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.