I guess that it was about six weeks after my re-introduction to trout fishing the morning that I dropped my wife off at work. As I drove out of town, I couldn’t help but chuckle as I thought about how manly I must of looked. The great outdoors man headed to the river, driving a maroon mini-van.
The morning was a little cooler than it had been recently and the feeling that autumn was approaching was pleasing. The closer that I came to the mountains, the more often I had to engage the wind shield wipers to clear the light mist.

To say that I was excited would have been an understatement. I had waited for over a month to be able to purchase a fly rod. This would be the first time using the new rod and I was anxious to put it to work.

Ahead of me on the right, I saw the sign that I was looking for. “Little River Outfitters.” I slowed the van and engaged the turn signal as I pulled into the turn lane. As much as I enjoyed window shopping at this store, today I wanted to get the flies that I needed and get back on the road.

The fly shop is a very nice store, carrying just about everything that one might need to pursue fly fishing. I stepped through the doors and made my way to the fly bin. I stood there amazed and confused. There must have been hundreds of choices. I was able to narrow it down because I knew that I would be fishing with nymphs. But still, the choices were too many.
As I stood there, trying to make a decision, one of the shop’s employee’s must have seen the expression on my face and came to the rescue. I told him where I would be fishing and that I only fished with nymphs and that I was just starting out. The man’s face seemed to light up, as if he was remember how he felt when he first began. He suggested four different fly’s and I purchased two of each.

While he rang up my purchase, I did what I do best, started talking. I asked him every question that I could think of. He was gracious enough to answer each of my questions before he finished by telling me this.

He said, “When people come in here, no-one asks how big, they just ask how many.” He went on to explain that the fish weren’t that big in the rivers there, and they could be hard to catch.

As I reached for my change he went on to say, “If you can catch trout here, you can catch trout anywhere.” I thanked him for his help and made my way to the man mobile. Yes I am referring to the mini-van. Pulling back on to the main road way, his last comment toyed with my lack of confidence. On the last trip with C.R. I had caught enough trout to consider it to be a successful trip. I had thought that I had done pretty well. But now I was worried. I had a place to fish that was close enough to home that I could afford to go now and again, but what if I wasn’t good enough? What if I was wasting my time and money.

I shook off the negative thoughts as I turned the mini-van into the national park. After following the winding road for a few hundred yards I turned the van onto a smaller road that paralleled the “Middle Prong Little River.” The road was only about six miles long, ending at a trail head, often used by equestrians. It was my goal that day to drive up the near the end of the road and fish the upper end of the river.

The last mile or so of my drive was spent creeping down the road, while leaning to the right in an attempt to see the river as I searched for a good starting point. Finding a spot that looked promising, I pulled the van off of the gravel road.
As I excitedly stepped from the van, I was immediately reminded of my disease. My momentum was far greater than my spastic legs were willing to allow. I stumbled several feet across the roadway before successfully regaining control. Now I had to take the time to slowly work the spasticity from the muscles in my legs. I did this by slowly walking, focusing my thoughts, trying to control how the muscle contracted in my legs.
After a few minutes, I was able to calm them enough that I felt I could manage the river. Already frustrated by the lost fishing time, I struggled to get my fly rod ready. The small, thin leader and tippet caused my fumbling fingers serious problems as I tried to tie the small lines. After more than a few tries, I was finally ready. It was finally time to go fishing.

The stretch of river that I was fishing had several deep pools as well as some fairly long runs filled with an abundance of eddies and riffles. I made my way to the water, took that deep breath and started working the fly rod. False casting several times in an attempt to get enough fly line in the air to reach the spot that I was aiming for. Believing that I had accomplished that, I stopped the fly rods motion and watched for fly to land.

But that never happened. A few seconds later, I was able to find my fly hanging from a limb, some ten to twelve feet above my head and several feet over the rivers edge. I reeled in the slack line, gently pulling against the tension in hopes that I would witness a miracle and the fly would gracefully drop free. It didn’t take me long to realize that the fly was in its new home forever, or at least until the next heavy rain storm.

With a hard tug, the line snapped. I reeled in the remaining line as I stared up at the guilty tree branch. With a disgusted huff, I sat down on a rock, disgusted that I was once again wasting time, and tied on another fly. I was able to get the knew tippet and fly tied with far less difficulty than I had just a few minutes earlier. With far more caution, I placed the nymph into the water.

