I fished for years without waders. Didn’t even know what the deal was, except for a comical scene from an old movie in which a fishing journalist who has never actually fished ends up upside down in his ballooning waders, and manages to capture a trophy fish in a tournament in those water filled waders.

Ah, but then there’s fishing cold water for trout, in water wider than 10 or 12 feet. I fished one summer on the Tennessee’s Elk River, happy and wader-less until another angler wondered how I could stand the cold. As long as I was catching fish, I hadn’t noticed. September came, and the cool wind would start down that valley in the late afternoon.....oh! Now I understood.

I’m a cold-natured person. We’re in the car, and if the air conditioning is on, I’m freezing. “Neoprene,” says the boyfriend, ”Is the thing for you.”

So, off to Bass Pro Shop boots and waders department I go, ready to buy.

“Excuse me,” I say, trying to flag down a sullen teenager who does not want to be working in the boots and waders department, ”Can you see if you have this wader in stock in a men’s small or medium?”

“I don’t think we do....” says the young man, annoyed at my request.

“I’d like to buy waders, so if you could check...” I tell him, wondering what the hiring policy is here.

“What size does your husband wear?” is the exasperated reply.

“They’re for me,” I tell him, keeping my smile intact.

“They don’t come in women’s sizes“ he tells me, sure now that I’ll go away.

“That’s fine, can you check on a men’s small and medium?”

As he sulks off to pretend to look, I motion to the boyfriend, Rusty to come over, and tell him the predicament. He stays for the rest of the show.

“I couldn’t find a small,” the kid says.

“Did you have a medium?” I ask

“I didn‘t look.”

“OK, “ I tell him, “I’ll go somewhere else,” at which the kid sulks away.

Rusty and I head over to the Bass Pro Fly Shop, which in Nashville is well stocked and well staffed, and in the same building. There I get good advice, good help, and a cheerful ring-up. And my first waders, a dark green neoprene, in a women’s size that even says “REDHEAD” right on the front. My next day off is only a few days away, so I plan an excursion to the Elk River to test them.

Rusty is the check the map, check the road conditions, check the weather report, and check the generation schedule guy. I’m the “let’s just go fishing” one. Since he’s working, I head off alone, new waders in my gear bag, determined to wear them.

That first step into water in new waders is a delicious one. You feel the surge of water against your lower legs. You are dry, and you look oh so great. Such was that first step that day. I fished my way towards the dam, catching a few. I was warm, dry, and happy. Then the dam alarm sounded. I moved to within ten or twelve feet of the bank. Nothing happened. It sounded again, and I watched a rock, keeping track of the water level. Nothing. I continued to fish, beginning to think it was just a test. And surely, I began to think, they would not just let that water fly all at once.

They let it fly all at once. Hearing a roar, I looked up to see a three-foot wall of green water hurtling my way. I slogged for the closest rocks, a jumble of craggy boulders that reinforced the spillway. The wave hit my leg, pulling at my boot hard enough to cause me some extraordinary climbing skills. The bank was just steep enough to cause me to scramble alongside the rush of water, a few feet above it, and towards a cattail filled cove. This water, I knew, was always low, always stagnant. So I left my boulders and stepped down to calf deep water, making my way up the cove. Then it was knee deep, and then thigh deep. And then a wash hit me on the behind and down I went. Thank goodness for snug fitting neoprene. I got my shirt wet, but didn’t take on water. I got out of there, chewing on my crow-sandwich of a lesson.

I’ve mentioned before (see Beadheads, Bears, and Blue Waders) that my buddies, the Three Amigos, tend to wear their breatheables rolled down like waist waders, except for WDR, who wears his with one suspender, Jethro Bodine style. Keeps them cooler, and looking more casual about the whole business.

So, on the fourth of July, I was to meet the Admiral for early morning fishing on the lower Caney Fork. He could not tell me where he was taking me. Told me to bring my blindfold, because if I told where I’d been, he’d have to kill me. I pretended not to count the turns and notice the landmarks. We jumped into our waders and were streamside at 5:45 AM.

“I’ll go down first, it’s kind of slick” he tells me. Fine with me. The water is running pretty high down there. The Admiral deftly slides down the bank, warning me not to pull a “WDR” and fall all the way down. I make my way down to the three-foot square of stable bank just as the Admiral makes the first step.

“It’s runnin’ a little higher than I prefer,” he says, stepping over a tree root and into the water. Suddenly, the water level on the Admiral’s rolled down waders raises from thigh high to above the waist high. That is, above the rolled down top, and above the rolled up suspenders, and above the belt. There’s this funny whooshing and glunking sound as water swirls into the gore-tex drainpipe that also contains the Admiral. The Admiral is a salty sort, known to spew appropriate verbiage when prompted, but this time it does not happen. There is a sharp, whistling, air-sucking sound that emits from his mouth as he grabs the roll of waders and belt, tugging them an inch higher. The water is still two inches higher. Now one of those words slips out, and he’s hitching that fabric higher, all the while with his eyes on the spot he’s determined to fish. “Don’t do THAT,” he says, grinning.

“um, Admiral Blume, you’re my hero and all, and I want to be just like you, but I’m not about to do THAT.” I tell him.

When he got back into thigh high water, he flipped the top of his wader-roll outward, and dumped a few cups of cold water back into the river and the rest on down into his waders. And then went on and fished four more hours that way. And did that cause the Admiral to change his suspendering and belting system? Not a chance.

As for me, I do up that belt on the gore-tex just a little snugger these days, and the suspenders don‘t get in the waistband roll until l I’m done fishing, and I’m rolling the whole works off.

Just this morning, Rusty suggested going after some stripers on Percy Priest Lake, wet wading. I shudder to think of it.

Juni ReadHead Fisher