Category: Fishing

There are trout streams in Ashe County, North Carolina and Grayson County, Virginia that I know well. “Like the back of my hand” is too strong a term for somebody who gets to fish this region once a year. But there are many places I can drive to without GPS, I know where to park, where to fish and so on.

Today, however, was none of those. I’ve fished Big Horse Creek in Ashe County plenty. In fact, in recent years it’s been my go-to stream. I have a deep fondness for Helton Creek (it’s where I learned to fish for trout), but much of it is right next to the road, and it gets a lot of fishing pressure. Big Horse Creek is along a road (Big Horse Creek Road, shockingly), but that’s a road to nowhere if ever there was one, so you have to go looking for it. If you want to follow along, click on this Google Map link to see the base starting point for my adventure.

This is where Mud Creek Road comes down from Virginia and hits Big Horse Creek Road. Importantly, upstream of this point on Big Horse Creek, you can’t keep any trout that you catch. In theory, this should mean a more sustained and healthy fish population. How much those rules are followed is another question.

I’ve fished the stretch above Mud Creek Road, but not particularly far. Today, I decided I was going into terra incognita. Coming down Mud Creek Road from my Whitetop, Virginia AirBnB, I turned right (west) on Big Horse Creek Road, and followed it as it turned into Rip Shin Road (I think Rip Shin was a racehorse).

Much of Big Horse Creek Road is right along Big Horse Creek, and houses along those parts of it got walloped by Helene when she came through last year. But this stretch of road climbs well above the creek, and I knew I would need to find a way down to the water.

Hello, the house

At some point, I found a random driveway that looked like it went down to stream level. I got off the road just far enough to realize that even my Rav4 would be pushing the envelope to go down the driveway (both grade and road condition), so I pulled well off the road and parked. Conveniently, the Google Map street view for this location even includes a sedan parked exactly where I parked the Rav4.

I got myself ready for a long fishing session – protein bars, water bottle, rain jacket, etc. and walked down. It wasn’t far before I crossed a wooden bridge over the creek, onto a compound of mobile homes of varying age. At this point, two dogs (with seven legs between them) came running out to greet/warn me.

In the Appalachian region, it’s considered polite/safe to stand at a reasonable distance from the house and announce yourself (“Hello, the house!”). Depending on what you read, this originated during Civil War times when marauders would attack homes looking for young men avoiding the war, or the occupants would be worried about authorities looking for moonshine.

Either way, the general idea is to reveal your presence from outside shotgun range. Apparently the phrase is frequently used in the TV show Outlanders so has new currency. I don’t watch Outlanders, but I know to keep my distance and hello the house in these spots.

I didn’t see anybody, but there were a couple of lights on in one of the homes, and the dogs were out, so I just hollered “Hello!?!?” After a couple of minutes, somebody inside one of the houses (I couldn’t tell which one) yelled back, “It’s fine – you can go on and fish all you want.”

Perspicacious fellow, right there.

Across the divide

I got down on the edge of the stream, and got ready to make my first cast. That’s when I suddenly realized that I had company. Whoever had given me permission to fish had come out for a visit. 40-year-old man, introduced himself as ‘Alfonzo,’ “But everybody calls me Shorty.” It took every bit of my practice with Appalachian English to understand him, but we did just fine. He chuckled to see that I was “fishing top-water” (i.e. using dry flies). I explained that I knew I wouldn’t catch as many fish, but I just enjoyed seeing the fish take the dry fly off the surface.

“Well, that’s all right,” said Shorty, touching his ear to make sure the cigarette tucked into it was still there. “100 yards down, there’s a big log over the creek. There’s a brown trout [hands 18″ apart] under it. I hope you catch him.”

“No danger of that, Shorty – he’ll still be there for you.”

“Well, you just come up here any time and fish all up and down, don’t worry about any of it.”

We shook hands, I told him I appreciated the opportunity to fish near his home, and wished him a good day.

Here’s the thing: all over Shorty’s property were signs telling people to go away, no trespassing, and the like. And I get it. Too many fishermen just rock up to a stream anywhere and don’t bother to see if they’re on private property. This has resulted in some of best fishing water in Ashe County being “posted” – that is, it’s illegal to fish on it if the owner has put up the right notice.

But most people, under most circumstances, if you’re gracious and polite, they’ll be gracious and polite right back. I figure there’s a fairly low probability that Shorty voted in 2024, but I promise you that if he did vote, it wasn’t for Kamala Harris. I’m sure Shorty could take one look at me and know I wasn’t from these parts. Outdoor Research rain jacket, Tilly hat, and a purple tie-dye t-shirt. Nope, not from around here.

Shorty and I had a good visit, and I like to think I made his day just a little better, just as he did mine. Okay, he made my day a lot better by letting me fish there, but you take my point.

It felt damn fine to have a warm and affirming interaction with a fellow who’s likely on the other side of the political divide. It reminded me that most of us – most of us – are just trying to lead our lives, and are happy to share with others around us.

Walking down a country road

How I stumbled into Shorty’s compound, I don’t know, but I couldn’t have picked better. There’s an old driveway leading to an abandoned home downstream of Shorty’s compound, and then the driveway continues further downstream. I don’t know how far it goes, but at one point you can see where there was a bridge over a tributary coming into Big Horse Creek. I don’t know if it was Helene that took that bridge out, or it was gone before that, but it looks like somebody blew it up with dynamite.

