The drive out of Roscoe to my “secret spot” is a short one—less than fifteen miles—and my old Jeep Wagoneer barely raises its oil pressure as it makes the final ascent up the long Bear Spring Mountain Road toward Walton. As I pass the WLUV FM radio-station broadcast tower on my right, I slow the vehicle to a crawl. I’m searching for a cast-iron pipe sticking out of the granite hillside on my left. Not only does it bring to the surface delicious ice-cold spring water from its source, deep beneath the mountain, but it also marks the place where I must turn off the paved road and onto the narrow gravel path that leads to Cathy’s Creek—my “secret” spot.
I look in both directions to be sure no one sees me leave the paved road, and then quickly turn left onto the gravel surface and pull the Wagoneer to a stop. I throw open the door, and in less than thirty seconds, I’ve locked the front hubs, an action that will permit me to shift into four-wheel drive. No point in taking any chances. From here on, it’s a long, slow crawl, first up and then down the gently sloping path, for about three-quarters of a mile to the water below. The creek lies nestled in a hollow between two sloping mountains. It takes less than ten minutes to reach my destination, a small clearing off to the right of the path. I pull in, throw the transmission into park, and switch off the ignition. The sudden quiet is deafening. I roll down the window and inhale deeply; the scent of white pines and decaying leaves fills my nostrils. My ears detect the sound of running water, and I’m pulled from my vehicle as if by an invisible force. I’ve never seen Heaven, but I pray it bears some resemblance to this place.
With great care, I assemble my newly acquired bamboo fly rod. It’s not a Leonard, Garrison, or any of the other collector-type rods that adorn the “For Sale” pages of my favorite fly-fishing magazine. It’s just an old used Heddon that I picked up at a garage sale hosted by an elderly widow only too willing to accept the fifty-dollar bill I pressed into her delicate hand. Frank Kuttner has refinished it for me, and as far as I’m concerned, it might as well be a Gillum or a Payne, such is the joy it brings me when I take it in my hand and use it.
The water of the creek is not exceptionally deep, but having learned the hard way that hip boots are “always an inch too short,” I don my chest waders and slip into my vest. The delicate foot of my old Orvis CFO single-action reel just fits beneath the hooded portion of the up-locking reel seat, and I carefully twist the ring tight, securing the reel in place. I double the fly line, and thread it through the onyx stripping guides first and then through each of the smaller black ones that follow, until I reach the tip. Unwrapping a new leader, I attach it, loop-to-loop, to the nylon butt section, connected to the fly line. As I pull the tightly coiled nylon through a rubber-lined leader straightener, my fingers are trembling in anticipation. The entire ritual has lasted less than five minutes, but I feel as if I’ve already lost an hour. I’m ready to fish, and at last, I make my way to the water.
I’ve made a habit of never tying on a fly until I’ve inspected the water for signs of insect activity. That way, I’m prevented from flailing away like a novice and scaring away any trout that might be in the area. I crouch down carefully near the edge of the stream to study the surface of the water more effectively, listening (as well as watching) for any telltale activity that might reveal a feeding trout. It’s a habit acquired through years of fishing with my good friend, Hans, who introduced me to the sport so many years ago when we were both bachelors and unencumbered by wives or other such commitments. I’ve been lucky in that department; both of my wives have understood.
This is the first opening day in many a year when the morning temperature has been above freezing. Generally, at this time of the year, snow flurries fill the air, but today I’m guessing it’s already in the mid-forties. Several weeks ago, there was a premature blast of unusually warm air that melted a good deal of the winter snow pack, and now, the result is a good strong current that causes the crystal clear water to just spill over the banks of the little creek.
Upstream to my right, I catch a glimpse of the tail end of what appears to be a rise, then another. Can it be? Is there actually a hatch in progress? With trembling fingers, I open a small dry fly box and extract a size 18 early black stonefly imitation. No point in checking the water’s surface for insects; my poor eyesight, combined with the dark color of the naturals, would make it nearly impossible for me to discern them drifting by anyway. Besides, I’ve fished this particular hatch so often there’s no doubt in my mind as to its identity. Just tie on the damn fly—and hurry!
I don’t dare enter the water for fear of disturbing what little activity is occurring; in fact, I even take a step backwards to ensure that my presence will go undetected. Looking over my shoulder to be sure that no branches are in the way, I slowly begin to work out some fly line, rhythmically false casting, and enjoying the feel of the season’s first true fishing motion. Bringing the rod forward for the last time, I speed up, and then stop, just as I was taught so many years ago by Lefty Kreh at a casting seminar at a local fly shop. I watch intently, as the fly line, followed by the delicate leader, straighten above the water’s surface, and gently float down to it in a series of soft “esses.”
I strain to see the black fly on the water, but even with the help of my amber Polaroid sunglasses, I am unable to do so. It doesn’t matter. In the wink of an eye, a native brook trout has impaled itself on my artificial fly, and instantly cartwheels across the surface of the water, throwing a fine spray up into the air. A couple of short strips of the fly line later, and the brightly colored trout is brought to my waiting hand. It’s barely over six-inches long—typical for native brookies. With exaggerated care, I remove the hook from the corner of its mouth and gently place the little trout back in the water, facing it upstream into the current to permit the life-giving water to flow over its gills. With a flick of its tail, it departs my hand and shoots up and over into the body of the small pool from where it had originally taken my fly. Not bad, I think. One cast, one fish. A broad smile creases my face, and suddenly I wish Val were here.
Forty minutes have passed, and I’ve already worked my way nearly a quarter mile upstream from where I started. The rule of thumb I follow is “When the fishing is slow, fish fast…” It doesn’t take a genius to supply the converse to the much-quoted adage. Fortunately, success in this, my favorite sport, is not measured for me in quantity, but in the quality of the experience. Almost as a punctuation mark to that philosophy, I take a deep breath to experience the early spring air. But, something’s not quite right. The scent of the pines is there alright, but there’s another odor intermingled with the microscopic molecules given off by the towering conifers. I’ve smelled this smell before, I think. It has a sour quality to it. Dead animal? Maybe a drowned rodent. Whatever its cause, the smell is getting stronger as I make my way upstream, apparently toward its source. Probably a deer, I think. Got to be something big. “Whew!” Damn that stinks!
Up ahead is a logjam of broken boughs, caught among a collection of small boulders in the middle of the water. In the center of the pile of debris is a dark shape that doesn’t quite fit the eye. Funny, I think, it doesn’t look like a deer. The color doesn’t seem right. The smell is overpowering now, and I have to cover my nose to avoid being sick, for there’s no mistaking the odor; it is a smell with which I am very familiar, being a former homicide detective. It is the smell of death—and it’s human.
Suddenly, I am very relieved that Val is not with me.