J Byrd
06-18-01, 10:22 AM
It was mid summer of 1981, and like every summer, we would spend some time up on Little Snowbird mountain at our cabin in Graham county N.C. In the seventies my family built a nice two-story cabin across the un-improved road from Little Snowbird Creek. The grass there was fine and soft, unlike the grass that grew in our yard in Athens. Hard to explain, it was just different. We would take the dogs, English Springer Spaniels, to let them roam and chase birds or whatever they could get into. My brother and I would take clumps of this mountain grass and tie them to the end of fishing rods and dangle them off the porch while the dogs chased them barking madly, jumping trying to grab them, my father or grand-father would walk outside to find out what all the barking was about. Mom and grandmother, aunts and whoever else would pick the wild strawberries that grew near the creek to make wild preserves and the occasional strawberry pie. At night you could hear the creek as I went to sleep and I would dream about what fun I could get into the next day.
During the day, when we weren’t playing with the dogs, I would venture down to the creek and find salamanders or crawfish, sometimes I would rearrange the rocks to form some kind of monument, telling my dad that I found some old Indian artifact. Every pointy rock was an arrowhead to me. When I felt inclined, I would check my dad’s fly rod to see if there was a fly tied on, if so I would grab it and take it down to little snowbird creek. To me it wasn’t a fly rod or a fly, it was just a fishing pole. No different than the others. I walked down to the old bridge made of two large logs with planks across them, like every bridge in that area. The Krychezs, lived across little snowbird in a little cabin and I would walk over to say hello. I was 6 at the time and at the cabin I could wonder anywhere I wanted as long as I was within range to hear my dad calling. I walked up to the Krychezs cabin to see if they were home, Mr. Krychez let me in and gave me a biscuit. He asked me about the rod, and he told me he had a better way to fish and let me borrow his rod baited with corn. We went down a trail that opened up to a large slow moving pool at a bend. I dunked the corn and sat and waited. Mr. Krychez had stuff to do so he left me there to watch my bobber. This got boring real fast so I went off to do other things, ate lunch, chased the dogs, rearranged some creek rocks. I later went back to retrieve the rod and to my surprise I had a fish on. There wasn’t much play, the fish had been hooked for a while. I ran back to the Krychez's to give him back his rod and show him my fish. He congratulated me as I ran back to my cabin to show the family. Everyone was proud of my catch, a small rainbow. My first trout ever. Everyday I would head back to that pool with fly rod in hand to try and catch another. I would put on my dads canvas waders, which were extremely to big and clomp down to the creek and throw whatever fly I had on with no luck.
I later look back at what was a wonderful carefree summers we would have on Little Snowbird Creek. As I got older, different things took priority over staying at the cabin, school or parties or soccer games would take up my time. As I write I look back at those times and remember exactly what that pool looks like, the drift, the structure. I would have to approach from down stream on the left bank and make a side-arm cast up stream to the far right side of the creek. I can see a fish rising to my fly. If not this year, I will be there next year to fish that pool.
I thought about how silly I must have looked in those canvas waders tromping down the trail with a fly rod in my hand. My cast must have been as ridiculous. I didn’t know what I was doing or why I was doing it. The only reason I would spend countless unsuccessful hours with a fly rod in my hand at age six was because dad did it. The same reason I would dress up in his flight suit and helmet and pretend I was flying jets. If it weren’t for dad, I wouldn’t have had those great summers and wouldn’t be fly fishing today.
To all the dads out there, I hope you had a great father’s day.
------------------
J. Byrd
Kid tested, mother approved!
It was written: We are born to die. Let us cover a lot of water in that time.
During the day, when we weren’t playing with the dogs, I would venture down to the creek and find salamanders or crawfish, sometimes I would rearrange the rocks to form some kind of monument, telling my dad that I found some old Indian artifact. Every pointy rock was an arrowhead to me. When I felt inclined, I would check my dad’s fly rod to see if there was a fly tied on, if so I would grab it and take it down to little snowbird creek. To me it wasn’t a fly rod or a fly, it was just a fishing pole. No different than the others. I walked down to the old bridge made of two large logs with planks across them, like every bridge in that area. The Krychezs, lived across little snowbird in a little cabin and I would walk over to say hello. I was 6 at the time and at the cabin I could wonder anywhere I wanted as long as I was within range to hear my dad calling. I walked up to the Krychezs cabin to see if they were home, Mr. Krychez let me in and gave me a biscuit. He asked me about the rod, and he told me he had a better way to fish and let me borrow his rod baited with corn. We went down a trail that opened up to a large slow moving pool at a bend. I dunked the corn and sat and waited. Mr. Krychez had stuff to do so he left me there to watch my bobber. This got boring real fast so I went off to do other things, ate lunch, chased the dogs, rearranged some creek rocks. I later went back to retrieve the rod and to my surprise I had a fish on. There wasn’t much play, the fish had been hooked for a while. I ran back to the Krychez's to give him back his rod and show him my fish. He congratulated me as I ran back to my cabin to show the family. Everyone was proud of my catch, a small rainbow. My first trout ever. Everyday I would head back to that pool with fly rod in hand to try and catch another. I would put on my dads canvas waders, which were extremely to big and clomp down to the creek and throw whatever fly I had on with no luck.
I later look back at what was a wonderful carefree summers we would have on Little Snowbird Creek. As I got older, different things took priority over staying at the cabin, school or parties or soccer games would take up my time. As I write I look back at those times and remember exactly what that pool looks like, the drift, the structure. I would have to approach from down stream on the left bank and make a side-arm cast up stream to the far right side of the creek. I can see a fish rising to my fly. If not this year, I will be there next year to fish that pool.
I thought about how silly I must have looked in those canvas waders tromping down the trail with a fly rod in my hand. My cast must have been as ridiculous. I didn’t know what I was doing or why I was doing it. The only reason I would spend countless unsuccessful hours with a fly rod in my hand at age six was because dad did it. The same reason I would dress up in his flight suit and helmet and pretend I was flying jets. If it weren’t for dad, I wouldn’t have had those great summers and wouldn’t be fly fishing today.
To all the dads out there, I hope you had a great father’s day.
------------------
J. Byrd
Kid tested, mother approved!
It was written: We are born to die. Let us cover a lot of water in that time.