Todd and I pressed onward, chasing the as yet elusive brook trout through the surrounding canopy, tight as a funeral shroud. Sycamore Creek winds its way through the tight woods through series of falls, plunge pools and shallow riffles for maybe five miles before emptying into the Tellico River. It’s a tight little creek, sometimes only as wide as the drainage ditch across the street from my house. It’s perfectly suited for a short, two-weight, though I only had a nine-foot five-weight with me.
We fish quickly, just a few casts and we move on. We rock hop from run to run and quickly take measure of the water before we cast. Our flies drift quickly, only a foot before drag sets in and betrays our artificial offerings. We cast, snag, and recast repeatedly as the fly finds wood as often as water, quietly muttering a simple s**t for each arboreal error. Then, we find the right line, the fly dances naturally on wrinkled water and the gaping maw of a six-inch trout sips from the film. It’s a simple, but surprisingly technical routine.