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An Enduring Tradition

Fly fishing in the Southern High Country

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Although I was blissfully unaware of the fact, mine was a blessed childhood. It found me growing up in a fly fishing family; molded by my father and other mentors skilled in the sport; and living within walking, biking, or short driving distance of dozens of first-rate trout streams. 

Along with the blessings associated with place of birth (Bryson City, NC) and a bunch of avid anglers who “took me to raise,” it was a time when fishing pressure was light in comparison with today’s standards. Perhaps best of all, my parents had the common sense to let me be a boy. Within certain parameters, from the time I reached the age of 12, I was free to fish day after glorious day. 

When America’s greatest outdoor writer, Robert Ruark, suggested in The Old Man and the Boy that any youngster who loved the outdoors was far too busy having fun to be a juvenile delinquent, he was on to something. In today’s world of parental mollycoddling and hyper-protectiveness the angling freedom I enjoyed no longer exists. That’s the bad news. Countering it are happy circumstances of pristine waters, both wild and stocked trout in abundance, and untold hundreds of stream miles open to the public. Let’s look at some of the enduring traditions of trout fishing in the southern Appalachian high country, what the region has to offer today’s devotee to the long rod and whistling line, and factors which make the area mountain poet Leroy Sossamon once described as “the backside of heaven.”

Timeless traditions

For reasons no one fully understands, the southern high country, and especially the Smokies, found passionate fly fishermen plying magic wands and seductive fur and feather frauds affixed to a hook long before modernity reached the mountains. By the early decades of the 20th century legendary figures including Indian Creek’s Mark Cathey, Deep Creek’s Sam Hunnicutt, Knoxville’s Karl Steinmetz, and Tennesseans living within the bosom of the Smokies such as “Uncle” Tip Stinnett and Matt Whittle, were relying almost exclusively on flies to take trout. Multiple printed accounts exist of anglers catching hundreds of fish in a single day in the pre-logging era of the last century, and they did so while fly fishing.

Moreover, the streams where they recorded those amazing catches—Hazel Creek, the headwaters of Deep Creek, the West Prong of the Little Pigeon River, and others—still teem with trout and beckon today’s wayfaring angler. In some cases he may have to rely on shank’s mare to get to his destination, but hardy souls, especially those willing to backpack, can open the gates to piscatorial paradise.

The basic approaches to the sport described in books such as Sam Hunnicutt’s Twenty Years Hunting and Fishing in the Great Smoky Mountains or Robert L. Mason’s The Lure of the Smokies, remain unchanged. Popular fly patterns such as March Brown, Brown Hackle, Grey Hackle Yellow, Royal Coachman, and Grizzly still take fish with regularity, and leaps of technology notwithstanding, fly rods remain much the same in terms of function. Reels have seen dramatic improvements, but with rare exceptions they are what they’ve always been—a convenient means of storing extra line.

Today’s anglers remain privileged to wade waters as pure and pristine as those known to our forebears generations ago. The farther one ventures back of beyond the better the fishing. Or, to summarize the overall situation in terms of what endures, there is no finer place east of the Rockies to fish for wild trout. That’s thanks to the existence of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park along with the Nantahala, Pisgah, and Cherokee national forests.  

Those living in the area are steeped in the lure and lore of an activity which lies at the heart of the mountaineer’s abiding love of sport. Opening day on hatchery-supported waters remains so appealing that old-timers with faces etched by laugh lines chuckle and say: “If you’re gonna catch a mess of trout the first day you better carry your own rock to stand on.” Similarly, in countless households a mess of fried trout, dressed up in their cornbread dinner jackets and accompanied by a bait of ramps and a skillet full of fried potatoes, is an annual culinary event of surpassing importance. So, for that matter, are trout on the table in general. My late mother held a disdainful view of the “catch-and-release” ethic. “I believe in release to hot grease” was her mantra. 

