fed this snake the remains of my catch after he slithered up petitionary at my feet. Depending on who you are, that fact is either amazing or revolting. I thought it was pretty cool!

Big Fish In A Little Creek

Big Fish in a Little Creek

Once as a boy, armed with my dabbling rod, I walked down Brasstown Road to a place we call ‘The Falls’. These are a beautiful and quite treacherous set of waterfalls at the lower end of our family land. Just above the falls there was a culvert where the creek crossed the road. The road is about ten feet above the water and a nice pool had formed on the lower side. It was dug out by the periodic torrents from storm runoff. The roadside was nice and flat, a good surface for a boy to lie down on and hide from fish below. I inched forward on my belly until I could see the lower end of the pool. To my amazement, a trout quadruple the size of any I’d ever seen in our stream was rooting around for scuds, tale up so he didn’t see me. I carefully lowered my worm into the water until it rested about six inches upstream of his enormous head. He immediately backed up a few inches, leveled out, then launched at the worm inhaling it. I knew that if I tried to lift this fish up the bank my line and/or pole would snap. I tried not to put any pressure on this fish at all. He had swallowed the hook deep so I didn’t have to worry about him getting off, I just had to be concerned about him breaking off. I inched my way down the bank and took a position at the bottom of the pool. The fish saw me and start darting up, down, and around the pool. He was trapped! He couldn’t jump up to the culvert and he couldn’t get past me. I just had to react quickly enough with the tip of my cane pole to his movements, following him around so he would not break off. It was a conundrum. If I pressured him, he would be gone. So I waded in, continuing to keep my rod tip over his head. The lower end of the pool flattened out and was very wide and shallow, just an inch or two deep. So I worked my way to the top of the hole making the brute react with a jolt to the lower end. He went too far and for just a moment beached himself! This was my opportunity. I dove at this fish. My only hope was to jam my hand through his gill slit. My aim was unflawed and my whole hand slid right through. I stood up with this behemoth jerking back and forth. He was nearly as big as my arm (which was pretty small at nine…but still). I took him and several smaller trout back to the house later that day for supper.

It was nearly impossible to convince Papaw and Granny that I hadn’t sneaked all the way down to Mr. Luhan’s trout pond on lower Brasstown (I did sneak down there on subsequent occasions but not this time!). All I can figure is one of the big trout from our pond a mile or so up the creek somehow made it through the overflow and out to the creek during high water. Catching this fish was surely a highlight of my first decade on the planet!

Becoming an Outdoorsman 2

‘Over Home’
“Warm familiar scents drift softly from the oven,
And imprint forever upon our hearts
That this is home
…and that we are loved.”
― Arlene Stafford-Wilson

When we crossed the creek (literally, it ran across the road at the time) we were home. I can’t explain it, but our entire extended family called this place ‘home’ no matter where they actually lived. When someone spoke of taking a trip to the farm, they would say, “We are going over home,” and you felt it when you arrived. I think this atmosphere was created by the personalities of my grandparents, Alvin and Essie, whom we called Papaw (pronounced with a short ‘a’ as in ‘cat’ with emphasis on the first syllable: Pah’-paw) and Granny Moore. Their home was a good fifteen miles from the nearest country store. It was a day-trip to town for necessities. Consequently, when people visited (and they often did) they would call ahead and see if my grandparents needed 'milk or bread' from town.

Papaw and Granny Moore were the essence of country goodness and hospitality. Essie was a quiet, hard-working, God-fearing, AMAZING cook. She prepared a veritable feast for every meal, often feeding so many people they could not be accommodated in the house. Every chair in the kitchen, living room, and out on the back porch carried someone grazing on Granny’s fare. I never once heard her complain. She was a wise and industrious introvert. She didn’t say much, but when she did it carried matriarchal weight.

Papaw Alvin was the extrovert. He was always telling stories and bragging on OTHER people. I never heard him bad-mouth anyone. Everyone enjoyed spending time with Papaw Moore. I am an ordained minister and had the privilege of delivering the eulogy at his funeral. They say a man’s life preaches his eulogy. This was certainly true of Alvin Moore. He and Granny lived in this remote spot, away from everything but open to everyone. As a result, so many lives were touched by their genuine kindness; I am told that over two thousand people signed the visitation and funeral register at Papaw’s passing. This was a very small town. I've never seen this kind of response, not even for a dignitary, and I've ministered and conducted funerals in several major cities. An honorable man was honored by all.

Becoming an Outdoorsman 1

Caney Fork

“Green is the prime color of the world, and that from which its loveliness arises.” Pedro Calderon de la Barca

My first recollections of nature's beauty are as a toddler riding through the edenic valley called Caney Fork. Time is measured here with distinct seasons. Springtime is the unfolding of an emerald carpet splashed with a kaleidoscope of wildflowers. Deer graze beside the road in ethereal morning mist. Wild gobblers strut around hens oblivious to occasional passersby. The Great Smoky Mountains tower over this vale like sentries protecting its serenity. Autumn is a majestic ignition of dazzling color. The vibrant spectacle on the crests and slopes draws multitudes of onlookers. Winters are Narnian, like an artist’s rendering of C.S. Lewis’ magical landscape under the cold influence of the White Witch. A bright and mild summer climate encourages a seasonal population bulge as Floridians flock north to escape stifling heat.

