This is the follow-up to a column covering Gatlinburg Smallmouth

Sam flyfishing in Cataloochee creek

Today we continue last week’s trip report from the Great Smoky Mountains. For those who missed that potential Pulitzer prize-winning story, let me summarize: Long-time fishing buddy Sam and I travel to Pigeon Forge Tennessee. We meet up with a local writer and catch bunches of smallmouth bass in a river that winds around every tourist attraction known to man. We also laughed a little too loud while drinking beer at a local brewpub.

Oops, I forgot to mention that last activity in the column. To those readers who might be our wives, let me clarify: we only had one beer apiece and then left to do volunteer work with disadvantaged children.

Sam and the strange tree

Leaving Pigeon Forge, our next destination was the Cataloochee valley, the most remote part of The Great Smoky Mountains National Park. My intent was to teach Sam the finer points of catching wild mountain trout on a fly rod.

I later compared this objective with putting a 15-year-old student driver in the Indianapolis 500 race but I have always had an overabundance of optimism.

Our first task was the daunting 20-mile single-lane dirt road leading into the valley. Along the way we stopped at Mountain Momma’s, a small general store sandwiched between the National Park and Interstate 40, whose greatest claim to fame is the greasy cheeseburgers craved by northbound Appalachian Trail thru hikers leaving the National Park.

After winding through a nice collection of junk vehicles outside, we entered the funky former school building. If you are picky about little things like tidiness, the store might not be your cup of tea but if you enjoy life unpolished, it is a great place.

Elk are everywhere in the Cataloochee

Sam pointed out a sign above the small grill that said: “Order your eggs any way you like,” and then listed approximately 15 different methods for cooking eggs. The sign closed with “…but they will always be scrambled. No exceptions.”  After purchasing candy bars and soft drinks, we headed down the muddy road.

Arriving in the Cataloochee valley, we set up camp and headed out for fishing. My plan was to wade “wet,” using just boots, neoprene diver’s socks and hiking shorts as defense against the icy mountain stream water.

This worked as well as you can imagine.

Sam used his brand-new fly-fishing gear reasonably well but at the end of three hours, we had covered approximately a half mile of stream with no hits, multiple errors and a pair of writer’s legs that were as insensate as stone pillars.

Hungry after the exertions of fishing, we left the stream and walked along a gravel road back to our mud-caked vehicle. At one point, a large stick gouged my calf but due to numbness, I felt nothing but a slight bit of pressure. I did imagine that the gaping wound would eventually hurt like the dickens whenever feeling returned, likely sometime around August.

We returned to camp and ate a hot lunch of freeze-dried chili and crackers. For those who have never subsisted on a diet of freeze-dried food, I will delicately point out that there is one significant side effect of such fare but in deference to the few ladies in the audience, I will not explain the details. Let’s just say unspoiled mountain air wasn’t after lunch.

Cataloochee creek

As evening began to settle across the quiet valley, we headed back out. The highlight of this outing proved to be the diminutive “Plink!” under my dry fly at it floated in a small beaver pond. An involuntary flick of the wrist set the hook and I found myself battling a mighty 6-inch trout. After a fierce 15-second fight, it was brought it to hand.

To my tremendous surprise, the fish proved to be a brook trout, the highly sought after glamour fish of eastern trout fisherman. Colored like a wild acid dream, the tiny fish lay gasping in my hand as profound satisfaction flooded my insides. Brook trout are not so much tough to catch but are difficult to reach since they live in only the most remote and pristine streams of the southeastern U.S.

Somehow, I had hooked one of the sparkling beauties on a dry fly. It wasn’t a trophy but I felt entirely good and fine and honorable, just like Hemingway said it would.

My first Brook trout

I tried to conceal my enthusiasm from Sam because I didn’t want to rub in my success in his face as he continued to flail fruitlessly away in the growing gloom. Unfortunately, I don’t think I was entirely successful.

Later, lying in the rapidly fouling atmosphere of our tent, I realized the true measure of a friend is someone who doesn’t try to kill you after such profound gloating can no longer be concealed.

On the other hand, it did appear that rapidly fermenting chili might kill everything else within a 30-foot radius of our tent.

Sad note: Mountain Momma’s in no longer open as of 2009

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