While I am a beach bum at heart a big part of my souls lies at the foothills of the North Carolina mountains. My mom is from the region and several times every year we would pack up the car and head to see my Granny. She was special in every way, always had a jar of my favorite fresh baked Moravian sugar cookies we would eat together as she shared the good Lord’s plans for me each visit. I am in large part the person I am today because of the example she set, living out her life a widow over 30 years, making it to the old age of 97 before she finally took her final bow. Since she passed I don’t go back often enough but every time I do I am reminded of the connection that I have to the flowing streams and rocky soil.
Several years ago, thanks to social media, I reconnected with an old friend from my college years who was also obviously lost in his own personal fishing addiction up in those same Smokey Mountains. It was clear from his post that he was ruined by the freshwater trout that he had in his backyard, and he always was posting quality fish! I was intrigued to say the least, but it had been years since we talked.
Now I first met Charles Humphrey back in 1995. He was in the same dorm as my best friend from high school and when we met for the first time I remember we clicked. We both loved the beach culture, outdoor lifestyle and the music of the era. In a world full of frat boys and late night bar fights, “Chuck” became one of the people I felt I connected to most. Authentic and real to the core.
While I ended up down in Wilmington and he took off on the road with the band that formed amongst friends after college graduation, we lost contact.
Due to the nature of his career I kept up with his pursuits. Charles was killing it! On the road with several different successful bands, winning multiple industry awards over the years including being inducted into the NC Music Hall of Fame as a Grammy Award winning songwriter and producer. He recently had joined a new band several years back as a side project, made of a bunch of super talented artist up in Asheville called Songs From the Road Band. They were traveling, playing festivals and spreading their message to fans across the country as they found themselves working their way up to the top of the national bluegrass charts.
Charles had figured out how to follow his passions and dreams, converting his skills into a promising career. I’ve always been inspired by people that take their own path and seeing him have some success has always been very fulfilling. I’s good to see the good guys win!
Then COVID hit. Like most musicians, Charles suddenly had to figure out a way to pivot his success in a world with no live music and free downloads online. All he ever knew was to follow his passion and put his dreams on the road, so he started working with another local guide and together they created HighTroutGuides LTD.
It was a change that made sense for the now middle aged musician who had found some success and a following as a local trout guru. Charles had recently been putting nearly as much time in pursing browns and rainbows as he has been writing and composing.
That is not to say Charles has given up on his music, the day I pulled into town to meet up with him, 25 years after I had last seen him in Chapel Hill, he was just finishing up with a recording session and a quick meeting with a band mate. He further explained to me later that day that he carves out scheduled time each day to compose, write and collaborate with others. You can tell hanging out with him that he really never turns it off though. Constantly strumming along to a song playing on the radio, talking about things that inspire him.
Clearly based on conversations we had been having online and the items I was now seeing in his home, trout fishing had become an obsession and personal release during the past couple years of chaos. No better place to turn than the connections we have with nature.
Remembering his good nature and kind soul, I decided to reach out and reconnect, to take things from social to face to face again. In life I’ve learned all it takes to rekindle an old friendship is a boat ride or a wade in the water with fishing gear in hand. So I called him, expressing interest in what he was doing when I found myself planning a trip his direction. He immediately responded with a invitation to join him on the water.
Next thing I know I was welcomed into his abode after quick pleasantries that made me feel at ease, as if we had just seem each other the day before. It was clear that I had entered into a creative persons zone. A big stack of comic books sitting next to a line of musical instruments up against the wall including his large stand up bass which just begged for attention . Not to mention that Grammy sitting on the shelf among a couple of books and some other general clutter that I’ve found comes along with the creative process for most of us.
In the corner there was also a ton of fishing gear. And on the large computer screen there was a fly fishing video, depicting anglers with rods pointed high, properly landing quality fish 'off the reel" in shallow waters likely somewhere out west. Charles knew I was a novice angler and school was already in session. Had I been paying attention it would have saved me my best fish of the trip, but we will talk more about that later.
I was new to fly fishing especially in this setting so Charles demonstrated some useful skills as we caught up and discussed other things such as such as boot size and college basketball. He played the song he was working on for me to hear and then we went downstairs to get geared up with waders and boots.