A changing culture

Yet mention of the contrasting views on eating one’s catch versus releasing it points to the fact that alongside continuity there has been change. Most, though not all, of it has been positive. Without much question, the greatest impact has come with stocked fish. Today’s hatcheries produce fish far more appealing to the eye than stockers of yesteryear derisively known by terms such as “dough bellies.” They have higher survival rates, taste better, and generally offer a quantum leap forward in terms of attractiveness to fishermen.

Even more noteworthy is the expansion of places where hatchery fish are released. The development of delayed harvest, which placed trout in habitat suitable only in the cooler months of the year, was of immense consequence. The trout were available for catch-and-release fishing, using barbless single-hook artificial lures (flies or spinners) only, through fall, winter, and spring months. Then, come the first Saturday in June, Armageddon day arrives. Delayed-harvest waters revert to the same regulations as those for hatchery-supported streams. That means most of these stocked trout, rather than dying because of habitat-related issues, are caught for the table after having provided catch-and-release fishing for months.

It’s the best of both angling worlds and an abundance of large fish has drawn large numbers of outside anglers with deep pockets. They buy licenses, hire guides, utilize local lodging, patronize local restaurants, and generally contribute to the area economy. At least two towns in the region, Cherokee and Gatlinburg, have recognized the tourism potential of fishermen and have thriving programs aimed at “catching” anglers. Cherokee Tribal Enterprise waters are particularly impressive, embracing portions of several streams, there are fishing rodeos and other activities throughout the year, and the tribe has its own hatchery. This results in an aspect of fly fishing light years removed from the situation of the 1950s and 1960s, when one rarely met an outsider wading Smokies streams. Do a bit of Internet browsing and you’ll have abundant evidence, in the form of scores of shops and outfitters offering guide services, of how popular the sport has become in the region. 

Other noteworthy developments include full realization of the potential of tailwaters like the Holston, Watauga, and Clinch in east Tennessee and North Carolina’s Nantahala, widespread use of drift boats or frame-equipped rafts on larger streams, forward-looking outfitters leasing or buying stream frontage then intensively managing it, and still evolving changes in the nature of the trout found in regional streams. Introduced rainbows and browns long ago “took holt” and began reproducing naturally in many area streams, but that does not mean native specks (outsiders style them brook trout but to locals they are just speckled trout, natives, or mountain trout) have continued to decline in numbers and range.

Instead, the Park has concluded that its restoration program for natives has been a success, and you can once more fish streams where they are found. Moreover, these bespeckled beauties with the scarlet spotted flanks and vermiculated backs are increasingly returning to places they haven’t been in many decades—Big Cataloochee Creek, the upper reaches of the Oconaluftee River alongside Highway 441, Straight Fork, and elsewhere. Slight cooler waters, thanks to trees growing where once there were farm fields, along with a dramatic reduction in acid rain, likely form part of the explanation. Whatever the precise scientific reasons, it’s heartening to know you can once more have real expectation of scoring a Smoky Mountain Slam (catching a brown, a ‘bow, and a speck) in a single day.

Another change, and you will get mixed reactions on whether it is positive, is the increasing preponderance of browns as the major species of many streams. They are warier and more difficult to catch but grow larger and seem a bit more tolerant of adversity in forms such as warming waters, siltation, and in general ability to make habitat adjustments. 

Then there are new tactics, techniques, and tackle, although those with sufficient historical knowledge realize that what seems new (high sticking of the old days is today’ Tenkara rod fishing; a dry fly and a dropper is not all that distant a remove from the traditional wet fly “cast” of multiple flies; and fishing dry flies as a living insect was something Mark Cathey was doing a century ago) often reminds us that there really isn’t all that much different beneath the sun shining on Smokies streams.

One other positive is expanded opportunity in terms of seasons. Where Park waters once closed in September and did not reopen until the first week in May, they are now open all year. Similarly, state streams in North Carolina designated as wild trout water are always open, and a few even allow non-fly fishing methods. Overall, there’s definitely more opportunity to fish. While it’s almost certainly true that it is more difficult to catch trout than it was a half century ago, there are so many options that everyone from wild trout purists to casual anglers just seeking some action has an abundance of opportunities.

