Beer in the Headlights

Not that I really want to get it, but...

From the files of the patently absurd comes the news that the Swiss government is set to outlaw catch and release fishing.

That's right.

From the same nation that brought you indifference toward evil Nazi imperialism and genocide, not to mention the idea of plants' rights, comes this monumental attack on sanity.

Catch and Release fishing will be banned in Switzerland from next year, it was revealed this week.

And anglers in the country will have to demonstrate their expertise by taking a course on humane methods of catching fish, under new legislation outlined by the Bundesrat - the Swiss Federal Parliament.

The new legislation states that fish caught should be killed immediately following their capture, with a sharp blow to the head from a blunt instrument. Under the new regulations, the use of livebait and barbed hooks is also prohibited except in certain situations.

This could go two ways. The first, which is probably the intent of the law, is that people will stop fishing in Switzerland. The second would be that fish stocks in Swiss waters would plummet as anglers will be forced by the law to kill their catches.

And before you point at Switzerland and laugh, keep in mind that the morally confused fools at PeTA want to ban angling here in the US. Spare the prospect of an Obama presidency, I think such a notion is quite a long shot.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: Leftist political and social philosophy is a curse upon Western civilization.

FlyTalk

The weather handed us lemons so we used the water to make lemonade

Colonel Ed arrived at our our place on a wet Saturday morning ready to go. We loaded up my truck with our gear, kissed my wife (COL Ed's daughter) and kids goodbye then made our way to the mountains of North Carolina for a long weekend of fishing. Well, that's what we had planned.

Upon reaching the Tuckaseegee River about 10am we noticed that despite the rain the river wasn't stained. But it was high. High. Far too high for wading as Duke Power was running the turbines on both forks upstream. After brief discussion we decided to head to higher elevation with the hopes getting above the water. That wasn't happening. I saw a sign for Balsam Lake and recalled that it had trout. A high elevation lake should be unaffected by the rains, right?

Sure. But for some reason it was drained. COL Ed and I started to wander around the muddy lake bed and mutter to ourselves. In doing so we found a minor treasure trove of lost lures and even a 15 pound mushroom anchor.

OK. Off to Waynesville to pop into the fly shop and ask about just where we could fish for a few hours that afternoon. The weather still hadn't passed through as predicted. Some areas of the Blue Ridge Parkway offered only 35-40 feet of visibility due to the fog that set in from about 4,000 to 5,000 feet.

A cloudy view from the Blue Ridge Parkway

Fly shop? What fly shop? Apparently Roger Lowe closed his retail operation and is only guiding. We grabbed a six pack of Yuengling and went to the campground to check in.

The cabin was small but would certainly suffice for our needs. We tied up some leaders, sipped some beer then commenced the construction of a pot of chili mac. Tasty. Quite tasty. (Instructional video to follow.)

COL Ed & me at the cabin

Breakfast was a strong pot of coffee followed by warmed up chili mac leftovers mixed with scrambled eggs. After a few minutes of directions from Mrs. COL Ed and some messing with the GPS we were on our way to Cataloochee Creek in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Water there should be clear, it's at decent elevation so it shouldn't be that high, right?

Nope. The creek ran clear. But high. Fishable, but barely.

Cataloochee Creek

As we entered the Cataloochee Valley conversation turned to the elk that the National Park Service had reintroduced there several years ago and we wondered aloud if we'd see any. It wasn't long before we were answered to the affirmative.

Bull Elk of the Cataloochee

Fishing was slow but the weather cleared. I took a few moments away from the creek to poke around some of the historical buildings in the valley. One of which was an old Methodist church.

Palmer Chapel Methodist Church



Ladybug on the Church

A few lovely little rainbow trout were caught. Not much in the way of dry fly action, all were tempted by nymphs.

Wild Rainbow Trout from Cataloochee Creek

At the conclusion of our afternoon fishing session on both COL Ed and I were surprised to encounter another herd of elk as we stepped our of the creek.

Cow Elk of the Cataloochee Valley

The elk were far from shy.

I was this close to charging one with my Leatherman and cutting off some tenderloin

As the afternoon ventured toward evening it was time to head back to the cabin, but not without a minor wildlife encounter along the way in the form of a roughed grouse.

Roughed Grouse

COL Ed and I agreed that that despite the sub-par fishing it was a good day and we had laid eyes upon two of North America's tastiest game animals.

Dinner that night was wild salmon fillets cooked on the grill in foil pouches with onions, peppers, Mandarin oranges and Asian sauce served atop rice. (Yep. I'll post a video of how to do that one, too.)

The water release schedule for the Tuckaseegee sounded like it would be favorable for a brief foray into the water on Monday as we ventured home. For an odd turn of events on our trip we were pleasantly surprised to find the water low and clear.

The fishing bordered upon criminal. Some early experimentation with flies and different rigs paid off. It was a day for throwing a flashy streamer with a sink tip line. The trout were were they were supposed to be and they took our offerings with enthusiasm.

No photos. There wasn't time. High water from upstream generation was soon to reach us and the fishing was just too damn good to take a break. Both COL Ed and I caught and released thirty-something fish in the span of 3 or so hours.

It was a blast. Not just the euphoria of fish overload on Monday. The whole weekend was enjoyable despite the wrenches that were thrown into the gears of our plans. Great company, great food, good beer and a little tasty bourbon combined with terrific scenery, quiet bliss in the woods, the smell of rhododendron and pine made for a more than pleasant weekend.

Not yet. But soon.

It wasn't all that long ago, but at times it feels like forever, that my life was pretty simple. I worked, ate, cooked, slept and went fly fishing. I used to fish a lot. I mean a lot. Like pretty much every weekend and almost all my vacation time.

Most of my time fishing spent chasing trout in the tailwaters and creeks of the Southeast. I also tormented bass, bream and saltwater species, but trout were my favorite quarry.

I've always enjoyed the places where trout reside. Such locales are usually quieter, cooler and more bucolic than the norm. Fly fishing for trout brought me peace in the form of quiet time on the water spent with good friends. Over time it also brought in some money as I started to guide part time.

And then came the kids...

Just over two years ago the Mrs. and I were blessed with the adoption our son Connor - a fireball of energy and unrelenting enthusiasm. Four months after that our daughter Riley was born to us. Since then she's grown and developed into a charming and ebullient toddler. The intervening time between the arrival of our children and now has been unkind to my hobby of and passion for fly fishing. Short local trips are all I've been able to muster.

Until now.

This coming weekend my father-in-law and I are lighting off to the mountains of North Carolina to enjoy the bonanza of caddis fly season. We've reserved a cabin and are in the process of planning the weekend's menu; dinners from the Dutch ovens, piping hot and ridiculously strong coffee from the trusty stainless steel French press, breakfast from the griddle and streamside lunches meant for quick consumption.

We'll be fishing a river with which I was once rather intimate. I know how and where to navigate the shoals and gravel bars while wading, where the fish hold and the right place from where to fish each pool and run. Fond memories of plentiful catches have been rushing back as of late. I've been envisioning myself standing waste deep alongside a favorite run, my arm reached out high while I guide my rod and line to extend a nice drift - then the water's surface is broken by the smooth head of a trout, followed by a tail slap. A flick of the wrist sets the hook and the dance of give and get commences as I bring the handsome fish to hand after that joyfully tense moment of a the first fish of the season on the line.

I can't wait.