The weekend started as usual with a couple of issues, namely that we had no sleeping bags and no tent. Well, of course I have a tent that my parents bought N and I for Christmas, but in my haste to get out the door on Saturday morning from Blacksburg it was left in the closet. Anyway, my folks had a tent as well, but it happened to be in the attic of the house that they moved from last year. To make a long story short there, I was able to get up with my cousin who now lives there and retrieve the tent although we had to do it without him present...
It was about 5:30pm when my dad and I piled all our gear and ourselves into his Chevy S-10 pickup, looking like gypsies living out the back of the thing with trash bags of bedding supplies protruding from the top of the truck bed. Did I mention that we did not have sleeping bags? More on that later.
So, we took off a few minutes before 6pm with plans on fishing the South Fork of the Holston River in Smyth County before dark. Now may be a good time to introduce the map (you may click on it to biggie size it):
In this map, our tour on Saturday is shown in a thick black line, while our Sunday adventure is the red line.Our trip started and ended in beautiful Cedar Bluff, VA (1 and 8 on the map above). We had studied the trusty DeLorme Virginia Atlas and Gazetteer for a good half an hour before taking off since neither of us had fished the trout portion of S. Fork Holston before this trip and therefore did not know exactly how to get there. We knew step one for sure, go to Chilhowie.
Now my dad had talked to folks about getting there and he knew "you just go to Chilhowie and turn at the flashing light and follow the road up the river." Well, it turned out that this description was not entirely inaccurate except the 'just' in it. From the time we got to Saltville, north of Chilhowie, I meticulously continued to study the map to figure out how to get to that elusive flashing light that of course did not appear on the map. As Whitetop Road passed by Shuler Hollow Rd., then Old Airport Rd., we knew we were on the right track. Then at the bottom of the hill, the yellow flashing lights appeared, just before Whitetop Road crossed a river, the S. Fork of the Holston River.
The left at the light put us well on our way and before long we pulled into the Buller Fish Cultural Station that we sought to fish (2 on the map). It was now about 7:15pm, so time was of the essence if we were to get any good fishing in. Oh, and where were we going to camp anyway? Obviously not at Buller.
The hatchery has a little dam in the S. Fork at the head of the land where a 500ft section of river is managed as put and take. Just below the dam is a 1/2mile section of catch and release trophy trout water that is managed by stocking fingerling trout with presumably some natural reproduction occurring as well. I quickly unpacked my rod and headed straight for the special regulation area, while my dad grabbed his to see how the dam was fishing.
The first thing I noticed as I approached the stream just below the dam was a definite hatch occurring. In my haste to fish, I did not identify the small insects, but in my memory they were size #14-16 dark colored mayflies, possibly Hendrickson's or even Blue-winged Olives (with an over-estimated size in my memory) but not necessarily. I did not fish the hole just below the dam, theorizing that it was overfished anyway, but headed downstream to the next nice pocket. I found a nice deep run that I just knew had to hold a fish and began casting to it with an ugly double beadhead bug that Steve at Tangent Outfitters had shown me the week before. It was good and heavy so that the bug would penetrate the healthy but not overwhelming current.
On my third or fourth cast, I was astonished to see a trout rise just a foot or so from where I was casting. Now, in the brook trout streams I frequent I would have already caught or missed that fish, but in the semi-technical and semi-big water at S. Fork, this fish could rightfully possess an affinity for holding a rise lane. I casted again, trying to find the right current to drift the bug right by the previous rise, without a take. I tried again with the same result. I may have given up in usual brookie fishing conditions, but decided to give another try, and when my fly line paused slightly in the current, I quickly stripped the slack with my right hand (I fish left handed) and felt the weight and surge of a trout. This fish fought strongly, but not with the strength of one of the 3 pounders that are rumored to haunt this section of stream. I quickly played him, but knew I needed some proof of the catch; so I fumbled around with getting my camera out of its pouch to photograph the fish. As it neared me, I could not have been more pleased with the rainbow as it flashed its brilliant red cheeks and dark spots my way. It was immediately clear that if this fish was not stream bred, it had been a resident for a while. The two photos I took:
Later in the trip, I was able to land a few other rainbows, but none of them had the beautiful markings of this one. It was clear looking at this fish in person and even in the photograph that its beautiful spots and natural coloring serve a definite purpose in camouflaging the fish from the would-be avian predators (I saw a great blue heron there the next day). In contrast, the recently stocked fish also have spots but lack the warmth of color while their spots appear to be there due to an obligation to the Maker. It amazes me to see the effect that nature has on these creatures.As I brought the fish to hand, I was able to keep it in the water to release it, but did grasp it with a wet hand. The fish was firm and stout with quite a girth for its 13" length.
I ventured downstream after that catch looking for similar runs and believing that the last 30 minutes of daylight would be spent in trout heaven. I came upon a nice set of runs that would take some time to fish properly and hopped into the water. To my disappointment, the bugs that swarmed around the leeside of the dam were absent. And so were the strikes. I caught no more fish that evening.
I walked back to the truck and asked my dad about his luck. He had one good bite, but no takers. After casting a couple of times in the slow water, we hopped in the truck with an appetite.
We needed a bite to eat and a place to stay, so we headed toward Marion via Sugar Grove (3 on the map). The same road that appeared at the flashing lights took us straight there and we turned left onto Route 16 toward Marion. It was 8:15pm when we passed a 'Bed and Breakfast' in Sugar Grove called the Sugar Grove Restaurant and Lodging. We walked up to the open door of the rustic-styled dinning room and asked if we were too late for a bite to eat. They welcomed us in with the warning that they could do everything but chicken and steak--they didn't tell us that they were out of cole slaw then, though. This place turned out to be a real gem of an eatery, with entrees that cost about $5 and delicious home cooking. Indeed, the establishment had won the best home-style restaurant in Smyth County for three years running. I got the special of the day, homemade pork BBQ, that had a flavor I had not tasted before that was achieved by the addition of either ham or bacon to the usual Boston Butt-style meat. My dad's pintos must have been pretty good because we both left with a smile.