If I were to pick two things associated with the status of today’s fly fishing which are troubling, one would deal with angler behavior and the second with otters. Simply put, a small but bothersome portion of today’s fly fishermen lack the deeply ingrained courtesy of leaving a decent-sized stretch of stream to anglers who got there first. Too often they plow into the water not 50 yards away. Part of that is a product of too many people, which in turn attests to the popularity of fly fishing. Part of it is likely ignorance of stream ethics, and I fear that a simple decline in courtesy is a factor as well.

As for otters, a plague on their fish-eating house. While Park biologists will go to inordinate lengths to defend them, ask any veteran of mountain streams his opinion and chances are you’ll witness an adventure in vituperation. State authorities in North Carolina have learned their lesson (too late, it might be noted) after otters did tens of thousands of dollars in damage to a hatchery on Armstrong Creek near Marion. But they are here to stay, and sadly, otters prey on trophy-sized fish more than smaller ones. 

Otters aside, in some ways the good old days are now. My salad days when I could fish on a summer week day from dawn until dusk and never see another fisherman belong to a world we have lost. So do the 50 to 75 trout days I considered a normal “good” outing in the 1960s. Yet it’s still possible to enjoy tight lines and fine times, and do so in settings ranging from the roadside wonders of the lower Nantahala to places back of beyond deep within the Park. 

About the author: Jim Casada is the author of three fly-fishing books including the award-winning Fly Fishing in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park: An Insider’s Guide to a Pursuit of Passion. He was an inaugural inductee into the Museum of Southern Appalachian Fly Fishing Hall of Fame, is an honorary Life Member of the International Federation of Fly Fishers, and a 2018 inductee into Southern Trout’s Legends of the Fly Hall of Fame. For more information on him and his books, visit jimcasadaoutdoors.com.

Fly Fishing Traditions in Print

There are upwards of a dozen modern guidebooks covering fly fishing in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park or ranging more widely across the southern Appalachians. They vary appreciably in length and quality, but with a bit of browsing the inquisitive angler can decide which merit a place in his library. More interesting, at least for those enamored of the sport’s regional history, are vintage books touching on fly fishing in what truly were “the good old days.” Here’s a list of some of those which are of particular interest or note. All are somewhat rare in the original, but several have been reprinted.

Fly Fishing Museum Of The Southern Appalachians

In only a few short years of existence, the Fly Fishing Museum of the Southern Appalachians has made impressive strides towards recognition of the sport’s rich, varied regional history. Located in Bryson City, a town which could justly claim to be at the epicenter of some of the Southeast’s finest trout waters, thanks to being a key access point for Park streams including Deep Creek, Noland Creek, the Oconaluftee River drainage, and the numerous creeks emptying into Fontana’s North Shore, as well as being the closest town to the lower Nantahala River (name one of the top 100 trout streams in America by Trout Unlimited), the exhibit portion of the Museum is located near the scenic town square. It features, among other things, exhibits, a corner for kids, impressive displays of vintage gear, a growing reference collection of magazines and books, and rotating displays featuring “Stream Blazers” who made notable contributions to the sport. Among those are local angling legends Mark Cathey and Frank Young; famed fly tiers Cato Holler, Fred and Allene Hall, and Benny Joe Craig; and national figures whose writings shaped the sport.

The Museum inducted its first class into its Hall of Fame in 2016 and in ensuing years upwards of a dozen individuals have been recognized from their contributions in areas such as communications, conservation, craft, and as missionaries or spokesmen for fly fishing. Expanding rapidly, thanks to an active group of volunteers and strong support on the local level, in June the Museum will grow to include a second location. This will be an aquarium where visitors can observe the species of trout found in the southern Appalachians, learn about their habitat, see elusive hellbenders (also known as water dogs or mud puppies), and do so while only casting distance away from the Tuckaseigee River. 

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