By Nathan Chapman
Stateline Ridge is a significant geologic formation along the west slope of the Appalachian Mountains. It rises sharply out of foothills just to the east of the Cumberland Plateau, and creates some of the most dramatic views, looking up at the Appalachians, anywhere along the massive mountain chain, which ranges from northern Georgia all the way up to Maine. It is the backbone of the Smoky Mountains, the individual mountain range in question, and probably most important of all, it is the central geographic feature forming Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
Dropping steeply from this paternal ridge, are dozens of water courses, that collect into branches (pronounced âbrainchesâ in mountain-speak), which flow into creeks, which in turn, flow into the handful of sure enough rivers supporting the water flow of the region.
It was to one of these water courses, hidden by sharp folds in the land that was bought, traded, and sometimes even taken from the mountain families that called it home at the creation of the park, that my wife and I visited with our boys on a balmy summer July day in North Carolina.
I am the father of three boys- currently ages 11, 9, and 2 (yikes). I am the oldest of three boys, myself, so I have been familiar with that particular-dynamic for most of my life. My wife and I have worked hard, for years now, to provide an upbringing for our children that will help them to become well rounded, successful adults. A healthy portion of that upbringing means getting out of doors. When I say getting out of doors, I mean going well beyond the end of our own driveway-though we do have a beautiful home on a steep mountain ridge with room for the boys to run, and climb, and find all sorts of trouble to get into.
During the summer, a lot of our outdoor expeditions involve creeks and picnics. We often visit the park, as there are plenty of places where we can find a quiet spot along the water to set up a folding picnic table, a few chairs, and break open the familiar aroma of Kentucky Fried Chicken (a tradition that has carried on since my earliest childhood memories). Any time that distinctive smell reaches me, it can call up a host of memories of moments from my life that represent some of the best of times.
It has often been the case on these picnics, that I have had some of my best opportunities to draw my sons into fly fishing. They are happy, well fed, and they have a playground before them that not every kid out there ever gets to enjoy. I almost always take a rod along and fish a little around the area we choose as âour spotâ. If any of the boys want to participate, it offers up a moment that can be a stepping-stone to something more. I grew up in a family that constantly recreated out of doors, yet that recreation nearly always had a purpose. Hunting, fishing, hiking, camping, blueberry picking- get outdoors, but have a game plan.
On the day in question, I chose a creek weâd not ventured to as a family unit before, and one that didnât have quite the ease of access we typically look for, as toting all the gear necessary gets tiresome when dad is treated as pack horse- as well as entertainment director, science teacher, and maybe, just maybe, fly fishing instructor.
Our plans for the day were to go on a short hike upstream, then to come back down to the road crossing and find a spot to eat and play in the water. We made about a mile or so with the two-year-old in tow and came back down to the bridge where the highway crosses the creek. Right under the massive bridge was a wide, rocky, beachy area that looked like just what the boys would want for exploration and play. I left my wife with the younger two, and our eldest, and I marched back up the steep trail that climbed to the parking area near the road crossing.
We loaded up (miraculously) all, of our picnicking paraphernalia and headed back down to the creek for a much needed by that point, spot of sustenance. We were sucking wind hard by the time we arrived with all the gear and provisions. I set up the table and the chairs, while my wife doled out food to the kids. Soon, everyone was munching and crunching, and I finally let my mind drift to the hustle and -bustle of the water, laughing to itself, sliding harmlessly by my feet.
I wolfed down my food, and soon had a rod strung up. Meanwhile, my wife had discovered that the one thing my oldest son and I had forgotten was drinks for the adults. She became more than a little agitated with my mental shortfall and talked herself into marching back up the ridge to the car and bringing the mom and dad water bottles back as soon as she could. I spend plenty of time alone with all three boys, so that by itself wouldnât even give me pause, yet here we were, aside a rushing mountain stream and nothing between the water and our toddler, âcept yours truly.
As it turns out, that was only one issue to be dealt with that afternoon. I made certain that the two-year-old was happy and content, sitting with his brothers at the plastic picnic table we always carry because we do not rely on a provided table as that severely limits where we can go. I quietly slipped a few yards downstream and began lazily casting a weighted nymph rig to likely looking seams and pockets, managing to hook the odd small rainbow or two.
About the time I got back, even with the portable picnic table, my middle son had finished his food and wanted to get in the water. He asked me, âdad, is it ok if I wade across the creek to the other bank?â I replied in the affirmative, but I cautioned that he should leave his flip flops on the creek bank he was abandoning, as heâd likely lose them on the way across. My kids all have good sandals to hike in, but middle son is known for his forgetfulness and could not find them when it was time to leave that morning.
To my exasperated chagrin, he proceeded to wade across in the ridiculous flip flops, whereupon reaching midstream, he floundered most violently, went ass over teakettle into the creek, came back up thrashing as Little John, and proceeded to howl out to me for help. I didnât move. I simply said, âStand up son.â The boy found his feet, sans flip flops, and began howling again about his lost shoes, as they hurriedly picked their way between midstream boulders on a hectic flight for Fontana Lake. Bedraggled and woe begotten, my middle child slogged to shore and slumped, deflated, to the gravel beside his brothers.
I waded back up to the picnic in an attempt to cheer up the soaked kid, while thinking to myself that I hoped his mother wouldnât arrive before the crying ceased. I was all prepared for one of my best fatherly motivational speeches when all hell broke loose. My eldest had finished his lunch and was down on his knees beside the picnic table, picking around the gravel of the creek bank, looking for who knows what, when I saw, to my frozen horror, that the toddler had climbed up to the table top and had picked up a large, smooth creek rock that mom, or one of the older boys, had sat up there for further examination. He unceremoniously chucked said stone through the air, where it fell directly between the shoulder blades of kid #1. I kid you not. My oldest son began howling in obvious and serious pain, which automatically shocked and scared the toddler into tears and setting up a wale of his own.
Utterly without course of action at this point, I stood, mute and impotent upon the shore of a gorgeous trout stream in Great Smoky Mountains National Park as one kid was sobbing to himself about his soggy clothes and lost shoes, another kid was rolling around on the ground, keening and gyrating, while the toddler sat on the edge of the picnic table and called out to the sky for mommy.
So of course, this was the point when my wife arrived back from the parking area, carrying water bottles and deep concern in her eyes for the scene playing out before her. And as all things tragic and scary so often play out in the lives of children, mommy was the Mercurochrome for it all. Tears dried, waling and gnashing of teeth subsided, and life became tolerable once again.
On the walk back out to the car, I asked the boys what theyâd remember most about that day. My middle son Garret, immediately popped in with, âYou kiddinâ dad? How would we ever forget the day I fell in the creek, lost my shoes, and Brodie hit Hayden with a rock?!â
A couple weeks later, further north in western North Carolina, I was fishing with the older two sons on a tiny blue line near my father-in-lawâs place, north of Boone. While wading in a particularly rough stretch of creek, and only moments after watching my oldest son Hayden stalk and catch a sizeable native Southern Appalachian Brook Trout all on his own, Garret looked up at me and said, âHey dad, I get now why you said not to wear flip flops in a creek!â Small victories.
Nathan Chapman is a freelance writer, former guide in and around the Smokies and part-time rod builder. From a multi-generational, southern highlander family, he lives with his wife and three sons in Cullowhee, NC.