There are things in life which I adamantly do not do. I do not attend obligatory holiday functions so that I can shield a friend from a dysfunctional family. I do not chew gum in public. Ride motorcycles? Never. I don’t offer to fix other people’s problem horses. (Did that back when my bones were flexible). I don’t listen to rap music. Or wear sequins. I would not jump out of a perfectly good airplane with a piece of cloth strapped on my back (on purpose).

And, it is against every bit of my moral fiber, and ever instinct that is ingrained in me to miss an opportunity to fish. I have a cousin who once sold his blood plasma to get the entry money for a bass tournament. It runs in my blood.

After all the time we’ve spent fishing together, Rusty, the boyfriend and best fishing buddy, knows better than to challenge my reasoning. Too cold to fish? Nonsense! That's what neoprene and polar fleece are for. Too dark? If I can tie on a fly, it’s light enough for me, and I have been known to pray that I won’t lose a fly tied on against a skyline of fading light. Steep bank? Great! No one else will come down here, we‘ll have the whole river to ourselves. What do you mean no hatches? I got a whole fly box full of sowbugs, scuds, nymphs, and streamers. You get the picture. Rusty used to try a variety of arguments to get me out of the water, and has now given up. Like I said, he knows better.

So there I was, in North Carolina, in the middle of some of the Southeast’s finest fishing water. I’d already been dragged by my wader belt out of the Davidson River, just outside Brevard, for the silly purpose of going to lunch. I walked into the Pizza Hut in Brevard wearing my waders. For Heaven’s Sake, I wasn’t going to waste fishing time taking them off, and putting them back on, and I intended to fish my way to camp at the Balsam Lodge, up in the park. We headed towards camp after lunch with J.T., Midge 22. Woolly Bugger, Maniac, and FT Caddis, some of our PFF buddies. PFF stands for Psycho Fly Fishing, and none of THEM think my motto “Fish no Matter What” is all that strange.

The worst thing about the drive to camp was that Rusty would not stop the car every time we drove past fishable water. And we saw a lot of it. I’d see a spot that looked fishy on a tiny creek, and start fogging up the windows, saying “Just for a minute. OK? ONE CAST, I swear, just one cast...”

“If you can just hang on” he said, fearing I would go mad dog rabid berserk right there in his car, “J.T. and Woolly were talking about making a run to the Tuckageesee this afternoon, as soon as we get settled in camp.”

“How far?” I whined. I was dying here.

“Forty five minutes from camp. Can you hold on that long?” he said. I drained a Dr Pepper to drown my sorrows, and rolled my eyes away from the sight of all the water we were crossing. When we got to camp, we stowed our gear, and then while Rusty talked up a storm with the rest of the PFF gang, I paced around in my waders, trying to block out the sound of trout water rushing through a gorge just below camp. OK, it was also down a steep hill, but I could HEAR it.

“Come on, Guys,” J.T. bellows. “If we’re gonna fish the Tuck, we gotta do it now. They start generation tonight and run it all weekend.” J.T. is a mountain of a man, six foot four or five and easily 280. He is gruff and grizzled, but he’s the king of mountain stream fishing. I’m in the car, tapping on the dashboard, all but honking the horn to get Rusty to get behind the wheel and DRIVE THE CAR TO WATER NOW, before I dry up like a land bound salamander. There are about seven of us making the trek in three vehicles, and I‘m just about banging my head on the windshield as we drive along the Tuckageesee, towards the spot J.T. guarantees is the best spot to hit before dark.

We finally pull off the road at a bridge, and get out. Rusty and I are in the last car to arrive, and I wonder aloud why they’re all standing around instead of rigging up. “What?” I ask the group as we get out of the car. “ Looks like two generators running....” is the answer.

Take a deep breath. I am cool. I am under control. I am not going to die this way.

Walk to the bridge, look for a way to get in the river where the water’s not running nine thousand miles an hour. Don’t even LOOK at Rusty, ‘cause you know what HE’S thinking.

