When I first submitted “You Just Might Be a Troutbum”, I wondered if I might offend some gentle reader with my harsh accusations about facing up to one’s addictions. Then came the deluge of mail, email, and phone calls. “Yes, I’m a Troutbum...” “I might be a Striper bum, does that count?“ and “Can I reprint this for our TU newsletter?“

Ah-HA! Troutbums do abound! I am not alone! No longer do I need to suffer in my craving for trout water, alone and lonely. I am surrounded. Y’all just needed me to light the candle, and you have passed it freely among yourselves, admitting to your addiction.

In early February, Cumberland Chapter president-elect Mike Burke, membership director Elizabeth James, and I were fortunate to be invited to a leadership workshop for Trout Unlimited’s newest suckers......er....officers, at a lovely lodge in East Tennessee’s Wear’s Valley. Oh, did they plan that one right. Like we wouldn’t figure out that the Little River was about two miles from the lodge. But I acted cool....“oh, wonderful,” I said, keeping my voice as level as humanly possible, ” it will be so great to meet other new officers and learn more about watersheds and such and yada yada yada...” like I cared about sitting in a meeting when some of the finest freestone fishing water in the east was two miles away. But like I said, I acted cool.

Then another Troutbum, coming out in the open, spoke up, in the form of President-elect, Mike Burke. “Um, when would you want to plan to go over to the thing in Wear’s Valley?” he asked, carefully modulating his question.

“Oh, whenever you want to go, I was thinking we could all go together....“ said I, in my practiced-at-hiding-my-affliction tone.

“Well, “ Mike starts, the first signs of trout fever showing in the beads of sweat now forming on his forehead, “would you want to go Friday morning and fish?“ “Does a trout swim in the water?” I answered quickly. No sense trying to hide the trout-shakes I was getting. This was another Troutbum. Mike might be the kind of guy who goes to work in a suit, but he is a hardcore, fish-craving Troutbum. With this knowledge of my traveling companion, I am relieved.

“Good.” he says. “Think Elizabeth will want to go early, you know, to fish?“ “ If she does, great, if she doesn’t, we’re going anyway.” I sputter.

As it happened, Elizabeth had some things to do that morning we were to go to East Tennessee, and planned to drive over later, so Mike and I planned to leave at a reasonable hour, say 4 a.m.. Then we tempered it to 6 a.m., and decided on 7, since it would not warm up enough in the Little River ’till noon anyway, and he DID want to kiss the wife and kids goodbye after they had gotten up. Mike’s lovely wife, Stephanie, I suspect, is a Troutbum herself, because she did not fuss in the least over Mike going off for a weekend to fish.....er......attend some very important classes and sessions related to Trout Unlimited.

I think I drove about eighty miles an hour the whole way.

We hit Little River Outfitters on the way in, slobbered on the merchandise, and hurried through lunch at a Subway shop on the way. Then we hit Medford Bottoms, right about noon. This is a beautiful access, a perfect place for a Troutbum to get a “fix”. While we were rigging up, another demented troutbum.....er....new T.U. officer from another chapter showed up.

The trout Gods must have known I was in the advanced stages of trout DT’s, because they bestowed me with a strike and a hookup in the first ten minutes. The color came back into my cheeks, as I scooped that lovely brown trout into my net, lifting it just high enough that Mike, fishing some fifty yards away, could see that I caught the first of the day. Funny, even at that distance, though he flashed the “Congrats! That’s great!“ smile, I could not help but see his eyes glaze over in feverish trout envy.

As for me, I was fishing a rod I’d just built for the trip, and a fly of my own design. Trout satisfaction flowed in my veins. I would live another day. The shakes and queasiness of several troutless weeks washed away over the mossy stones of the Little River. The water whispered “Whoa, Fisher, like you totally rock” It was good. Fifteen minutes later, another feisty brown grabbed my nymph. I could have died a happy troutbum, right then and there. I was already in heaven.

Several hours later, we had moved to another section of the river, and there, a little brook trout took my fly again. Mind you, those three were the sum of the day, but it seemed that every time the other troutbum with me.......er.....Mike looked up, I had a fish on. This he said aloud, and being at ease with another troutbum I felt free to admit, “No, it’s just that every time I had a fish on, which was three times, you happened to look up.”

