Friday, July 13, 2012

Sgt. Hulka's Big Toe

...Kicked My Ass.

But, only temporarily.

On June 17, my brother and his #1 and I went to what I'll henceforward call the Big Toe River for a trout-on-the-fly adventure.  As always, my first efforts astream involved the due-diligence aspect: investigate upstream and down to determine where any other fisherpersons have already staked their respective places.

And having never fished this crick in Avery County, the exercise was also fundamentally one of familiarization with the access points and fishability.

After meeting up, both our vehicles leapfrogged the drive along the river, stopping together several times to consult the maps I'd brung and compare notes.  Then, I made the suggestion to take advantage of the fact we had two trucks: I picked two easy-access points on the map, and said "let's park your truck at the get-out and the take mine to the put-in, fish the 2 miles or so upstream, then break for lunch and reassess our gameplan for the rest of the river."

Two miles.

You can walk two miles in about 20 minutes.  Surely you can fish two miles in 4 hours.

Au contrere, mon frere.  Not in this crick, anyways.  The critical aspect of this miscalculation was the not-so-minor fact that for this 2-mile stretch, the only real access was at those aforementioned put-in & get-out points.  Matter of fact, there weren't any significant "beach" areas along the river.  That is, at the river's edge, the steep and densely-wooded bank began.  If one needed to sit a spell, he'd almost certainly have to sit in the water.  This makes for some tough sleddin', as one might expect.  If "one" is thinking with the practical side of his noggin' (as opposed to the "we're going to have a stretch of river all to ourselves" side of brain).

Well, as it turned out, there weren't any other folks fishing there.  But the two miles also turned out to be way too big a bite to effectively chew.  It was a hottish day, sure to sap a feller's energy level.

The fishing for brother and nephew was mostly a disappointment.  But for the Livermush Guy?  A banner day, in terms of quality and quantity.

Sorry about the fact that none of us carried a camera, but I caught & released 17 fish.  One of them was a 19" Rainbow.  And I also had a very rare double (exceptionally rare in that they were BOTH Rainbows)...that simultaneously took the Parachute Adams on top...


...And my version of Dave Hise's Heterogenius dangled below...


I was thankful that, without a camera, at least my nephew got to see me catch the double and the monster 'Bow.  But alas, glory for our self-appointed hero would be fleeting...

By lunchtime, we were all very tired.  And we figured that, having fished long and hard, the upstream transportation would be just around the bend.  Or the next bend.  Or the one after that.  Or the one after that?

By 2PM, we were all whupped.  Dog tired, boss, dog tired.  We'd all started tripping over rocks and other underwater obstacles.  We'd each taken significant slips, and gone "Tango Uniform".  By 3 o'clock, Brother & Nephew decided to venture off on a trail away from the creek, in hopes of shortcutting to his truck.  That detour eventually proved fruitless, while I dropped entirely out of stealth mode and plodded shamelessly, obnoxiously upstream.

About 4PM, I came upon a small, grassy beach on the East bank, with three couples and two chilluns playing in their near water.  The smart thing to do would be to go straight to them, make my how-do's, beg pardon, give Brother a hollered "C'mon!" and make our way along a constructed route.

But this is where the pratical part of my brain (if I indeed packed it for the trip?), again, let me down.  Instead of the "smart" thing, I made a wide berth around the family pool, nearer to the opposite bank, bravely intent on taking the road less travelled.  An adventure is, afterall, an adventure.

I'd passed their site completely, and worked back into the center of the creek, when in rapid succession, I slipped-half-caught-and-slipped again.  Trying to catch myself the second time, I strained too hard.  And tired muscle battling excess mass (still a fat-ass flyfisherman), resulted in a splashy down! goes! Frazier! moment.

In a completely-unplanned cheerleader's split, I'd dislocated my hip and torn a hamstring.  I tried to stand, but went down like a sack of Livermush again.  Tried again very carefully...and, down again hard I went.

So, I gave a shout to the beachers, who came a-running.  They helped me out of the water, which was thankfully only about a foot deep, and on to their shore.  Coincidentally, Brother had made his circuitous way back to the river at about/across from the camping-beach, and reappeared about the time I was getting helped abank.  After working their way across stream, Brother & Nephew & I were afforded a ride in the back of one of those fellers' pickup.

The drama up to that point was enough for one day, already, but mister good samaritan wasn't nearly as friendly and careful a driver as he was a helper of crippled fishermans.  The ride to Brother's truck was the most, by far, nerve-wrenching part of the ordeal!  Seriously, if any of us had let go our death grip of his tailgate, we'd have been roadkill...no exaggeration.  I figure he'd come to realize leaving his Missus with one of those other fellers was something better "un-prolonged".

But, we didn't let go; and we survived.

We thanked him for the lift.  I offered him a reward, which he politely declined.  And then he tore up the road back toward where he'd come.  I got safely back to my truck, and then gingerly, but safely, back home without further incident.

Since that day's adventure, we learned that we'd only made it about half way between trucks A & B.  And I just marvel at how far we'd gone, and difficult it had been, only to still be that far short of the goal.

The doctor prescribed taking it easy and letting the hip and hammy heal themselves up with time and rest, so that I've done.  I have been able to work a few projects over the past few weeks, and the limp is barely noticable.  But today, I find myself considering a trip to West Bygosh Virginia for some horseriding and flyfishing fun.  Maybe if the weather breaks tomorrow?

And I'll soon be back to tackle the Big Toe.  The two trucks will get parked in the same two places, but the practically brained and experienced flyfishing fatass will, more than likely, fish in the opposite direction next time, for that stretch of creek.

Can anyone say "float-trip"?