Trading Lowcountry heat for mountain streams
When it gets so darn hot here that the trees begin chasing the dogs, there is only one thing to do. For me, at least, I head for the mountains in north Georgia or the area near Brevard, North Carolina. I pack lightly, remember my fly rod and head out with visions of cool breezes and chilly mountain streams dancing in my head. It’s pretty much a yearly excursion. This time, I left it up to my wife, Karen, to pick the spot, and boy, did she ever come through. Her sister, Mary, had flown up from Texas to visit, so I knew better than to get in the way of two women when it came to deciding our final destination. Had it been up to me, I would have found the crappiest cabin in existence as long as I could fly-fish all day, every day.
Staying out of her hair, I was surprised when she told me she had found a cabin in Mineral Bluff, Georgia. I had never heard of Mineral Bluff and had absolutely no idea whether it was even in the mountains because, most years, when we picked Georgia, it was almost always near the Chattahoochee National Forest. Having fished the Chattahoochee River dozens of times, I was a tad bummed because I knew that river like the back of my hand and always, and I mean always, tore up the trout there. Having no idea what to expect in this new area, I tried researching trout streams there, and for whatever reason, I couldn’t make heads or tails of the little information I could find. Oh well, I reckoned I would have to do some exploring and hopefully find a fly shop or local fly fisherman who might throw me a bone or two.
The drive was longer than one to North Carolina, and the car’s GPS routed us right through Atlanta. “Oh Lord,” I thought, because it seemed that every time I had ever gone through that city, the roads were always, and I mean always, under a perpetual state of construction. Praying things might have changed, those prayers were flatly rejected. This time it wasn’t construction that got me but rather the FIFA soccer tournament. I dare anyone to tell me soccer isn’t as big here in the States as it is in Europe. I can honestly say the traffic congestion was the worst I have ever seen. It took us nearly three hours to get through Atlanta, and I swore that on our return trip home I would take any back road if it meant avoiding the city. Oh yeah, there was some serious swearing going on during those three hours that went way beyond being a simple potty mouth. I used words that aren’t even in the dictionary, and thankfully so.
One of my favorite parts of going to the mountains during the summer is reaching a certain elevation, rolling down the windows and taking in the cool mountain air. After tolerating the brutal heat this summer, that first whiff of mountain air is indescribable. Add winding roads over the mountains, and I’m all smiles. We were so close I could almost smell it.
Finally turning off the main highway onto a gravel road, there were only one or two cabins, and the rest of the way was lined with sweet-smelling virgin forest. Arriving at our cabin, I was floored by my wife’s find. Right there on the gate was a sign that read, “The Trout House.” For me, that sure beats a simple welcome sign.
This cabin wasn’t just nice; it was perfect. Tastefully furnished, with decks on all sides, an outdoor hot tub, and TVs inside and out, it couldn’t have been any cozier. I had been told there was a trout stream nearby, so I walked onto the back deck and found the stream not 10 feet away. My first thought was, Is this north Georgia or heaven?
Leaning on the railing and taking in the sound of the running water, I watched a small pool behind a rock dam where the water flowed downstream, and then I saw a flash of white. A reflection on the water, maybe? Then another flash. And another. I’ll be, those have to be trout! Always facing into the current that flash happens when a trout goes after a bug or something happens by them. Karen had done good, real good.
I couldn’t get my fly rod fast enough. After three casts, I had three nice rainbow trout. Karen’s sister was amazed, thinking I was the master of masters. I usually practice catch and release, but those three fish went into the frying pan, and they were delicious.
A couple of days later, I found a rather large trout river where wading was the name of the game. Usually during the summer, waders aren’t necessary, but halfway across that river, my Lowcountry blood said, “No way, Jose.” That water was too cold for my skinny butt.
Usually I can fly-fish from dawn till dusk, losing myself in the peace, beauty and sound of running water, but this trip was all about just chilling. I’m sure I’ll go back if I remember two things: a route that takes me far away from Atlanta and a pair of waders. What a great week that was. So north Georgia it is next summer or, if this heat continues, maybe next week!
Collins Doughtie is a 60-year resident of the Lowcountry, is a sportsman, graphic artist, and lover of nature. collinsdoughtie@icloud.com.
