Canoeing Down the Watauga River

It was a mild spring morning with an amber dawn starting to crest above the mist laden tree tops that lined the riverbanks. The brisk coolness of the water seeped into my wading boots as I pushed the green plastic canoe off of the gravel sandbar and into the swifter current. I settled into the cool damp seat and grasped the slick wooden paddle with my left hand as I waved good bye to my wife who was pulling away in the car. I gently dipped the paddle into the smooth flowing water and so began my three day journey down the Watauga River. The Watauga River is a tail water river located in northeast Tennessee that begins at the foot of the Wilbur Dam. It meanders through the cities of Elizabethton and Watauga before finishing its' 19.4 mile journey emptying into the Watauga Lake in Johnson City. It is said to be one of the best kept fly fishing secrets in the south. It is a place that the bait and spin cast fishermen lining the riverbanks still yield to the angling skills of the wading fly fishermen.

As I slowly drifted down the river, the mist gently began to lift off of the water and the warming rays of the morning sun began to break through the budding tree branches which helped to clear my field of view. I noticed a number of rings indicating that the trout had already begun to feed. I reached for my fly rod, a 9 foot sage with 5 wt floating line and tied a blue winged olive and hung a bead head pheasant tail dropper 18 inches below that. The river had expanded out into a deeper, slow moving pool, and I hesitated for a moment, not wanting to disrupt the mirror like finish of the river. I cast ahead of a ring and felt that I had timed my cast correctly. Soon I realized that casting a fly line from a moving canoe was not going to be easy and my presentation passed over the likely spot several times untouched. Up ahead in the river, I approached a riffle and decided that it might be easier to cast from a standing position without trying to balance and maneuver the canoe. I laid down my rod and began to fumble with the anchor line. The water quickened in pace as the bottom grew nearer to the canoe. I stepped out into the water when the rocks began to rub and noted that although there was a slight chill, it wasn't unbearable. I reached for my waders and it occurred to me that I would need to walk up to shore to don the waders and then remove them once again before I departed. Needless to say, that was the last time on the trip that I contemplated using them - the rest of the trip, they simply occupied space in the bow of the canoe. After spending another five minutes trying to get the anchor to set and wondering if I would lose the canoe downstream, I decided to beach the canoe on a sandbar so it was at that point that my newly constructed anchor system took up its' permanent resting place next to the waders. I fished that riffle for about 30 minutes and caught a few nice rainbows and a brown that produced a surprisingly strong fight. I had left the net in the canoe so I simply wetted my hand before pulling the hook. Before I let each fish return back to the river, I held them in the water and admired the beauty of their markings - I have caught many trout in my life, but their shear beauty never ceased to amaze me.

After the brown, I returned back to my canoe, removed my fishing vest, laid my rod and donned my life jacket. I pushed the canoe off of the sandbar and continued down the river. I paddled for another hour, passing some promising fishing spots in contemplation of what lie ahead. I encountered some water that was a bit rougher than I would have preferred, but nothing that wasn't survivable up to this point. I knew from looking at maps from Google-earth that I was in for a few challenging spots, but the local rafting and fishing guides assured me that it wasn't anything that I couldn't manage. I continued to fish and paddle intermittently until early afternoon when I decided to stop for lunch. I began to search through my gear for my pack stove to make some ramen noodles, but finally decided on beef jerky and cheese crackers as the stove was embedded too deeply in the waterproofed pack to warrant the trouble. As I was sitting on a rock, looking over the river, I realized that I was relaxing. It wasn't a normal, every day sort of relaxing that I had done after work or while waiting on my wife to get ready to go out to dinner, this was a peaceful tranquility that settled over me with the knowledge that there wasn't some pending chore that I had waiting for me. I realized that my mind had stopped processing information and tasks and it was simply allowing me to take in my surroundings, smell the freshly cut grass of a near-bye farm and genuinely feel the rays of the sun upon my face. This wasn't just relaxing; this was truly a journey back to a simpler time. It seemed as though with ever piece of the "modern day" gear that I stripped away from my dependence, it took a burden of stress and pressure off of me and allowed me to reconnect with that time and place that my father had described to me in his stories. I began to take a different, slower pace as I launched my canoe away from the island. Each stroke of the paddle was more intentional as it took me deeper into my journey. When evening came around, I found an island and began to set up my camp for the night. After I had gathered some firewood and started the fire, I turned to preparing my prepackaged dinner consisting of macaroni and cheese and a can of chicken breast. It was then that I heard a voice calling to me from the shore. I walked across the shallow river to meet him. He was a seasoned man in his 80s and walked with a cane. He said that he owned the island explaining that a flood in 1901 had cut the island away from his farm. He said he still paid taxes on it so it was his but that he didn't allow people to camp there because of trouble that he had in the past. I offered to pay him for the use of his island which he quickly refused without consideration. After I had explained my situation to him and the fact that I didn't really have an alternative at the late hour in the day, he still sent me on my way.