As the day progressed, I moved slowly up the river, fishing each pool and run to the best of my ability, but with no success, not even a single strike. I arrived at the spot that the road ended with a couple of hours to spare. I knew that I would have to pick my wife up from work, so I could not get too far off the beaten path. So I decided that I would go back to the main road and try to find a place on the “West Prong.”

As I drove back down the small road, the words that the man at the fly shop hit home...”If you can catch fish here, you can catch fish anyway.” Remembering what he had said, did not promise me that I would have success. Instead it made me very aware that I might not catch a thing.

I stopped at the first pull-off, not as concerned about finding the best spot, but with the limited time. I just wanted to be on the water. With fly rod in hand, I carefully made it down the slippery, leave covered bank to the waters edge. My knees flashed with pain every step.

The river was shallower and not as broad as where I had been earlier. I was faced with the fact that those conditions usually mean smaller fish. But it also meant less wear and tear on my all ready sore legs. The first stretch that I fished was basically dead. But I wasn’t willing to give up yet. So I pushed on.

The river swept slowly to the left, followed by a stretch that is no more than one-hundred feet. I started fishing that run just after the turn. But as I fished, I felt disappointed. How could something as peaceful as what lay before me, sound so ugly. Car after car speeding by. Blowing their horn as they entered a small tunnel. I really had no place to complain, as I have done the same. But now I was seeing this spot in a different perspective, from the perspective that it was meant to be seen.

I did my best to block out the distractions. Only to find that the distractions would soon be even greater. Just then I heard several doors of a car slam closed. I looked up to see a tourist standing there, looking down at me. I thought, “Oh great, this guy and his family are visiting, and they are expecting me to fit into their calendar image of the Great Smokey Mountains and land a huge fish right before his eyes.
As I stood there in the shallow water, trying to look like I knew what I was doing, but only reminded of the fact that this was only my second fly fishing excursion in over twenty years. I cast the line to the far side of the stream where the water sped through a narrow trough. I watched as the indicator (a small float) drifted down with the current with no sign of action. So I cast the line again, to the same spot with the same result.

Feeling a little embarrassed for not providing the family with their wanted vacation memory, I looked up to see that the man had stepped out of view. I let out a sigh of relief and cast the line once again, and it was a perfect cast. That is always the way that it seems to go.

Finally able to block the distractions, I was able to become fully engrossed in the task at hand. I cast the line a little farther up stream and was amazed to see the indicator disappear almost instantly. I set the hook quickly and began reeling in the excess line while keeping the line between the fish and I taught. It was truly exciting moment as I felt the fish tug against line and pole.

As the pole bent with several quick jerks, I heard a voice. He spoke in a very excited voice, “He caught one, he caught one ”
With a huge smile on my face, I carefully reeled the fish in. Once it was safely on shore, I couldn’t help but to look up at the small out of town audience. The family stood there, side by side, each of them smiling as they looked down at me. They looked like they were posing for a family photo.

I was really happy at that point, not only because I had caught a fish, but I knew that I had helped them paint that memory picture in their minds that just might stay with them for a very long time. If the fishing day had stopped right then, it would have been a great success.

I quickly released the trout and watched it swim safely away. I had heard so many times from far greater fisherman than I, that once you catch a single fish from a particular spot, your chances of catching more fish in the same spot, go down exponentially. So I considered moving up stream but knew that my time was limited. It doesn’t matter how many fish I caught if I forgot to pick my wife up at work.
So I cast the line again and about dropped the fly rod as the indicator disappeared once again. Suddenly my day was improving. I reeled in the fish, smiling even more as it was a little bigger than the first. So I thought, “What the heck, lets try it again. It couldn’t have been more predictable. Same action on the indicator and same result. I was now a kid again, no different than I was on one of the first fishing trips that I took with my dad and brothers. Not only seeing the impossible, but believing in it as well.

