Last year, one of the last great fly fishermen waded into the crystal clear waters of eternity which led him to those promised streets of gold.
When a fisherman earns their great reward, the earth feels his absence and offers comfort to the bereaved in the form of clear blue skies painted with white gossamer clouds. A compassionate breeze swept across the land on that hot summer day we said goodbye to Jim Mills. It seems our keepers of knowledge are being called home, leaving those who remain incapable of filling their waist-high waders. Any attempt to do so is folly. Perhaps we could begin the quest for knowledge by spending less time indoors with the weight of a phone in our hands googling Chat GPT.
Jim Mills didn’t fish in waist-high waders; he “waded wet.” Meaning, he braved the icy mountain streams, slickened with moss-covered rocks, while wearing sensible shoes that could withstand a 10 mile hike. Unless he was in the wilds of Montana, or braving a North Carolina stream in January, Jim’s waders stayed at home. Come winter, there is a zero percent chance of meeting another human being, except the occasional glimpse of his buddies as they gave each other the appropriate buffer.
Rule number two in angler etiquette: don’t fish in another man’s pool. Rule number one: a mountain stream is holy ground and must be treated as such. Leave no trace. That means, do not toss Slim Jim or Little Debbie wrappers. Return those empty tins of kippers and Vienna sausages to your pack. If you encounter a mess someone else left, pick it up. This especially includes discarded, balled-up fishing line. Pack it in; pack it out, even if the trash you find along the way isn’t your own. The mountains are watching. The mountains remember the names of those who treat them with respect and bless anglers with easy casts and fish who bite hard and fast. For you see, the mountains and the trees growing upon them, eavesdrop as crows and squirrels chatter amongst themselves. Nothing is hidden from the crows, or their chatterbox friends. Nothing is ever hidden from a clear mountain stream either. The water can see straight into your soul.
An Appalachian angler relishes the moment when flesh first meets water that is so cold it catches your breath and carries it downstream as it rides a giggling ripple. Jim relished the quiet, and became one with the water, and the fish. Listening, watching. Learning, always learning, because the best fishermen, and women, understand that the art of fly fishing has very little to do with serving speckled trout for super. It’s easy to spot an angler who isn’t from around here. Many visitors believe fly fishing is about the catch. Nothing could be farther than the truth.
An Appalachian angler can spend all week hiking into his favorite hole without catching a single fish and return to civilization with a belly full of homemade deer jerky and a soul brimming with contentment.
Jim went quick, like a brown trout defending his pool as it strikes an elk hair caddis fly tickling the surface of the water. There is comfort in knowing the suffering was minimal. But for those who loved him, there is also a bottomless hole of longing. A darkness waiting for light.
People don’t attend memorial services like they once did in days past. However, the service of Jim Mills was different. Folk fell in line. Respectful. Silent. Patient. Some wore their fishing vests. Others carried their rods tucked beneath the crook of their arms. Each waiting for the opportunity to embrace family members, not only because they had learned much at the knee of this master fisherman, but also because he was a man who was active in the church, a true fisher of men with a heart for the Native American community who was well versed in keeping the art of Appalachian fly fishing alive.
Art, you ask? How can fly fishing be art?
Oh my friend, have you ever truly looked at an authentic Appalachian hand-tied fly? One made from animal pelts or the hackles, saddles, and capes of chickens. The same kind the young men of Swain County saved their money to purchase at Crisp Sporting Goods for a dollar. These works of art took their rightful places against your heart as they traveled with you secured to a piece of fleece that had been sewn outside of your fishing vest; a fly patch, it is called. Those who wear fly patches are true Appalachian anglers. They are old school anglers with creels lined with moss and jaws packed with chewing tobacco. Of course, the true works of art were flies you learned to tie yourself, preferably from a man who knew every rock and crevice of the stream. A man like Jim Mills who not only tied his own flies, but also made his own rods.
Thousands of rods.
A true fly fisherman weaves a lifetime of knowledge into the flies he ties, which is why his skill and techniques are highly coveted. His countenance is one of integrity, where a man’s word is his bond as evidenced when Jim encountered Don Kirk, who was exploring the waters of the Oconaluftee. Kirk, the nation’s leading expert on fly fishing, was particularly interested in the fly Jim used, not only because it was successful, but also unique. Kirk offered to trade flies, a common practice among anglers, but Jim declined saying, he’d “made a promise to the old man who gave it to him that he would never give it to anyone.” The men parted company on good terms. Kirk would later write about his encounter with Mr. Mills.
Jim also could predict, with remarkable accuracy, when fish would bite. He fashioned a homemade barometer using a Pepsi bottle with colored water inside. As atmospheric pressure increases the water wicks up the inside of the bottle’s neck, a sure-fire sign that fish are active. Jim often shared this tool with his fishing buddies. It was so accurate, the boys at the fly shop kept a keen eye on the bottle, saying, “If that water ever reaches the bottom of the Pepsi rectangle, we’re shutting down the store and going fishing!”
Only the fisherman, the steam, the mountains, and the fish he releases truly know his way. During his trek in search of elusive trout, he walks past groups of city slickers fresh from the Orvis store with their shiny new waders and unstained vests. He nods a kindly hello and gently shakes his head at the sheer number crowding the pools where there once were few. A true fly fisherman has spent years, or perhaps even decades, learning the way of Salvelinus fontinalis. Watching a YouTube doesn’t teach one how to fish; it merely shines a light into the dark spot of the soul, urging you to enter what is sacred ground. Fish come to those who are worthy. Never to the proud, the boastful, or those seeking social media likes and the title of influencer. The mountains, streams, and the animals living in the water into which one steps, determines a fisherman’s worth.
Respectful anglers understand they are guests in our fragile oasis which is why they lock their stress and frustration inside the truck. They stand at the water’s edge like a priest entering a sanctuary, and wait for the moment when tension slides from their shoulders. Only a fool steps into the water with stress on their back. The fish know, the mountains know, and the water certainly feels an angry angler. The water whispers to the fish: hide, this angler does not understand The Way.
Jim knew to never disrespect fish by tromping up the middle of a stream. Just as he knew that stacking rocks is blasphemy. Appalachian anglers learned at the knees of their fathers and grandfathers that tiny fry hide safely under rocks and in slow-moving pools near the water’s edge. Beneath those slippery rocks fragile eggs of our beloved and endangered hellbender salamanders wait to hatch. Remove one living thing from our fragile ecosystem, and everything else tumbles like a house of cards. Helene taught us that; so did Jim and he did so in a way that left you hungry to experience the peace that comes with being at one with the land.
The saber arch is a military tradition used to salute newly married couples. On the day we bade Jim farewell, his closest friends and family stood outside the church and created an arch of fly rods, many made by Jim himself. A tribute, but perhaps also a promise to continue respecting the way of our beloved Appalachian angler. Cast wide dear friend. Your impact on this earth shall never be forgotten.