Windknot
05-26-99, 09:48 AM
The recent questions about Jacks River and Owl's response set my feeble brain into nostalgia overdrive. I'll put this in Fish Tales.
One autumn in the early '70's, my best friend and I were complaining about the crowds we encountered the previous opening day at Dick's Creek. I called DNR and was connected with Russ England, who spoke enticingly about the solitude available on Jacks River in the Cohutta area.
Our first exploratory trip was in January of the following year, and followed a route (that no longer exists) straight to a steel bridge across the Jacks. Although signs were lacking, we were told that the west side of the bridge was in Tennessee.
The landscape visible from the parking area was neat - a remnant of a low wooden dam and a mill on the west bank. The trail to Jacks River falls, upstream, started along the east bank, and quickly showed itself to be on an old railroad bed. A few crossties could still be seen, and in conjunction with huge chestnut stumps, we figured that loggers built it before the blight struck the mountains earlier this century.
That day we went only as far as the first crossing of the stream. The railroad was laid on the stream's highest floodplain, and the trail to the falls twists from one bank to the other. Looking directly opposite revealed sheer cliffs, usually right down to the water, with some fascinating caves. To our left, rarely more than a few yards, was an equally steep cliff.
Three features captured our attention that first day.
First, the water clarity was incredible. I had heard the phrase "clear as gin" before, but thought it was just an expression. It seems I was wrong. We could peer into a 10-foot deep pool and count rocks the size of our fists on the bottom.
Second, that water clarity allowed us to marvel at the quantity of little bass. It also stunned us with views of leg-length browns slowly swimming upstream after becoming tired of our streamside presence. I still get goosebumps thinking about it.
Third, it was pristine! No cans, bottles, food wrappers, clothing, junk or other trappings of mankind could be found, save one purple shotgun hull. No fire-rings. No graffiti. No worm boxes. No hook wrappers. No bare, scuffed paths. Breathtaking scenery. Absolutely incredible.
Opening day saw three of us return, carrying ultralight spinning outfits augmented by live bait to include nightcrawlers, crickets, and some spring lizards. Saturday morning we were clad in full camo, with rods slung to our backs, low-crawling from the trail to the stream. Lying on my back, I hooked a cricket on a #14 hook by his back leg, and cast it on my 4lb line without waving the rod over the stream. It drifted the length of the pool. Over and over. No takes. Later, my disgruntled buddy came by and complained of zero interest by the huge browns. My friend stayed on the shadows and said he'd watch while I tried my luck. Zilch, again. When this cricket got tired I unhooked him and pitched him in the stream. While shaking another one out of the tube, my buddy whispered emphatically "No, wait! Just pitch it out, no hook!"
After humoring my buddy my next hooked cricket went 0-for-10, and I sat up to compare notes with my friend. He said my hooked crickets were completely and totally ignored by the trout, but any unencumbered cricket was seized immediately by the closest monster. Same story with nightcrawlers and spring lizards. While we didn't threaten the population of browns, we caught red-eye b****until our thumbs were raw, and we enjoyed the solitude. We assumed we finally had a tough but high-quality "ace-in-the-hole" trout stream.
And of course you know what they say about the word "assume!" One fine summer day the Atlanta Journal-Constitution's Sunday magazine supplement had a lovely article written by a Chattanooga lawyer about a pristine natural area in the Cohutta along Jacks River. Naturally, a map was furnished, too. Before you could say "Money-grubbing, ambulance chasing, scum-sucking, mouth-breathing low-life" (forgive me, I digress), the trail was blazed in Day-Glo orange, the parking lot was tripled, and the area was headed down civilization's infamous tubes.
Our last trip to the Jacks was in the late '70's. We arrived about 0400, and noticed a 20-passenger school bus among other cars in the parking area. Tents appeared in our headlights as we turned into the parking area. In most trout endeavors, this would be seen as a bad omen, but we were still young and foolishly optimistic. Since every third camper had obviously been required to bring a dog, the barking got worse as we assembled our gear by dome- and trunk-light. The dogs began to quiet down as we started to move out, so we decided to keep our flashlights in our pockets, as a courtesy to the campers, and proceed by moonlight.
Before we got 50 yards down the trail we were stepping on people who'd placed their sleeping bags in the middle of the trail. My buddy, in the lead, had to fall back on some Force Recon trail sweeps with his rod, from head-height to the ground in a side-to-side zigzag pattern, feeling for guy lines, tents and sleeping bags.
Sunrise found us several crossings upstream and depressed by the trash and crowd. By midmorning, our position was overrun by a skinny-dipping couple of about 300 lbs. each. My buddy sat on the ground, looked at me and said, "I'll keep'em wet. You find a phone and call Marineland." After several strong drinks we agreed we'd had all the fun we could stand for one day.
On a lighter, brighter, more contemporary note, it seems that cutting easy road access to that area has given nature an opportunity to heal. Now access to the area we enjoyed is via side trails, and requires walking before you can splash or cast. Conditions may vary, but the trash shouldn't be as bad as my description above.
The moral of this story, if it has one, is to savor those quiet places you've found, 'cause you can lose them in a heartbeat through no fault of your own. Nothing is forever, everything changes; all we're really doing is making memories.