I willed myself not to talk about those three little trout on the way to the lodge. I just would not be fair or sportsmanlike to be gloating to another troutbum. We get to the lodge, and I spot a couple of folks who are also trying to look like they’re just there for the very important meetings. Elizabeth arrives, and we head off to dinner to visit and get to know our fellow officers.

Next morning, we’re a breakfast, and I see more troutbums. There is an announcement that our sessions will end at 3:45 that afternoon, so we can go fish later. There is a loud sigh of satisfaction that echos through at least twenty-two of the thirty-plus officers from all over Middle and East Tennessee. I decide to sit by Mike during the sessions, hoping that his businesslike demeanor will temper my fidgeting-to-go fishing-ness. It works till noon. Then, about two-thirty, Mike whispers “How long will it take you to be ready to go when we get out of here? “Two minutes,” I answer. “Meet you at the car”

At three forty-five, class is dismissed. Twenty-five plus troutbums bolt for the door. I hear tires spinning on the gravel as I sprint downstairs from my room. Mike has promised to be there in less than five minutes. He’s there in three and a half. We grab Elizabeth and jump in my Troutmobile, named Trouty Marouty, and zoom to the Little River.

I call dibs on a deep run that looks like it will hold some big browns. Mike and Elizabeth take up position downstream. I do my rock-surfing act over some big slick rocks, hanging ten over a deep pool and holding my breath till I get my footing back. Tailwater fishing is a walk in the park compared to this.

Did I say we all went fishless? It was pretty frustrating, even for Mike, who has far more freestone fishing experience in the Smokies than the rest of us. I keep my reputation, though, of being the last to leave the water, coming out only when I couldn’t see 7x tippet well enough to thread a nymph. We drove back to the lodge in silence, where we joined our fellow troutbums.....I mean, officers, who had also gone fishless with the exception of one. But oh, it was one well chosen troutbum, and a well earned fish. Seems a new officer of the Little River Chapter, a lifelong angler, but a new fly fisherman, who had not previously caught a fish on a fly rod, had hooked and landed his first. We all agreed that if one of us should have caught a fish, it should have been him.

During our evening of visiting, and during the next morning’s sessions, we share a wealth of fresh ideas. If the future of Trout Unlimited is in the hands of the people we worked with and the folks from the National office, (Kim Ryalls, Sara Johnson, and Kirk Otey) we are in great shape. We will need other folks who want to make a difference to help us, but I’m here to tell you, that thirty bucks a year for a TU membership is getting put to good use.

OK, I’ve gone and waxed a little poetic over this, but the point is, TU is in the hands of a bunch of troutbums. Sounds good to me. Now, for the additions to “You Just Might Be a Troutbum....”

If you stop in your local flyshop, they’re really busy, and you start waiting on customers.

If you thank a trout for taking your fly on a slow day.

If you’ve ever thought of quitting your day job and moving to Wyoming or Colorado to be a guide....wait.....some of you HAVE quit your jobs and moved!

If you’ll drop five bucks on a bucket raffle to try to win someone else’s good fly patterns, because they just might have tied a magic fly.

If you have a TU sticker, a FlyFishing Federation sticker, and a trout decal on your car, and NEVER take out your gear bag.

If your license frame reads “I Brake For Trout Water” (call me at work, I’ll order you one just like mine)

If your significant other gives you a fly line instead of jewelry for Valentine’s day and you’re cool with it (and you’re a single female troutbum)

If you saw “Lord Of the Rings” and got to blinking and twitching when they walked along and rowed through those New Zealand trout streams.

If every item of clothing you covet is judged by it’s merits as fishing clothes.

If you joined TU and pretended you were very concerned about watersheds and conservation....but you know in your heart you really wanted to find out where to fish. (It’s OK, it was the general consensus at the training session we attended)

If your vehicle has been seen at river accesses and sporting goods stores more than it has at church.

If you’ll stand in a cold river, your fingers numb, and your toes somewhere in another realm, and keep casting a fluff of fur and feathers at a fish with a pea sized brain, and keep telling yourself you’re just about to get that fish to rise......... YOU JUST MIGHT BE A TROUTBUM.

Might be? If you’ve read this far, you ARE one.