My previous trip to the Chattooga River was on the day Burt Reynolds died. I was on the water at the time and only heard the news upon leaving the river. Memories of Burt in Deliverance took me back to my youth and a movie that became a classic.
Stories surrounding that movie made their way off the set, only to contribute to the legend of the film. Parts of Deliverance were filmed on the Chattooga, and the mood of the river matched the wilderness feeling of the film. If your imagination tends to wander, you can look into the woods and feel like someone is looking back.
I remembered that previous trip well, the season being just a bit earlier than the one I fished now. We caught small rainbows, slipped on slick rocks, and occasionally paused just to look around. South Carolina has a bit of trout water, but the Chattooga lays claim to being the best.
On this trip, the fall foliage is beginning to turn color; the hickory leaves are changing to lemon yellow, and the red maples present a vibrant contrast. Sourwoods, one of the first to turn, dot the ridges with their leaves fading to maroon. Their colors reflect across the placid pools, dancing in the quiver of the current.
The river gurgles along, low and crystal clear, not having seen much rain for a couple weeks. Two local guides from the Chattooga River Fly Shop joined our group of three, welcome company with their local knowledge and my own time gap since last fishing this river.
The tales flow faster than the river this morning, as it seems this stream spawns memories. One guide told of a trip he had last fall at this time when bear season was open. He was in the river with a client when he looked up and a bear crashed across the head of the pool. Close behind, a pack of dogs splashed through, their cacophony of howls and yodels piercing the quiet, and probably spooking a bunch of fish. Still, he forgave the dogs for saving him from having to defend his customer with his net.
Thinking back about my own memories of this river, I recall my first trip. I had hiked upriver in search of brown trout. The lower sections tend to be mostly stocked trout, and even remote areas may be stocked by helicopter. But if you walk upriver, you can find some wild browns. The local anglers value this stream for its browns as much as its solitude, both of them requiring a long walk on some days.
I stepped off the trail once I thought I had passed all the other anglers, only to spot one fifty yards upstream. Already standing in a hole well below the other fisherman, I loosed some line and let my fly dangle in the current.
My choice of fly that day was a crawfish pattern I was experimenting with. I had tied it on a weighted bent hook that let the point ride up, and used bundles of rubber legs for claws. It looked good in the water with all those tentacles wiggling like claws flexing.
Below me, the river had washed out the underside of the bank, just about a cast away. I fed out line, and drifted the crawfish to the lip of the bank where it was met with a solid thump. A brown of about fourteen inches came to the net, butter-colored and spotted.
I may have caught more trout that day, but that is the fish I remember. Streams can cause memories to be selective, due to something unique in the bite, the fight, or simply the surroundings. The Chattooga has that tendency.
On this day, the company of anglers perhaps will be the memory that carries over. None of us are spring chickens, and I’d describe two of us as seasoned anglers and the third a bit more of a novice in comparison. It was the novice who landed the most fish and had the best day of his fishing experience.
We had walked over ridge and rock to get here (climbing in waders is never easy for us old guys), and by the end of the day, we were well spent. When we asked our novice friend how he felt, his response was simple and direct: “I hurt like hell.”
But I doubt he would have done much different.
Back at the truck, we dug sandwiches and beverages out of the cooler, passed them around, and relaxed in the momentary silence. Then the stories began to flow, of trips on the water, people we had fished with, and fish we had caught here.
And I could see how a fiction writer could be inspired to pen a novel set on such a stream. Characters seem to lurk in the woods, events unfold differently around each bend, and a glance into the forest begs for prose elegant enough to capture its beauty.
But for me, the Chattooga is a river of memories. And I plan to get back there again.
You can purchase Jim’s award-winning book, The Jon Boat Years, or buy autographed copies at www.acreektricklesthroughit.com.
