Every fall in north Georgia, there’s
a certain type of morning that creeps down the back of my neck, right where my
jacket should be. My nose picks up the
scent of wood smoke so faint it makes me wonder if it is even there. The summer rains have long since passed, yet
the mountain air still seems wet. Thickets
of rhododendron and mountain laurel have eased their grip on my beautiful Soque
River, happy to thirst less for its life giving water than in the height of the
summer.
The trout
also seem grateful for autumn’s long awaited reprieve. Their hefty backs break the surface from tip
to tail as they eagerly sip insects whose sluggish wings couldn’t carry the
width of river; nature dutifully dropping them into the riffles where the maws
of hungry fish wait expectantly. These
trout are what bring my friend Tommy Wilbanks and me to the river this
morning. We sit quietly on the bank
among the hemlock branches, patiently waiting for the trout to forfeit their
positions among the pockets and pools below.
I have
known Tommy my entire life as my father’s best friend. Only in the last few years have I come to
find the passion in fly-fishing that has captivated Tommy for so many years
more. His family has owned this land for
three times my mere twenty-one years, and I have every reason to believe that
the fish along its banks and the grouse hidden among its coverts will keep it
in the family for years to come.
We have
been coming to this stream for longer than I can remember; the cycles of the
river marking the chapters of my life. I’ve
come to understand the seasons through the eyes of this river. I have watched my father and Tommy work
together along her banks each season, efficiently yet humbly bringing their
quarry to hand. Yet while my father and
I have always been guests in the gin-clear waters of the Soque, for Tommy the
waters are his home.
In the past
few years, my relationship with this man has evolved from seeing him as my
dad’s best friend, to his becoming a mentor in my development as a fly-fisherman. As a part-time sales associate for the Orvis
Company, I have seen (and heard) my fair share of fishermen’s claims of
omnipotence on the rivers and streams of the southeast. Some customers come through the shop with
their heads lifted high, their eyes framed by horn-rimmed glasses, examining
each midge and mayfly imitation with the scrutiny of Atticus Finch, the pensive
lawyer in To Kill a Mockingbird. They are “Type A” fishermen who see trout
fishing as a status symbol, and who pursue it with an arrogance that believes
it is a contest that can be won. They
miss the point as they bet with one another about “who will catch what” on
their airline flights to British Columbia or New Zealand.
Others pass
through the store with their hands in their pockets, anxious for any
information that might explain why the trout didn’t bite this morning, last
weekend, or any other time they fished.
They seem uneasy, padding the tally of fish they caught so that I might
be impressed, and hanging on my every word as if I have a clue about the puzzling
behavior of trout.
When Tommy
comes by the store it’s a different story.
He seems strangely out of place, indoors and without waders. He is often more likely to talk about how the
Georgia Bulldogs will fare against Florida next week than if the fishing was
good on his trip to Noontootla Creek or Andros Island. He will take a look at the pictures on the
“bragging board” to see the fish other people deemed worthy of a photo. He’ll pick up a fly, unable to tell you the
scientific name of the insect it depicts and look at it like someone might look
at a two-headed penny, amused by the work someone put into it. I love that he has such an unassuming air;
that he is more concerned with fishermen than with fish.
I admire
that Tommy has never given fish the epic and unconquerable mystique that so
many fishermen and outdoor writers are prone to do. He knows that a given fly, fished under specific
conditions, will catch a fish. He can
read a stretch of the river and tell me where the fish are, where they will be
in an hour, and which fly will probably work.
If the fly selection is a bust, he’ll tell me that I’m not “holding my
mouth right” or that I should’ve showered this morning.
His
easygoing demeanor and wit disarm his hawk-like intensity as he stares at the stream’s
surface. He methodically works the runs
of each section, understanding the nuances of the current and its effects on
his fly. His tenacity is often rewarded
with an aerial display of crimson and chrome, and his swiftness in landing and
releasing the fish is a testament to his respect for his agile adversary.
In addition
to the fragrance of wild magnolias and juniper, permeating the Soque woods, I
detect the sweet smell of an embargo-violating Cuban cigar floating across the
smooth rocks and logjams that separate us.
Between casts I often glance upstream to watch him as he changes flies,
holding them closer to his face with each advancing year.
Throughout
the day he will often look my way, his mouth masked by his moustache and that
cigar, grinning with an expression of sheer contentment. He’ll offer information about where a big
brown trout was holding yesterday or how last week he saw an otter right where
I am standing. I halfway think he looks
downstream just to make sure I am still there, remembering that at the age of
five I took off my life jacket and let it float away down stream.
There is
always comfort in knowing that he is standing in the tail-out of the pool above
me, ready to lend a net when my rod arcs and grins under the weight of another
fish.
While we
catch fish throughout the afternoon, I know that Tommy’s finest hour is still
to come. As dusk approaches, (which
always arrives too soon under the thick canopy of the Soque), Tommy leans
against the tailgate of his Wrangler and slips out of his waders, our rod tips
protruding above his head. He stows away
his vest and boots, all the while talking about his wife Connie and his two
beautiful daughters.
I have always
been impressed at his ability to break down fishing gear, completely unhindered
by the beer in his right hand. While the
leaves turn from green to gold in the fading light of this October evening,
Tommy and I talk about his trip to the Bahamas last spring. As usual, he offers his opinion of locally
brewed beers and conch fritters long before mentioning the twelve-pound
bonefish he battled one morning before breakfast. This is the part of each trip with Tommy that
I have come to truly enjoy.
As reel
seats bang against the windshield, we climb an unmarked dirt road out of the
Soque River woods. Gears shift, as does our
conversation, to speculation about what Connie might have left for us in the
oven.
About the Author
Preston Sutter is a native Georgian. He is a 2007 graduate of the University of
Alabama.
An avid outdoorsman all his life, he gained a great love for
fly-fishing in streams and coastal waters throughout the south, the Gulf of
Mexico, and the Caribbean. He became a
student of the art during high school and college employment with the Orvis
Company, and Boca Grande Outfitters. His
passion for fly-fishing led him to his profession as a fulltime fly-fishing
guide with Shallow Water Expeditions, in Santa Rosa Beach Florida. He specializes in guiding Tarpon and Redfish
trips from Cape San Blas, Florida to Venice, Louisiana. He is married and has one daughter.
This story was written when he was a senior at Alabama.