A paved and winding rode rises from where the Caney Fork Creek feeds the Tuckasegee River. It ascends fifteen miles into the mountains where it becomes dirt, passable by four-wheeled drive vehicle for a while, but soon shifts to terrain suitable to ATV or foot traffic only. The trail climbs parallel to a feeder stream filled with native brook trout. These little fish are as colorful as a new Easter dress with their sleek green bodies, orange bellies, and purple spots.

About two-thirds of the way up the valley is Brasstown Road, a gravel lane really, only a little wider than some trails I have hiked in the Northwest. It climbs and curves up the mountain to the homestead of my grandparents Alvin and Essie Moore. It’s only three miles, but on the drive up you could encounter foxes, rabbits, squirrels, deer, turkey, pheasants, bears, snakes and more. I didn’t realize it then, but I was ‘hunting’ every time we went to the farm, craning my little neck to scout for furry, woodland critters out the side window of my backseat blind.

How to Catch Trout in Highland Streams

“Worms finer for fishing you couldn't be wishing;
I delved them dismayed from the velvety sod;
The rich loam upturning I gathered them squirming,
Big, fat, gleamy earthworms, all ripe for my rod.”
Robert William

Timothy Moore - Brook Trout - North Carolina - Dabbling

There was a bubbling little brook that ran behind the farmhouse and down the mountain. Every decent pocket of water held a shiny little rainbow trout. We learned as kids to manage our little fishery and only take what we were going to eat. The fishing technique we used to catch these diminutive torpedoes is called dabbling. It can be done with any fishing rod, but the longer the pole the better. It was also a good idea to use a cheap rod because the overgrowth of trees and laurel bushes would eat the tips off a favorite fly rod; consequently, we used cane poles that could be made for nothing, or bought dried (much lighter) for about two bucks (you might pay a whopping five to seven dollars for one these days).

The set up is basically three feet of light line (2-4lb test) tied to the tip of the cane pole armed with a small hook (size 10-12). It helps to attach a split-shot sinker about seven inches above the hook so that the line dangles straight up and down. Stealth is the key to the art of dabbling. If a trout in a small stream sees any movement at all, they WILL NOT bite.

I had a friend (as an adult) who requested that I take him to the head of Caney Fork to catch native trout. I explained the technique necessary to catch these wary fish, but he decided to do it his own way. We split up, with me going upstream and fishing down to meet him in the middle. Dabbling from above is infinitely more difficult because you are above the fish and have to work much harder to stay hidden. Nevertheless, I caught and released thirty or so trout, keeping my limit of four fish to eat for dinner, before meeting my friend in the middle. Upon approach, he came stomping up the bank and said, “There aren’t any trout in this creek! Did you get any bites?” I told him that I had gotten a bite or caught a fish from every hole I dabbled in. He couldn’t believe it. I showed him the four larger fish I had kept for dinner. He humbly asked if we could go further upstream so he could learn this technique. I obliged and within an hour, my friend had his four trout to roast over the campfire.

How to Introduce Kids to Fishing

A Toddler and a Tight Line
“Fishing is our handshake, our language.
A Heritage that binds us together.
A passage our fathers took.
A Journey that lasts a lifetime,
That we have begun again with our sons and daughters.”
---Author Unknown

The Caney Fork farm had a trout pond that was a charmed place for me as a child. It was the genesis of my love for fishing. I landed my first trout in that pond before I was potty-trained. Papaw had a fly rod with a ‘magic’, automatic, spring-loaded reel. All you had to do was squeeze a trigger and hold on!

As I recollect, I rode on my dad’s shoulders as we climbed the hill to the pond. My Dad (Vance) made the cast and placed the rod in my tiny hands. He showed me how to squeeze the trigger and told me to get ready. I think the fish was tugging while Dad was talking. I squeezed and squealed as the fly-line whipped tight as a banjo string. My little heart pounded at the realization that some creature and I were locked in a tug-o-war. I clutched the rod until my tiny knuckles turned white.

The fish in the Caney Fork pond were lunkers. Papaw fed them religiously. I’m sure it was therapeutic after a hard day’s work to take an unhurried stroll up to the pond which was shaded by the western hills. Papaw would stand beside the cool water, toss in a can of trout feed and watching the water boil in a grateful frenzy. I’ve done this often myself and it has a curative and calming effect just to watch the fish.

It was one of these well-fed brutes I was fighting. Clad in battle apparel probably consisting of a diaper and t-shirt, I took a wide stance, chin tucked, walnut sized biceps fully flexed. Eventually, the automatic reel and I were victorious. A veritable whale of a rainbow trout lay up on its silver side, spent. It was decorated with little polka dots and a pastel stripe down the length of its body.

My dad gave it a mercy whack on the head and cleaned it for dinner. We ate that fish and my family bragged on my achievement. I was hooked! For the first time, three generations of Moore men had stood angling at the bank of that pond, the youngest of which was enrolled that day in the school of Reel Men.