Now for the adventure part (what would life be without them?) of my mountain trip. Last Thursday I was standing in 3 feet of water on the Raven Fork in Cherokee, trying to fool some fish into believing my little bits of feathers were food - air temp in the low 40s, water about the same, just enough to remain liquid for a bit, when I stepped onto a pile of what certainly seemed like a collection of snot covered bowling balls. Gravity being what it is, I went down, splashing like a human egg beater and really trying to learn to fly. Didnt work. Being a former scout leader, I thought I was prepared, Patagucci waders, Korker wading boots, Columbia jacket over several layers of clothes, a Hatteras marina hoodie - the whole fashionable fly fisherman catalog. Amazing clothing, built to withstand hurricane winds, Marianas trench depths, sub arctic temps, flexible enough to do gymnastics on a glacier, if you are into that sort of thing. Cuffs that would hold air against the vacuum of space, shoes that will stay on in the heaviest of Niagra waterfall currents, zippers that guarantee no penetration even in a maxed out wind-tunnel. Assuming you zipped them. Which I didnt. So, as I floundered like a demented dancer on a floor full of marbles, thinking how embarrassing it was going to be to die in 36 inches of water, some things occurred to me. A - in the next life, I will zip my jacket BEFORE it fills with 40 degree water. B - In that same life, dont wade without someone nearby, who can at least gain some amusement from your predicament. C - If, by some strange circumstance this happens again, see what the trout are feeding on while you are down there, just in case you manage to live through the ordeal. Obviously, since you are reading this, I did manage to find some rocks that were not being tested for teflon endurance and stood up, at which time all the 10 or 15 gallons of water stored in my waterproof jacket and clothing discovered gravity and ran down into my waders, finding my own stones on its way to filling my waders with enough H2O to take me from my usual 145 pounds or so to oh, 2 or 3 hundred pounds of frozen Michelin man. Realizing that I wasnt going to die, not at this moment anyway, I uttered an epiphany, just in case God or anyone listening hadnt figured it out yet - that water is COLD! No dummy here, huh? So, at this point I just walked through the river, slogged up the bank, stripped off most of my now icy clothing, and fell, heavily, into the truck. Luckily I had some dry clothes in their, so I fired up the truck (BTW, it hasnt had heat in years) and started back on the 45 minute drive to the cabin, fan blowing hard on my wrinkly, alabaster body as I headed to the fireplace where I planned on burning every stick of wood within a hundred yards of the place in a blast furnace conflagration of historic proportions. As I headed over the hill and out of Cherokee and my brain began to receive oxygenated bllod once again, something occured to me. If I put my waders back on, the water in them would eventually warm up and I could go back to fishing again - I mean, the evening bite should start soon, and there was always the shot at another big trout before the snow started, right? Only you fishermen understand.
Posted on: Mon, 28 Oct 2013 18:28:00 +0000
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