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.
The trout I was catching weren’t large or plentiful enough to feed a family. Perhaps a few hundred years ago there were enough plump brookies for a few breakfasts a week. Knowing that streams change their course with storms and seasons, it still seems unlikely that fish as a food source was the sole reason this cabin was built so close to the water. Maybe there was a small mill. Maybe they liked the sound of the water over the rocks as they lay in their beds. Today all that is left is the shadow of a foundation. But it is still visible, feet away from the creek.
I was past anywhere I had fished before.
Around the bend and deeper into the hollow was all new territory. The water was a bit skinnier. The overhanging brush was a bit tighter. The brook trout were still there, eager to take little Royal Coachman and Lime Humpy dry flies dropped at the heads of pools. Looking at the water, it wasn’t that different than any other high-gradient creek in the mountains. But in context, it was very different. It was new water on this creek. I knew the bridge well. I was familiar with the rusty still and the old house. This was familiar but fresh.
I was past every day; past normal.
Five-inch brook trout aren’t going to fill stomachs or grace magazine covers. Yet they are the reason why I was walking up a stream usually only traversed by black bears and bobcats. The GPS only shows dense trees. No water, no rocks, no flowers, no bears or wildcats. A quiet so loud that it is hard to understand. A busy calm unlike anything else in the world. A situation so different and wild. No app or well-maintained trail will get you into places like this. But five-inch brook trout will.