By Ben Bailey
Trout anglers are about the most optimistic people I know. I figure it probably has something to do with the cold water around their feet pulling the heat away from their brains, or maybe just the tranquil beauty of the trout streams that evokes good and pleasant thoughts. It seems to me that Jesus Himself had a tender spot for anglers. He had several in his inner circle and if you remember, the morning He called them ashore for breakfast, He already had fish baking on the coals. I have often wondered how He caught them. Was it a dry fly or nymph? Or did He simply command them to flop up on the bank? But before He did that, He directed a whole boatload into the disciples’ net. They didn’t need all those fish for breakfast. That, my friend, was an angler’s dream made to come true by the God of Creation.
What I experienced Memorial Day 2009 was, in many ways, very similar. Joe Woody and I had canoed in from Cable Cove the day before. We camped at Proctor, enjoyed a pleasant supper and campfire, and rose early, anticipating a good day’s fishing. The weather was perfect but then, there’s no such thing as bad weather on Hazel Creek. Joe is by far, the better angler of the two of us but we both share a like-mindset to fish the headwaters and go where few people ever go. With that in mind, we set out up the creek, headed for Sugar Fork or Bone Valley or who knows, maybe Calhoun Camp Site. We stopped occasionally to fish the most irresistible places.
Lunchtime found us at Sawdust Pile. We sat down on a log and enjoyed our crackers and hickory smoked tuna. It had been a very pleasant morning. Joe had caught a couple of 8-9 inch rainbows that he had squirreled away in a small fanny pack for our supper. I had not caught any keepers but had still thoroughly enjoyed myself. It’s called “fishing” for a reason! After lunch, we continued up the creek, still more intent on the headwaters but unable to pass up those dark holes, pocket waters, and whitewater swirls. Eventually, we came to what is reverently referred to, in the Hazel Creek language, as the dark hole, or by some, as the brown hole. It is a place of incredible beauty, probably 200 ft long and 75’ wide and 10 ft deep, and full of churning, rolling, sweeping whitewater that fans out into the deep, dark hole which is protected on both sides by thick rhododendron and laurel. Only the bottom one-third is wadable, the rest, a haunted place, where the faint-hearted need not go. But yet, the dark waters beckon and few can resist. Knowing that, I could not wade nor could I cast very well in the thick rhododendron. I took my fly rod off and put on a small spin cast reel with a small gold leafed spinner. I fished up about half way by casting between rhododendron limbs but eventually, or inevitably, I overshot the creek and hung up in a laurel bush on the other side. Not wanting to disturb the water, I broke the line. To my dismay, my tackle box yielded only an old catch-man spinner that I had probably had for 20 years. I had to add a couple of lead weights to it so that I could even cast it over the creek. I carefully fished the rest of the hole but as I had done many times before, came up empty-handed.
I climbed up on a rock where Joe had been fly-fishing the churning whitewater with the same result. “Try that spinner there,” he said, “then we’ll go on up to Sugar Fork.” I cast across the foaming torrent and began to reel the spinner back through the rushing water. I felt a light “bump,” then my line tightened. I lifted my pole to set the hook and hollered to Joe. “I’ve got one!” Joe took off his fanny-pack and unzipped it saying, “one more for supper.” About that time, my rod bent almost to the water and the drag started slipping. I hollered back to Joe saying, “I don’t think this one’s for supper!” I played him for a few minutes in the swift water. I knew I had a big fish but I still didn’t know how big. Finally, he tired a little and I was able to pull him to the calmer water. I saw a flash of ivory under the water, which told me that I had hooked a big brown. Just as that registered in my mind, the water erupted as he danced on his tail and shook that massive head from side to side trying to throw that cursed thing that held him captive. Back down he went, back to the safety of the swift whitewater. I dialed back the drag, trying to prevent it. My pole bent double as he swam for the bottom. I looked at Joe who, by this time, had lost all control of his lower jaw. It hung open like a broken hinge, unable to close itself. His wide eyes darted back and forth from the water to me, wanting to speak but somehow, unable to. I looked back to the water just as the fish made another frantic surge and, as it did, the pedestal of my reel just broke off, falling into the water. I could feel the line slipping through my fingers as the big brown sought his freedom. Instinctively, I wrapped the line around my hand, once again, halting his escape. Joe jumped into the water and retrieved my broken reel. Somehow, I still don’t know how, I held the reel and pole and continued the fight. Finally, I was able to pull the exhausted brown into the calm water and up to the rock where we stood. Joe jumped down in the water and slipped a stringer through the big brown’s mouth before removing the now bent and mangled lure. I picked up my prize and held it in my arms. I had won the battle but it had been a challenge!
This was a noble creature that I had been privileged to do battle with. He did not belong on a wall – he belonged here in the dark hole. I gently placed him back in the water and watched as he angled, once again, for the protection of the whitewater and the depth of the black hole. I marked his length on my rod…28 inches it measured when I got back to my truck. We went on that day, up to Sugar Fork and caught other fish, enjoying ourselves to the fullest, but if I never caught another fish, the big brown from the dark hole on Hazel Creek, was enough. I was blessed. It was a gift from heaven, just as the boatload was to those disciples long ago.