The Tar Heel Outdoorsman

I finally returned to the mountains.  While I'm a flatlander, I do love the mountains, and the solitude and peacefulness and, of course, the trout they provide. When I drove up to Cashiers last April, it was the first time I'd made it to the North Carolina mountains in maybe three years.  Too long.  It'd been before I spent some time in Wyoming at A Bar A in 2016.  To make things worse, I hadn't even trout fished since I visited some friends back in Wyoming in 2017. April Both in April and September, I drove up with my girlfriend, Mary Ann, staying at her grandmother's cabin in Cashiers.  Of course, I dragged Mary Ann along fishing... driving to the "Tuck," and Panthertown.  The Tuck is heavily stocked but fished fairly hard as it winds along the road.  It's wide for a Carolina trout river, and its flows are affected by Duke Energy releases. The future calls for finding a friend with a drift boat or raft or hiring a guide to throw streamers...

This past summer I returned to Wyoming.  I've finally gotten around to typing a word or two about it.  

Thanks to graduate school applications, LSAT studying, other so-called "real world" commitments, and an interruption from Hurricane Matthew,  the fall hasn't yielded quite as much time in the woods or on the water as I would've liked.  But I have fit in a few trips.  Don't you worry.   ...

The attention that I've paid to this thing has been nonexistent since May. May was when I drove out to Wyoming to work as a fishing guide at A Bar A Ranch in southern Wyoming.  May was the last time I wrote something on here, and honestly, I haven't really got a good excuse.   But it sure is damn hard to spend time typing when you could be out on the water.   ...

Numb fingers, stiff joints, struggling to get that tiny tippet through the eye of the hook.   Cold fingers, cold fly line running through, past your index and middle finger. Shivering legs, the long underwear and flannel and jeans aren't enough.   Cold, rosy cheeks, the wind funneling past.   The cold seeps through.

The clock says 2:00.  In the morning.  The clock's tick keeps on ticking and all you can do is think.  Your mind's way too active and you try to force yourself to sleep but you can't. And even though you aren't going fishing in the hours that will soon unfold, you're thinking about fishing.  You're tired, you need sleep, but your brain doesn't seem care. You're thinking about hauling through the salt marsh, running in just inches of water, weaving your skiff through the creeks like a rally car driver on a dirt track.

This past summer I was a guide at a Colorado guest ranch.   Smith Fork Ranch.   Great experience.  Whole lotta work. Great fishing.  Great friends. Since I'm backtracking again, I'll let the photos do most of the work...