The driveway continues well beyond the former bridge, and man, I can’t wait for an opportunity to see how far it goes. Being able to hike easily downstream and fish back up it is a stream fisherman’s dream.

I figured I had gotten as far downstream as I’d be able to fish back up before it was time to get out, so it seemed like a good place to start the fishing.

There will be a time and place to give the origin story of me fishing Helton Creek, but this isn’t it. This is simply a time to chronicle a day I was out there.

It is the last few days of my 2.5 week residency here in Ashe County, NC. I’d scheduled this to be a day of fishing – nothing else on the calendar. Furthermore, I wasn’t going far afield to do it. First, I didn’t want to drive any significant distance. But just as importantly, I wanted to be in familiar waters. If I caught a trout, that was great, amazing. If I didn’t, to paraphrase John Starling, I’d be wading through my creek of memories.

I got in touch with Brian Stewart, who had taken me fishing over toward Chilhowie on Thursday. Is there any good fishing on Helton? He started talking about Mount Rogers School, and the memories flooded back. Decades ago, Dean C. Jones and I would park his old Ford Bronco right there and fish down to the bridge where Route 751 heads down into North Carolina, then up to the Lutheran church.

We’d also walk up 751 the other way. His brother-in-law had a homestead behind the school. The creek ran right between the two, and got no fishing pressure because it was on private land. I mean, except the odd brother-in-law and his much younger cousin.

Dean C., man. There’s a whole story there. But suffice to say that a thread of my best life runs through the times he and I were chasing trout around Grayson and Smyth counties in Virginia, and Ashe County in North Carolina.

This morning at 11:00, I parked here. I put a #14 Adams on my fly rod and climbed in the creek…

I was perfectly prepared to get skunked – I was content. But it wasn’t ten minutes before there was a solid splash at my Adams and I was tied into a fish. He got off, but I knew they liked what I was offering.

Just a few minutes later, another splash and this time I got the 7″ wild rainbow trout to me. I dipped my hand into the water to wet it before I held him (it avoids damaging the protective slime on their skin), slipped the barbless hook out, and gently put him back in the water.

He looked just like that, but that’s not him. I’m not going to keep them out of the water longer than necessary.

That’s how I spent the next two hours. I’d float the Adams over a likely looking spot, and more often than not, a trout would appear out of nowhere and smack it. The fisherpeople reading this will understand me when I say it seems impossible. The water is clear, and you can see to the bottom. But you float the fly there because, well, there has to be a trout there. Even though you can see that there isn’t one.

But there is one, and it smacks your fly.

Relatively few of those strikes resulted in hooked fish, but a trout striking a dry fly on the surface is half the fun of fly fishing anyway.

I think the biggest one I landed was 9″. Oh, but I hooked a big one. It was in a gorgeous sun-dappled hole just above the bridge where 751 crosses over the creek. I knew there was probably a handful of fish in there, so wasn’t surprised when the Adams got smacked. But it wasn’t so much smacked as it was smashed. My rod doubled over. The fish dove, then came straight up, a foot out of the water. When it hit the water, the fly went the other way. Critter was probably 12″. Maybe a hair bigger.

“I fooled you – you outmaneuvered me. Fair enough,” I said.

After 90 minutes I stopped getting strikes. It was sunny but cool, and the stream is well covered by rhododendron and other foliage. I didn’t think it was the mid-afternoon doldrums. I took a look at my fly.

This rarely happens to me, but the fly was literally worn out. It had been chewed on by too many trout.

I put on a fresh fly – it looked Adams-y to me. I’m sure my serious fly-fishing buddies would be able to tell me the difference. [1] Anyway, it started getting strikes again, so that must have been the problem.

One of the trout I caught looked a bit different as I pulled it in, and sure enough, it was a wild brown.

After a while, I decided it was time to call it an afternoon. “After the next one I land.” That took 15 minutes.

As I looked around, I realized that I was likely on the edge of Gayle Price’s (Dean C’s brother-in-law) old homestead. I didn’t recognize it because in the days we fished there, Gail mowed right up to the creek bank. But I could see a big house being remodeled across the field from the creekside brush.

I climbed out – sure enough, it was Gayle’s old place. A middle-aged couple came out the front door. Obviously they’re remodeling/restoring the place themselves. The woman called out, “This is private property!” Which, fair enough.

So I walked across the mown portion of the field. Turned my hat backwards so they could see me, and introduced myself. Talked about Dean C. (“Oh, Dr. Charles Jones’s dad!”), and next thing you know, Bob and Sue Revels were telling me the stories of how they got the house, and one of Gayle’s dogs, to boot. They’re fine folks and were awfully gracious about some random guy climbing up out of their creek and wandering across their yard.

Eventually I let them get back to their flooring, and I walked back to the road and my car.

Yeah, I stopped at the bridge and tossed my fly in. Landed another rainbow, but the big one wasn’t having any of it.

Single best solo fishing day of my life – today, June 18th, 2022, right here on Helton Creek.

[1] I really hope there’s a dry fly called a Morticia Adams