As we left he threw several Orvis 3 weight fly rod combos into the back of his truck and we took off to fish a section of the French Broad River that had lots of stocked fish that would provide some fun for me as a novice angler in a new setting learning some challenging skills. It was the perfect place for Charles to have in his back pocket to coach a recently converted fly fisher. It obviously was something he did all the time but he made it feel special for me still as he went through the necessary motions to prepare me for what was soon to come.
This action of the river had some good, deep channels that flowed freely, perfect for Charles's preferred style of fishing many of the local water known as Euro nymphing. The goal as I understood it was to drop small flies, tied to look like a stone fly or fish eggs, into the holes up current. Then one had to hold your rod in a way that allows the fly to drift freely into those deeper pockets. That technique leads to some very unnatural poses that made me feel like I was attempting to do yoga instead of catch a fish. While perhaps a little skeptical at first there was no doubt that the technique worked as Charles came tight pretty quick.
I was just trembling, attempting to hold my rod up high, while pointing it down and out in front of the fly... attempting to lead but not impact the drift as instructed. Clearly I was struggling so Charles came over and offered some advice in a way that wasn’t condescending. He demonstrated several new skills and styles so I didn’t get frustrated or bored. Over the next hour I slowly got the hang of things enough to get several fun sized rainbows to come to hand, checking another angling pursuit off my bucket list. Charles even caught what he believed to be a wild brown based on the fishes color and markings.
As much time as I had spent in the mountains growing up I had never caught trout in a mountain stream on a fly rod. New dog still learning old tricks, we left the river at sunset and went and ate a meal fit for a southern gentleman at Bonfire Barbecue. Still dripping wet in our hip waders. I was really starting to like Asheville.
As we devoured a platter of wings, brisket, ribs and traditional chopped BBQ along with okra fries, stuffed mac and cheese and jalapeno grits... we talked about the forecast for the next day. Charles told me that with a slightly warmer afternoon playing out right before an anticipated winter storm the trout should be in a frenzy. We agreed to wake up early and be on the road to Georgia and the Soque River before first light.
So we did. After a night with predictable little sleep at the Beaucatcher Motel I was up earlier than needed, full of anticipation of what the day would bring. During dinner between bites of slow cooked tenderness Charles told me that we were fishing true trophy waters with trout up to 30" not uncommon. While I honestly still didn't really know what that meant as I was not entirely familiar with the freshwater fishery, I knew from my days working with public aquariums that that was a big fish.
I have since learned that the Soque is an iconic river found entirely within one county in northern Georgia. The majority of the waterway lies in private hands, farmland, open fields and wooded acres as far as one could see until your eyes met up with the rolling mountains on the near horizon. Conservationist worked together to set up a land use management plan that would support a sustainable world class fish fishery along the east coast, very close to Atlanta, the Blue Ridge Parkway and the Great Smokey Mountains National Park. The river is stocked and maintained with quality fish and pressure is light as only limited number of trusted guides can bring outsiders like me onto the banks of the slightly stained riverbed with hopes of tangling with a impressive specimen that would top many anglers personal best, several times over.
As we made the short drive Charles and I continued to catch up as the conversations flowed back and forth between fish, mutual friends, the days of our youth, an ever changing world, music and both of our struggles fitting in. We both identified as people who had followed our passions indifferent directions, but fishing was the common thread. While I took off on adventures to study coral reefs and gray whales over the years before coming back home to work at the local aquarium, Charles was back and forth across the country and in Europe playing on big stages under bright lights, living his dream in the thriving yet quaint mountain town. When the pandemic hit, we both turned to fishing not only as a source of rejuvenation and cleansing but also as a source of income. We both love sharing our passion for scaly, slippery things that live in the water and breath with gills.
The fish Charles loves most adapted in cold fresh water streams carved out over geologic time. My favorites roam wild and free in a world with no borders other than temperature breaks and predictable tidal flow. As we pulled into the farm property that was blessed with that beautiful stretch of river, we were well aware that our worlds were about to collide and I was about to experience something special and far outside of my comfort zone. Oddly enough the entire experience felt very comfortable. When I had trouble at one point early on crossing the steam in a current that greatly increased its speed as it approached a rock outcropping I got a little too close to, Charles was there to assist ensuring I made it across without taking a tumble in the cold water on the 44F day. His steady hand guided me across the river to the opposite banks where we found a large school of healthy palomino and rainbow trout waiting. I love a good adventure and this was what movies are made about.