About that time I saw a family move down the bank, upstream. The father looked in my direction and asked how many I had caught. I told him and he shook his head. I got the feeling that he wished that he was right there fishing with me than watching his teenage son or daughter playing in the river with their boyfriend or girlfriend. Then he lifted his hands, moving them closer together and then farther apart. After I was finally able to understand what he was asking, I gave him my response, showing them how long they were as I yelled out over the noisy river, “Pretty small I yelled.”He shook his head and turned his attention back to his family.

After a few more casts in the same area, and no more fish caught, I looked at my watch and realized that I only had about fifteen minutes before I needed to be on the road. For a split second I considered loading up and heading back to town. But I kicked that idea in the head as soon as it entered my thoughts.

So I continued to fish, noticing that the man up river was now intently watching me. And once again I felt a hint of pressure. I don’t know why it bothered me. The only thing that I can think of is that there is an attitude about fly fisherman. It is perceived that each and every fly fisherman is a seasoned veteran who knows too many secrets about the river. I guess I didn’t want to dent, or scratch that personae.

After several more cast, enough time for the man to give up and walk away and then come back once again, I pushed the fly closer to rock wall. I had placed the fly to within inches of that spot before. But this time the current pulled the fly against the rock wall. Fortunately the water was clear and I was able to see the florescent indicator as it was drug under the lip of the rock.

I knew that I was going to have to be careful as I retrieved the fly in hopes of not snagging it somewhere under the rock. I started to pull in the excess line when I noticed the indicator jerk against the current. Instinctively, I jerked back hard and the fight was on. As I reeled in the fish, I heard the man yell something in celebration. This day just couldn’t get any better.

As the fish cleared water the first time, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was the biggest fish I had ever seen there in the Smokies. And it was on the end of my line. But it wasn’t about to give up, it dove hard, trying to get back to its hiding spot. But it didn’t understand just how serious I was about bringing it to shore. I worked the rod and reel hard as I fought him back to the surface. Water splashed as it cleared the water again. I thought that I had it taken care of it at that time. I mean, just how much energy can a single fish have anyway. Evidently I didn’t know the correct answer to that question. It plunged back below the surface. But instead of trying to make it back to safety, it was going whichever direction that it could.

But finally I had the trout in shallow water not two feet from where I stood, I started to lift my rod as I bent forward to pluck it from the water when it came to life once more. It splashed the cold water in my face, as if to say, “You want some of me?” And then it disappeared. I didn’t want to believe it, but the lack of tension against my fly rod was convincing enough.

I straightened my back as I stood up. The man’s entire family had noticed the action and had joined him, watching the show. I believe that I saw each person’s shoulders sink a little. So I tilted my head back and closed my eyes as I shook my head in disgust. Now let me tell you, that is not a good thing for someone with my condition to do. Because of the lack of muscle control, I use sight more than most to maintain balance. And with eyes closed, I have no idea if I am maintaining that. Luckily I came to my senses quickly and opened my eyes. I am guessing that I was all ready nearly ten degrees from plumb at that point. Somehow I was able to regain my wits and saved myself from a lot of pain and embarrassment.
I turned my attention to the family and shrugged my shoulders. But it was obvious that each of them could see the huge smile on my face as they returned an understanding smile. I looked back at the spot where I had hooked the big fish, wondering if I had enough time to try again. But as I looked at the fly, or what once resembled a fly, I knew that my day was over. As I gathered what little equipment I had, I saw the family working their way up the bank, their heads turning back and forth as they spoke to one another. I have no idea what they were saying, But I like to think that it might have been doing a play by play replay.

The van door slammed shut, creating an eery silence within the vehicle and I guess even in me a little. As I drove back toward town, I kept seeing the fish and feeling the same excitement as I realized just how big it was. And I kept thinking, All I needed was, “Just one more cast.”
You might think that those were sad thoughts. But that would be far from the truth. I was extremely pleased with the days results. I wasn’t thinking about the fish that I had caught. But instead I was thinking of the one that got away. I was thinking about the excitement of the moment. And I honestly believe that if I had successfully landed that fish, that some of the excitement of future trips would be slightly diminished. Where as now, there will always be that huge fish living under that rock, and I am the only one that knows where it lives. And I seriously doubt that I will ever fish that spot again. You might ask me why, and here is my answer. Because if that big one remains elusive, there will always be a reason to be excited. There will always be a reason to believe, all I need is “Just one more cast.”