As we left the restaurant, we decided it was worth a shot at getting lodging there--wimp out of the camping trip--but some missionaries had taken all the rooms that night so we were out of luck. I hopped in the truck to find some National Forest land on the map to set up camp, but my dad soon said that 'we would head on over to Camp', 'back to one of his old haunts' (4 on the map). I feel as though those are exact quotes, but I did not record them, so I cannot be for certain. Anyway, I did not know about 'Camp', but quickly found it on the map. I began to give my dad directions, when he interrupted me that he knew where he was now so that I could just relax.
We turned right at the big barn in Camp, as my dad had mentioned before and headed up a dirt road. We finally reached National Forest and found a roadside camping spot with a great little plot right on beautiful Middle Creek that followed the road. My dad mentioned that this was a place he would come with friends and family to hunt at the base of Iron Mountain.
We pulled out the tent that had been in the attic for several years and began to blunder with putting it up. It is grotesquely cliche to describe the imbecility of two men putting up a tent, so I will be brief: 1. We put it up with the tent inside out, 2. We put the poles on the inside when they should go on the outside. We left it at 2. Then we opened our trash bag of bedding and stretched out on the bed rolls.
Not long after we began to rest, my dad said that "it's almost too warm for a blanket but too cold not to use one." Those words were true at the moment, but the crystal clear sky of the evening foretold of the change that was to occur. Well, it did not get too cold, but the lack of foresight in packing the proper bedding would make it plenty cold enough. With just one blanket a piece, we both tossed and turned the night away trying to bundle tighter. I am certain that the blanket I used breathed with every movement or breeze that entered the tent. Even worse, if I stretched it tighter, it breathed deeper.
We made it through the night sans sleep. It was a wonderfully peaceful night, with the only traffic coming as one truck passed while we were fumbling with the tent, but a little sleep would not have hurt. I got up at 5:30am to fix some salmon cakes with the canned salmon and crackers we had packed from home, when my dad asked "you aren't planning on making a fire are you?"
"Well, I was going to..."
"No, let's not do that..."
And then we were packing up and moving on.
We headed back to Sugar Grove to find some gas and eats, but nothing was open just yet; so we headed on up Rt. 16 to Marion (5 on the map). After grabbing some gas and a couple of biscuits and spilling a cup of coffee in the store, we were headed south again towards S. Fork. We got to Buller (6 on the map) with perfect timing, just before sunrise. I hopped in the river to fish the hole right below the dam and my dad casted out into the slow water above it. I foul-hooked and caught one 9 incher that still had the look of a stocker and headed back up to where my dad was fishing. He had caught one by that time and had seen a couple others caught. We decided to stay another hour there before venturing on.
Walking past the huge culturing ponds at Buller, I was looking for a prime stretch of the S. Fork to fish thoroughly. I hate to admit it, but the stretch I chose was one that had been channelized by slabs of concrete on the far bank. This stretch had it all, though, save beautiful riparian flora. There were swift runs, slow pools, and plunges--all my usual trout habitat pre-requisites. I fished this section fairly well, and was pleased to get several rises to a #16 black ant and caught two of those. Both were small and one was tiny. Its markings indicated that indeed the state does manage this stretch of the fishery by stocking fingerling trout.
I walked the 1/4mile back up to the dam to see if my dad was ready to hang it up. He had not caught any more but had lost a nice one on a meal worm that he found laying on the ground. We got back in the S-10 to head on out.
My dad knew that Rural Retreat Lake pond (7 on the map) was stocked a couple of days before and since it was kind of on our way, we decided to try it out. We headed back past Sugar Grove and by Cedar Springs until we reached the pond. I put on a stocker-favorite and began casting to the very muddy water. There were several people there fishing, probably as many as 25, which is a good number for a pond that is 200ft by 400ft in dimensions. I caught my second trout of the day by foul hooking soon after we arrived and tossed him on a stick against my dad's recommendation. I told him that there was no way I tried to snag the fish and so I did not understand the purpose of releasing it.
After that, I tied on a dropper fly that looks like a wax worm and immediately began getting hits. My dad found some corn on the ground and dropped it below a bobber with the same results. I believe that he was getting bites from trout, but my elusive bites turned out to be crappie. This was not so bad, since the one I actually landed was a good 5 1/2-6", but it was nothing for the skillet.
As we headed out, a game warden came around to check our licenses and creels. He noticed our gypsy-pack and asked if we had been camping the night before and where--in particular, he wanted to know if we had camped at Rural Retreat Lake. My dad told him we had camped at Camp to which the warden replied that it was a nice night for it. True enough, it sure was, but my dad said "well, it was a little chilly."
I piped up to say that it would have been great, if we had sleeping bags.
The warden seemed at a loss for a moment that we did not have sleeping bags. Even in my sleepy haze, this was amusing.
After that we headed back to Cedar Bluff via I-81 to Wythville to I-77 to Bastian, down through Grapefield. We hopped on Rt. 61 and were back where we started in another 45 minutes.
All-in-all, a great trip. I spent much of the rest of Sunday at a BBQ at my wife's grandparents and groggily played outside with my 7 year old niece. As for the fish, I grilled them in aluminum foil but had no takers--I wonder if they were eaten later. Later, my mom fixed a very nice dinner for the family and my wife drove us home. I don't remember that drive.
This week, I had one big priority--order a sleeping bag. It arrived on Thursday.
