Wally is a magnificent soul who loves stream fishin' for trout, but
unfortunately he has been spending a bit too much time floating the Catawba
River tail-race from a raft, fishing for inferior stockers. I contacted
Walter Winter a couple a days ago, after Drew Patterson told me Walt was in
need of my personal attentions. During a recent phone conversation, it
became quite apparent to me what Walter was in need of was some serious time
on a brazen babblin' brook, a surgin' savage stream, a rip roarin' rivulet,
a tenacious tributary's benefactor, a sweet little stretch of aqua claro, in
the heart of the Pisgah National Forest. Thankfully, there are numerous
waterways in the PNF ripe for the pickings.

Mr. winter and I made plans to fish on Sunday. I received an urgent call
from Wally, on Friday morning. He said that he planned to leave work early
to meet up with Drew and he pal Danny. I informed Uncle Wally that I
couldn't get away from work before 3:00 PM, but that I would try to meet up
with him later in the day and wade fish some shoals of the Catawba.

As lunch-time rolled around at work, I began to feel queasy, or at least
that's the impression my supervisor got? I headed out at 12:00 PM for the
Wilson's Creek watershed. Not too sure if I would find Wally, Drew or
Danny, I figured that I would park at Drew and Danny's campsite and just
fish up stream from there, and return to camp later to find the crew
gathered. On my way down Pilot Ridge Road, I came upon a box turtle in the
middle of the road. I wondered how such a clumsy critter of so-called
"intelligent design" could climb up and down the steep ridges of the
Appalachian Mountains.

As I power slid around the winding mountain dirt road, I came head on with
another vehicle. Fortunately, it was Walter. After I calmed him down and
helped him pull his Jeep out of the holler from which he had sought refuge,
we agreed to fish the stream that John "Asadi" Baker and I had fished last
Thanksgiving. We parked down at the campsite Drew and Danny chose every
year for the forays into the wilderness of the PNF. As we geared up, Walt
and I decided to leave my car at the campsite and take his up to the put-in
trail. Though Wally had fished this particular stream before, many times,
he had never started from the location we were headed to. As we hiked down
the trail, we talked about the wonderful fishing of late, wild turkey
hunting, and the benefits the recent discussion of knots, leaders, and
tippets, on ROFF, have contributed to the art of fly-fishing in the last
week or so. Of course this discussion led to an argument, which further led
to a face-to-face flame war, which eventually led to a knockdown drag-out
fight over which rod manufacturer made the most aesthetically pleasing hook
holder.

After bushwhacking the last 50 or so yards down to the stream, our path was
blocked by a 5 foot long black snake. We were determined to enter the water
at this location and no gi-normous snake was going to divert us! So we
stepped around him. Afternoon storms have become a reality for the last
couple of weeks. The water, which is usually crystal clear, was swollen and
the color of a decent glass of Lipton iced tea. It was hot and muggy, with
storm clouds threatening, so I allowed Wally to make the first cast, as my
glasses were too fogged up for me to see. Wally had tied on a parachute
sulfur pattern with a dropper fly. He cast through several beautiful pools,
runs and riffles, to no avail. Finally, it was my turn. I had tied on the
same traditional Adams I had been fishing for my last few outings. Since I
hadn't lost this fly and it had been very productive of late, I decided to
continue with this pattern. Sure enough, after just a couple of pools and
runs, I had a fish on. It was a nice fat little brown, about 8 or nine
inches in length.

Wally took over, again. Once again his para-sulfur failed him, after
numerous fishy lookin' holes. In frustration, Wally waved me on. Two casts
and I hooked into another gorgeous brown specimen. Once again Walter
couldn't seem to get his fly to entice a trout to look much less strike at
it. We came upon a section where a large boulder jutted out from the side
of the side of the stream and over the water about 4 or 5 feet. The water
serpentines through this section ending in a pool just beyond the
overhanging boulder. I *allowed* Walter to fish this HOT spot, as I was
felling magnanimous, and I figured that it might possibly be the only hole
on the stream that would be able to dry up the tears streaming from Walt's
eyes and polluting the already murky waters. I figure that not even a
novice fly fisher could come away from this hole without a hook-up, but I
was very wrong. Walt was practically inconsolable at this point. He
claimed that the thoughts of that little black snake had him shaken still.
I was skeptical and told him to suck it up and catch a dam fish!
Eventually, Wally was able to bring a trout to hand and one would have
thought he had landed a the trout that laid the golden egg! He hooped and
hollered, as if he had just won a prize fight. I reminded him of the
negative karma he was creating for himself, yet he continued to high-five
himself, tree branches, the air, and any fluttering insect the was within
reach.

I tried to get Mr. Winter to abandon his para-sulfur for a more lucrative
Adams, but he had become way too cocky now. His next cast landed in a rhodo
branch. I reminded him of the karma thingy. He yanked his line from the
branch, less it's dropper. Claiming the dropper had been a hindrance and
that he planned to dry fly fish anyway, he continued up stream. Ooooooh,
another trout and another victory dance and Wally was claiming to have
evened the score. As I am not one to count fish--in honor of RW--I allowed
Wally his moment of exuberance and suffered in silence. Walter muttered
something to the effect of, "Batter Up!" I stepped up to the next pool and
proceeded to take two trout with little or no acknowledgement from my
fishin' buddy, except that he was going to have to catch up to me
(Whatever!). Mocking my former mentor's behavior, I did my own little
victory dance.

Well, it was inevitable. The clouds finally opened up, and the rain came
down with a fury. We were soaked to the bone and had come to about the
halfway point on this stretch of stream, where a forestry services road came
down to the stream. We decided I had had a great day of fishing and that
Wally had at least been able to catch to me and so he didn't have a bad day
fishin'.

Twenty minutes of so after having left the stream, we were back at Drew and
Danny's campsite, but they were no where in sight. It was around 5:30 PM
and we were wet and Walter was tired, so we decided to head on home. Before
we parted company, we made tentative plans to fish Sunday, on Upper Creek.
However, after this trip report, I doubt my best fishin' buddy will ever
want to fish with me again?

How about it Uncle Wally? You did suggest that *I* do the trip report!

Love ya, mean it, Walter Winter!

Your pal and magnanimous fishin' buddy,

Mark