For the next couple of hours we worked our way downstream then back up, stopping along the way to slowly sink our flies into the deeper pockets and bends of the river, picking away at a quality number of fish for a morning outing. Not bad for January, if we didn't fish anymore or see anything else I was stoked. As we came back up at the cattle hole Charles told me to get cleaned up and prepare for a meal as we walked to the outpost that had been built onsite to accommodate anglers with a full service restroom, a charcoal grill and a huge fire pit.
On a cold day like the one we were experiencing a quick break by the fire with some tuna steaks, salad and sausages really hit the spot and got us eager to get back out for the afternoon session.
Charles had a bend at the head of the property that held a school of large but extremely finicky fish that tested anglers wits on nearly every trip. When we walked down to the spot I was astounded by the number and size of the trout that were laid out in front of me facing into the current waiting for a meal. Charles proved to be the most consistent angler as he was able to present the fly in a way that gently flowed downstream, but I hooked my fair share with my unorthodox skills.
While my technique was not ideal I was able to convince a couple of the larger fish to eat, but keeping them buttoned up in shallow water fighting them off the reel proved challenging. I had one that got close, making several runs when it saw the net. The rod absorbed the energy until I slightly lowered the tip as it made it's last effort to escape and find freedom. In the salt water fly fishing world of red fish and false albacore, high sticking is a no no. While Charles had clearly instructed me to keep the tip up and let the rod do the work as the fish ran into he current, I fell back to my roots. Relizing my mistake, I panicked and my hand got caught in the fly line as it came up from the loose coils it had made laying piled up out of the water. Poor technique and poor line management, trophy fish have a way of exposing's you while keeping you humble. While I lost my shot at a true trophy, I landed several others that were each my consecutive personal best on new water using a new technique. I was pumped! Little did I realize that many people fish their entire lives without hooking one as big as I had been fortunate enough to have lost that day.
By this point Charles had enough faith to encourage me to explore some downstream as we worked different sections of the river but in the same run. After about 15 minutes, I hear Charles whistling for me to reel up as he comes flying down the river in the current in pursuit of the biggest trout I had ever seen in the wild. After three jumps and multiple runs that made things tense, he brought the fish to his net and we got some pictures of the reward before he gently released the nearly 30' trout back into the steam of consciousness from which it came.
Time slipped by and soon we realized we were out of it, as the sun began to fade behind the ridge line. After we took off our waders, cleaned everything up and packed out the gear the sun was setting fast. Temperatures were dropping and the clouds began to build. About half way home snow began to fall. It came down the whole way home as we relived the day over some Willie Nelson and the Grateful Dead.
Pulling into town famished we hit up a local Mexican hot spot for carne asada tacos and a crazy salad entrée that they prepared for Charles tableside. We then returned to his home and began unloading his truck and exchanging goodbyes with promises of future trips and explorations back on the coast and on the road.
Back at my room at the Beaucatcher, I watched the snow continue to fall outside of my room through the large sliding glass door and covered patio. It was freezing cold and while there a chance of snow in the area forecast before I left it was starting to pile up more than anticipated. I went to sleep that night not sure if I would be able to drive home the next day because of the road conditions. None the less, I slept like a baby in the very soft comfortable bed after a hot shower. I was tired, it had been a long day. The Beuacatcher was the perfect home away from home, clean and affordable, three nights for under $180. I was thankful when I woke up that I did not have to stay another night but at least I could afford it if I did! No frills but everthing you need in a room. Clean, upkept and modern décor not some dirty old hole in the wall your wife wouldn't stay in.
When I woke up, there was more snow but I also saw the trucks with plows were already hard at work making the highway safe enough to head home. After a quick clean up and social media post, I was off to drive back down the mountain into a gorgeous sunrise that I will forever remember as one of the most beautiful I have experienced. Something about the colors filtering through the clouds as the sun slowly peeks above the uneven horizon, us flatlanders can't get enough of it.
Even on a cold winter weekend we can find a quick escape into wild places relatively close to home. It doesn't hurt when you have connections with a local legend who so willingly shares his passion for his home waters with those he encounters. Like the Grammy sitting on the shelf in Charles's living room, the fish we encountered were a true testament to his dedication, pursuing the things he loves most. I am forever thankful he took the time to share his knowledge with an old friends that reached out after 25 years because of a shared love of the water. Fishing has a way of bringing people together, and I for one and so thankful for the fellowship it provides!
Comments