As the sunlight started to fade, I found myself pushing off of the island with a haphazardly packed canoe to go further down the river in hopes of finding another suitable island. Within a few minutes, I had come across a remote section of the river and I encountered a suitable island. My first priority was to collect firewood which was readily available on the island. I contemplated setting up my tent a second time but instead rolled out my poncho and placed my sleeping bag on top of that next to the fire. As my first meal was ruined by my previous encounter, I grabbed my fly rod and after my third roll cast, landed a 14 inch rainbow that was soon gutted and spitted over the fire. As I slowly turned my dinner on the spit, I realized that I wasn't mad at the man for asking me to leave...it was his property and he had that right - I wasn't aware that it was possible to own an island in the middle of the river but that being the case, the situation afforded me another opportunity to strip away more of the non-essential gear that I had brought along. It was at that moment that I made a mental inventory of the gear that I truly needed and separated it out from what I was starting to call my "luxury" gear. I slept peacefully that night, and the toil of the river seemed so much clearer when I wasn't confined by the fabric walls of my tent. The dew was heavy that morning, but my sleeping bag had dried before I had finished with breakfast. I did succumb to the temptation of fried bacon and eggs for breakfast, but I did it over the campfire instead of the pack stove and although I would have to explain the scorched bottom of the frying pan to my wife when I returned, it genuinely seemed to taste better for the experience. After loading the boat, I fished the riffle below the island for another hour before setting off. Again, my mind was more consumed with this new concept that I had begun to explore than on the fishing itself. It wasn't the thought of "minimalist" camping by taking the least amount of gear and surviving, but it was more of returning back to a time when things were simpler and appreciating the experiencing some of the same situations that my father, uncles and grandfather had been in. I realized that I still had the buffer of a tent if it rained and a camp stove to cook over if I couldn't find firewood, but it didn't take away from the fact that I was doing things the way that they had.

Late into the morning I entered a section of the river that was designated as the "Trophy Trout" section of the Watauga River. It began at the Smalling Road Bridge - a steel bridge with a sign hung below indicating the special regulations that were enforced on this stretch of the river. It was preceded by a wide stretch of calm water and the bridge and sign reflected inversely in front, looming for a seeming eternity as the water slowly carried the canoe towards this long anticipated fishing opportunity. As I crossed under the bridge and entered this portion of my journey, I sat in silent awe looking up the immense rock face that bordered one side of the river. The water was pristinely clear and I watched in amazement as the fish gently swam under the canoe undisturbed by my presence. I drifted a full fifteen minutes of that section of the river without dipping the paddle in the water or wetting a fly before I realized that I was allowing multiple fishing opportunities to pass me by. I pulled the canoe onto the next sandbar and began to cast my line with anticipation. There were a seemingly uncountable number of rising trout sipping rings upon the surface of the water and it seemed that no matter where I cast, I would catch a fish. Fortunately, the fishing was more challenging than that as it was obvious that these trout had seen a level of fly fishing much higher than my amateur presentation. I continued fishing for several minutes, repositioning myself into deeper water so that I could reach sun touched far bank of the river where a swarm of hatching midges danced in and out of the rays of sunlight. I looked down in anticipation of my next step and a flicker below the surface of the water caught my eye. I lifted my sunglasses to better focus my eyes as my mind couldn't quite comprehend what was in the water only inches from my left foot. The trout was an immense beast the measured well over 24 inches and it lazily waved it's tail gently back and forth hovering behind a small river stone. I sat and watched the fish for a full two minutes before it drifted into a swifter current to begin feeding. It was then that I scanned the water around me and realized that this one fish was not a single phenomenon, but rather a normal occurrence in this stretch of the river. I was amazed at the number and size of fish that this stretch of the water contained and soon found myself consumed with nervousness as my hands fumbled to tie on a midge to match the droves of emerging insects. I did manage to land a fair share of rainbows and browns two of which were over 20 inches. I spent most of the day fishing that 2.8 mile stretch of water stopping only long enough to eat my lunch of crackers and beef jerky and as the afternoon light began to cast lengthening shadows upon the water, I continued down the river to the next island to set up my camp for the night. It was without thought that I laid my poncho and sleeping bag down next to the fire ring before heading back to the river's edge to catch my dinner. I had fished the entire day without losing a fly so after the first hour, my fly fishing vest with all of it's gadgets and necessities took up a home amongst the ever growing pile of unneeded gear. I spent another peaceful night under the stars before finishing my final day of the trip. The remainder of the journey went pretty much as it had the previous two days as I experienced breath taking views, indescribable waterfalls, deer, ducks, turkey, and other wildlife. I caught an unexpected number of fish and took a few pictures along the way. I learned a great deal, and I did it without a cell phone, a computer connected to the internet or an educational television program on the Discovery channel.

When I met my wife at the pickup, she quietly listened to me as I attempted to describe my journey. She smiled, but I don't think she understood. It wasn't until I talked to my dad that night on the phone that I realized how meaningful my trip was. He laughed when I described sleeping under the stars and eating fish cooked directly over the fire. He said the he and his brothers had used an old canvas tarp for a tent and that they always took sandwiches to eat for dinner. After a few minutes of ribbing though, I could tell in his voice that he understood what the trip meant to me and why it meant that much more to have experienced it the way that I did. I could tell in his voice that he wished that he were there with me to wet wade in the cool water and taste the crunchy bacon cooked over the open fire. I told him that I would have plenty of room in my canoe the next time that I went since I wasn't going to take nearly as much gear with me...and he said that maybe he would go...