Unfortunately, the last "memo" I received from you was a reply to my last
e-mail and you stated that you would contact me the following day. I never
received that "following day" response?

Sorry we missed *y'all* on Friday. I had to do yard work at mother's and my
place on Sat. and was unable to get out of Lenoir, due to physical stress
and strain due to excessive heat and humidity!

When did the bear decide to make it's appearance? I hope it didn't make too
big a mess of the campsite. Why did y'all fish for stockers, when you were
camped on a WILD trout stream? Are y'all ****in' crazy!? Walt and I fished
right up to the first trail down to Andrew's and hiked out to my car in
front of your campsite, but we figured that y'all had been eaten by one of
the three bears or Goldie lox and bagels.

Seriously, I wish ya had have fished Uppers on Friday. What part of Upper
did y'all fish on sat.? Walt and I did fairly well on Andrews on Friday,
but didn't do too well on Upper Creek on Sunday morn. We couldn't get any
relief from the rains, on Upper Creek, on Sunday. We had hoped to meet up
with y'all on Andrew's Creek on Friday. Wally figured that we would arrive
just in time for one of ya to hand us our dinner plates, but you were
apparently more interested in fishin' than feeding us? As y'all have always
been very generous with your fine foods and refreshments, you can imagine my
disappointment when I realized that I was going to miss dinner on Friday
eve!

I hope this wasn't y'alls fishing swan song for this year, in this part of
the country.

You don't have to camp to fish up this away. Just let me know a few days in
advance and y'all are more than welcome to stay with me. It's only a 40
minute drive to most of the finest WILD trout streams from my house!

Sorry we missed you and Danny!

Take care,

Mark


"Drew" wrote in message
...
Well Mark, the memo clearly read:

Call me or just meet us at the entrance to Upper Crk at 6:30-7 on Saturday
am. Plan to stay the night, bring some firewood and some shine.

Now, you've never been one to be hesitant about making yourself at home at
our site. You should have warmed your bones around the lingering fire we
had going. Oh well, Danny and I spent Friday catching our limit of
stockies on the Lower Wilson. 30 more minutes of patience would have
yielded you a fine stuffed trout of crab, celery, onion and bread crumbs
with sides of fresh sautéed spinach, onions, garlic and walnuts in a
raspberry vinaigrette and roasted corn with red pepper flakes. We paired
that with a vintage 2005 Bud.

Saturday at the Upper left us with one fish on and several knee scrapes.
That was soothed by a dinner of London Broil in a Sherry marinade, sided
with fried okra and potato pancakes. Paired again with a vintage 2005 Bud.

Your participation in our annual event was replaced rather large black
bear. Danny had never seen one in the wild and I'm really surprised he
didn't have to go and change his underwear. His reaction was priceless.

So, next year I do hope your stomach will over ride your wussy desire to
cower by the home fires.

Yours in Andrews,

Drew
"Viagra works so well, if I was any harder I'd be a differential
equations"

beausdad wrote:
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