Tight lines and warm regards,
Windknot (Don Davis)
http://www.georgia-outdoors.com/ubbngto/smile.gif
One autumn in the early '70's, my best friend and I were complaining about the crowds we encountered the previous opening day at Dick's Creek. I called DNR and was connected with Russ England, who spoke enticingly about the solitude available on Jacks River in the Cohutta area.
Our first exploratory trip was in January of the following year, and followed a route (that no longer exists) straight to a steel bridge across the Jacks. Although signs were lacking, we were told that the west side of the bridge was in Tennessee.
The landscape visible from the parking area was neat - a remnant of a low wooden dam and a mill on the west bank. The trail to Jacks River falls, upstream, started along the east bank, and quickly showed itself to be on an old railroad bed. A few crossties could still be seen, and in conjunction with huge chestnut stumps, we figured that loggers built it before the blight struck the mountains earlier this century.
That day we went only as far as the first crossing of the stream. The railroad was laid on the stream's highest floodplain, and the trail to the falls twists from one bank to the other. Looking directly opposite revealed sheer cliffs, usually right down to the water, with some fascinating caves. To our left, rarely more than a few yards, was an equally steep cliff.
Three features captured our attention that first day.
First, the water clarity was incredible. I had heard the phrase "clear as gin" before, but thought it was just an expression. It seems I was wrong. We could peer into a 10-foot deep pool and count rocks the size of our fists on the bottom.
Second, that water clarity allowed us to marvel at the quantity of little bass. It also stunned us with views of leg-length browns slowly swimming upstream after becoming tired of our streamside presence. I still get goosebumps thinking about it.
Third, it was pristine! No cans, bottles, food wrappers, clothing, junk or other trappings of mankind could be found, save one purple shotgun hull. No fire-rings. No graffiti. No worm boxes. No hook wrappers. No bare, scuffed paths. Breathtaking scenery. Absolutely incredible.
Opening day saw three of us return, carrying ultralight spinning outfits augmented by live bait to include nightcrawlers, crickets, and some spring lizards. Saturday morning we were clad in full camo, with rods slung to our backs, low-crawling from the trail to the stream. Lying on my back, I hooked a cricket on a #14 hook by his back leg, and cast it on my 4lb line without waving the rod over the stream. It drifted the length of the pool. Over and over. No takes. Later, my disgruntled buddy came by and complained of zero interest by the huge browns. My friend stayed on the shadows and said he'd watch while I tried my luck. Zilch, again. When this cricket got tired I unhooked him and pitched him in the stream. While shaking another one out of the tube, my buddy whispered emphatically "No, wait! Just pitch it out, no hook!"
After humoring my buddy my next hooked cricket went 0-for-10, and I sat up to compare notes with my friend. He said my hooked crickets were completely and totally ignored by the trout, but any unencumbered cricket was seized immediately by the closest monster. Same story with nightcrawlers and spring lizards. While we didn't threaten the population of browns, we caught red-eye b****until our thumbs were raw, and we enjoyed the solitude. We assumed we finally had a tough but high-quality "ace-in-the-hole" trout stream.
And of course you know what they say about the word "assume!" One fine summer day the Atlanta Journal-Constitution's Sunday magazine supplement had a lovely article written by a Chattanooga lawyer about a pristine natural area in the Cohutta along Jacks River. Naturally, a map was furnished, too. Before you could say "Money-grubbing, ambulance chasing, scum-sucking, mouth-breathing low-life" (forgive me, I digress), the trail was blazed in Day-Glo orange, the parking lot was tripled, and the area was headed down civilization's infamous tubes.
Our last trip to the Jacks was in the late '70's. We arrived about 0400, and noticed a 20-passenger school bus among other cars in the parking area. Tents appeared in our headlights as we turned into the parking area. In most trout endeavors, this would be seen as a bad omen, but we were still young and foolishly optimistic. Since every third camper had obviously been required to bring a dog, the barking got worse as we assembled our gear by dome- and trunk-light. The dogs began to quiet down as we started to move out, so we decided to keep our flashlights in our pockets, as a courtesy to the campers, and proceed by moonlight.
Before we got 50 yards down the trail we were stepping on people who'd placed their sleeping bags in the middle of the trail. My buddy, in the lead, had to fall back on some Force Recon trail sweeps with his rod, from head-height to the ground in a side-to-side zigzag pattern, feeling for guy lines, tents and sleeping bags.
Sunrise found us several crossings upstream and depressed by the trash and crowd. By midmorning, our position was overrun by a skinny-dipping couple of about 300 lbs. each. My buddy sat on the ground, looked at me and said, "I'll keep'em wet. You find a phone and call Marineland." After several strong drinks we agreed we'd had all the fun we could stand for one day.
On a lighter, brighter, more contemporary note, it seems that cutting easy road access to that area has given nature an opportunity to heal. Now access to the area we enjoyed is via side trails, and requires walking before you can splash or cast. Conditions may vary, but the trash shouldn't be as bad as my description above.
The moral of this story, if it has one, is to savor those quiet places you've found, 'cause you can lose them in a heartbeat through no fault of your own. Nothing is forever, everything changes; all we're really doing is making memories.
Tight lines and warm regards,
Windknot (Don Davis)
http://www.georgia-outdoors.com/ubbngto/smile.gif