I was past the point where I could hear cars or people.
As a general rule, the pools and deep runs that are within a short walk from the parking lot get fished hard. The water looks great. It seems like it might be productive. Styrofoam worm cups and Bud Lite cans are often serve as the fishing report. Only five or ten minutes up into the mountains and things change. The literal quiet is accompanied by a sense of quiet. The trails get narrower. The signs of people disappear. Then, there are fish.
I was past the concrete bridge on the old logging road.
It is funny how another road signifies escape from civilization. Few people have the requisite access or cars capable of simply getting to this bridge. Fewer still make the journey to fish the small creek that flows underneath. The spider webs and the exposed rebar also mark the farthest point upstream where I’ve seen brown trout. After passing underneath, only native brookies swim.
I was past the rusted-out moonshine still.
Finding something that is supposed to be hidden indicates you’re off the beaten path. At one point in time this site might have been dangerous. Today, it is a quaint Appalachian relic. The same cold, clean water that was used to craft hooch generations ago still flows down in the valley. Even if the law didn’t like the bootlegging, it doesn’t seem like the little char minded the intrusion too much.
I was past the overgrown, 19th century homestead.