O.K., it’s high, it’s fast, but on the far side of the bridge, it looks sort of wade-able. I have a six weight in the car. I have streamers and woolly buggers. J.T. is rigging up. The rest of them stare at him solemnly. Then Maniac grabs his wader bag. “Man, J.T.” says Midge 22, “You sure this is the place?”

“Well, I haven’t fished this river before.....guess they changed the generation schedule.”

“Wonder what a guy would tie on to fish water like that?“ says another.

“ I vote we use J.T.” offers one of the helpful ones.

“Would you open the trunk?” I say to Rusty.

“Now, Juni,” he says as carefully as he can, ”If this were your home water, and you knew the river, and it were running like this, would you wade in it? Look at that water. It‘s fast, and it‘s high. You wouldn‘t get in the Caney if it were running like that.”

“You’re right. I wouldn’t. But I’m here. I have my waders on. I have a six weight. I have streamers. I’m fishing. There’s a place on the far side of the bridge where I can get in. “ Rusty gave up.

SO THERE I WAS. By then, J.T. was upstream with a fish on, which he lost, but they were feeding. I found my place to get in, and waded upstream a bit. Since I had to stay close to the brushy bank, I tried to cast upstream, but the current would rip at my line when I tried to pick it up to cast. Hmmmm.

Roll cast sort of worked, by adding an extra swing at the top of the pick up. If I live to be a hundred and thirty, I won’t forget the sound of a number six woolly bugger whistling by my right ear on it’s way to the middle of that river. The thing would hit the surface with a plunk, and zoom away in the raging current. The only way to change position in the river was to keep the current at my side. To let it hit you face on or on the backside was a sure way to take a fast ride downriver. A couple of hybridized roll casts later, I was stripping line back in to use my newfound “extreme casting” method, WHAM! A fish hit that big black woolly bugger so hard, my rod lurched. The current held the line tight enough that I thought I’d be best off to get this one on the reel. That’s how big this one felt on that six weight. I’d strip in five or six feet, spool up, strip a few more, spool up. My rod was bent, big time. Midge 22 was across the river from me, and stopped fishing to watch. “Dang, Red, looks like a big one” he said wistfully.

The fish broke the surface a couple of times, making a wake as the water rushed around it’s head. By now I had the butt of my rod jammed into my ribs to keep the rod tip upright. My heart was pounding. Then it leapt completely out of the water. I watched in slow-motion, seeing the woolly bugger in the upper lip, then the head, the gills, the body, the tail. All thirteen inches.

I laughed out loud. When I landed that fish, there was a cheer from the rest of the gang, who were fishing below the bridge (although from the bank, for the most part): I’d landed the first of the day on the Tuck. I imagined myself on a windswept western river, casting to mighty steelhead. For the next hour and a half, we all hooked and landed a few more. It was tough fishing, but boy, was it fun!

Upstream, J.T. had lost his footing and gone down, somehow catching himself just as he dunked his whole arm and the side of his face in the torrent. It was a miracle that he didn’t take on a size triple-X waders-worth of water.

As for Rusty, he succumbed to fishing along the rocky bank across and downriver from me. I have to admit, I did get out of the water before dark, too. Not because I had, to, but because I was worn out from fighting the current. We all shook our heads later that night that we had even gotten IN that river, much less fished it. The tale of J.T. going for a sideways sprawling swim has been retold and tuned to quite an entertaining fishing story. Midge 22 admitted to having tied a couple of woolly buggers with tiny spinners on the coned heads. That will be enough blackmail fuels for at least another whole PFF gathering. A truck load of PFFers even went back to the Tuck the following day to see for themselves if they too could catch fish in water they would NEVER fish "back home"

As for me, I’ve re-thought the potential of such experience. I now have a seven weight I have not yet fished, and a big ol’ reel and some seven-weight line that needs to be spooled on. After all, I’ve been Steelheading,.... Carolina Style!

Juni ReadHead Fisher