Somehow, having fished a couple of times with the Three Amigos on the Caney Fork River (see “Infamous Fishing Buddies” I got some kind of automatic membership in “the club”.

That club’s formal name is PFF, and the gatherings are eloquently numbered PFF VI, PFF VII, PFF VIII.

The informal reality is that PFF stands for: Psycho Fly Fishing, named for it‘s founder, a guy who‘s nickname is Psycho. The gang got together as a result of a bunch of guys who keep in touch via the Virtual Flyshop’s online message board for the Southern States (The online version of “Fly Fisherman Magazine”): they agreed they all needed to meet somewhere, fish, party, visit, and make a deal of it. Now you get the picture, and the nature of “the club”

I was flattered that they invited me to attend their spring gathering, the third weekend of May, 2001 being still damp behind the ears in the fly fishing world, and being the first invited female. And since the Amigos were going too, I’d at least know them. Naturally, the boyfriend, Rusty was included in the invite, and we made definite plans to be in East Tennessee that weekend.

Rusty’s trip was partly business, as he had a seminar to conduct on that Friday. As we were driving Thursday afternoon towards beautiful, peaceful Shady Valley, near Bristol, Tennessee, we worked out the details of him working while I fished on Friday. Conversation was something like this. “Well, you can just drop me off in camp with my rod, and my gear bag Friday morning on your way to Rogersville, I’ll hang out with the guys, fish, and you can come back to camp in the evening when your seminar is over”

“But what if you need to go somewhere else to fish? How will you get around?” “Well,” I answer, “I’ll just get in a vehicle with someone I don’t know, but who I’ve met on the Internet, and go somewhere else. How bad can it be? Their names are Psycho, Creek Scum, Wooley Bugger, LoopWing......sounds like safe, normal folks to me....”

Rusty got that look he gets when he doesn’t know I’m kidding yet, so I added, “Grumpy, WDR, and the Admiral will be there, I’ll jump in with them.“ That seemed to be the answer he wanted to hear.

Shady Valley is nestled in a pocket between the Cherokee National Forest, Elizabethton, and Bristol, Tennessee. It is quiet, touched very little by the modern world, and reminds me of the area in rural middle Tennessee that I call home. I’d found a lovely, peaceful cabin we could rent for the weekend, just a mile from camp (I’d opted not to camp with the guys, for showering and privacy‘s sake) After checking out the camp, we got a quick bite to eat at a local diner, and got a good night’s sleep. I repacked my gear bag twice, packed a lunch, and we headed out to camp.

We ran into JT, the gangleader for the gathering before we hit camp, at the local market. He looked at me and said, “You must be RedHead.” We went on to camp, meeting the host, Tom Sharpe, an airline pilot who has built a wonderful vacation cabin on Beaverdam Creek. Then met Creek Scum. I was rigged up and fishing in the next 15 minutes, and hooked a wild little rainbow in six inches of water, not only on a dry, but also on my second cast, not thirty feet from Tom’s cabin. Now this was living!

Ten or fifteen more minutes passed, and the Amigos pulled in. I spooled up to help them set up camp, and then returned to the creek to catch a few more, losing my favorite fly four times, and recovering it three.

Back to camp for a breather and a visit with more arrivals..... the poetic Beowulff, the quiet Midge 22, and a few others. Then from across camp, the Admiral yelled, ”Red! You gonna come play with us?”

I grabbed my rod and vest up, jumped in with the Amigos, and we were off to the Cherokee National Forest to catch some really wild trout.

Since the water we were fishing was six to eighteen inches deep at most, the rest of them had their breatheables rolled down like waist waders, so wanting to be just as “cool“, I did the same. Grumpy was a few days away from back surgery, so he opted for level bottom. WDR sorta stayed with him, but sorta went off downstream to find fishes. Either way, he’d be easy enought to locate: he was wearing his famous blue waders. I won’t mention the brand, he got ‘em on sale years ago, has added a couple of patches, and intends to get the wear out of them. They are the oddest color of teal-blue, and he‘s usually got them on with one suspender done up, the other hanging. Kind of a Jethro Bodine look, but it works for WDR.

The Admiral and I struck off on another fork, Scrambling over rocks and downed trees, agreeing to meet up with everybody back at the ‘rover in two hours. Now, the Admiral may send you into water ahead of him, saying “you go on and fish this first, I’ll follow you” but what he really does is let you get really absorbed in working a pool, and then he’ll leap-frog you while you’re not looking. Next thing you know, he’s up ahead with a fish on.

I caught a couple of really prime chubs. And some maples. And some grass, and some other leafy things. Twelve foot wide creeks with tree canopies are ideal for nine foot rods, if it’s tree trout you’re after. I caught and released dozens, while the Admiral flicked his seven foot bamboo here and there, and caught the creek-bound fish that were there to catch.

Made our way back to the road, where Grumpy was waiting and done. No sign of WDR, so we sat on the tailgate, caught some stoneflies to look at, ate some crackers, and waited. Half an hour passed. The Admiral opened a barley pop, hoping the aroma would bring WDR back up to the road. “You know, “ says Grumpy, ”I saw a big ol’ bear cross the road on up there. Don’t suppose he got WDR, do you?”

“Naw,” says the Admiral, ”the @&&h66e’s prob’ly just fishin’....lets go back to camp. He’ll get a ride back.“

“Nothin’ doin’,” I say, “We can’t go off and leave him.”

“Tell you what,” the Admiral was in negotiating mode now, ”we’ll leave a shirt and a beer can here where the car was, and he’ll just lay down here and wait like a coon dog. We’ll come back around dark and pick him up then.”

That was when I started out walking, whistling and calling about then, with no intent on getting back in that car without WDR. When I got a quarter mile up the road, the Admiral and Grumpy pull up and tell me to get in, promising they won‘t leave him.

We covered another mile and a half of road and river, and there he was, we spotted him through the trees because of his famous blue waders. Our own WDR, grinnin’ and fishin’. Un-bear-eaten, too. Waited ‘till we had the car turned around, and the door open before he spooled up and got in. “you catch any?“ Grumpy asks.

“Few” answers the grinning WDR. (He’s a man of few words)

“Well good” says the Admiral, ”I wanted to go off’n leave you for the bears to eat, but Red wouldn’t let us. I wanted to leave you a shirt and a beer can, so you could wait there for us to come back an get you later, but your buddy Red wouldn‘t leave without you.“

WDR still had that grin. He turned to me, and said “I’d a waited .“ At that, I knew better than to fuss over any of ‘em. Then, a moment later, with that same WDR grin, he says, “Wonder what that bear woulda looked like in blue waders?”

Juni ReadHead Fisher