Revive - A Quarterly Fly Fishing Journal | Page 136

The Tellico River is a long, skinny bastard that snakes through 53 miles of Southern Appalachia, sneaking across the North Carolina border through the rhododendron-choked Southern mountains of Tennessee like a drunk husband sneaking in through the backdoor. It’s a small river, a creek really, compared to the tailwaters that East Tennessee is known for. But then again, the Tellico, and its spider-veined tributaries, might be the most honest drainage in these ancient mountains. Around here, you’re more likely to find a Shakespeare spinning rod with a pinch of nightcrawler than you are a glossy investment from Orvis. The dry/droppers tend to include a bobber and live bait.

The river seems forgotten in the fly-fishing scene, much like the PBR cans you find littering its banks.

There used to be a fly shop here, just across the street from the lower section of the river. Brett and I stopped there one time to pick up some flies and ask where we could find the fish. It was a quick trip. The rich, wood-framed cabin now houses a Harley-Davidson outlet, selling cheap t-shirts and sequined bumper stickers to bikers riding the Cherohala Skyway and the Dragon’s Tail. The sharply twisted roads are now the major attractions in this area, and bikes outnumber rods three to one. This transmogrification happened before I got into fly-fishing, but the implications are clear.

The mutation from fly-fishing to motorcycles has given the entire river a distinctive Southern flair. It’s raunchy, polluted with wax worms and earthy plastic cups; such a river can’t begin compare to the pristine and remote lodges you read about in the average magazine spread. The trout around here flee from the rumble of chrome exhaust pipes more often than they do a bear or even a simple otter. When you fish the Tellico, you’re as likely to look up from a drift and see a leather vest as you are one dripping with hemostats. It’s like God got drunk with the directors of Easy Rider and Deliverance.