Appalachian Adventures

 

    The Appalachian Mountains are old, older than you or I, older than language and measurable time. Beneath the mountains contain 1.1 billion years of history, billions of years of rock crashing and grinding and pushing and pulling until eventually, over 2,000 miles of deeply carved peaks were stretched across the American East. And between these mountains are creeks and stories, the deep gurgle of water whispering centuries of folklore both Indian and white settler. Stories of beasts and witches deep in the forest, wendigos and skinwalkers, gods and angels and demons, passions that are excited in the deepest and darkest recesses of the mind when you're walking through the woods by yourself. 

    I awoke to the sound of the earliest catbirds and thrushes, twittering away in the trees. My ears were no longer ringing from the Five Finger Death Punch concert that Sharkey and I attended the night before, a mashup of circles, loops, guitar riffs, drums, and blinking lights that left me exhausted and feeling punch drunk. I stepped out of my little nest inside the car to the gravel parking lot, our two companions being a small green SUV and a large white van whose occupant was sleeping in a tent about 30 yards upstream. 

    The sun was still yet to show her face, hiding on the other side of the great white valley, but the sky's blueness was getting paler by the minute and the air hung thick and wet and heavy. I knelt beside the freestone stream and washed my face, letting the blissfully cold water seep slowly through me, a wake up call. 

    By this time Sharkey had awoken as well and we strolled off into the woods for a quick morning hike. The faded colors of muted greens and grays amongst the ancient ferns of the forest floor brightened with each step towards daylight. Little bits of muted light hit the moss and ferns where canopy permitted it. At last, we stumbled into a clearing, strewn with sun, where suddenly, like an itch that needed to be scratched, I had the insatiable urge of yelling, to no one in particular. I did. 

    "You just sparked some new local folklore," remarked Sharkey. 

    "I know." 

    We turned back towards the parking lot to grab out trout rods, our paths turning inverse with the sun down the mountain. As we crawled back into view, we spotted the green Subaru that was parked there during the night, still sitting in the exact same place. What we didn't see before and what became apparent in the morning light was the broken windows, rusted frames, seats piled to the ceiling with discarded loose trash. The license plate was from Washington. 

    "That's fucking spooky" 

    "Yep." I replied, lost in thought, staring at the memories of spider web cracks in the broken mirror. "This might be an Alexander Supertramp type character," I remarked, harkening back to the Georgia boy who ditched his car in Arizona and hitchhiked his way to Alaska before succumbing to starvation. Just another kid who wanted to get away from it all. 

    I filed away the Ranger number to make a report as soon as we got into cell service range. However, as soon as we returned to the lot, the car was gone, disappeared into the early morning fog. 

    After this experience Sharkey and I made our way downstream, stopping after about 1/4 mile to begin working our way up. This stream was a tricky tailwater, chock full of sunken trees that served as perfect vanishing places for a hungry brown. I managed to pick off a few small wild brownies on a Parachute Adams, tenacious ones tucked up behind wood piles, and Sharkey got a nice brookie on an inline spinner. 

    As we moved upstream, a deep hole with a log jam on the downstream side lay ahead. Wanting to fish deeper, I put on a copper john under my dry fly and roll casted to the middle of the stream. My dry drifted down, slow as the neighboring bubbles, until it drops down 6 inches away from the timberpile. I lift and tied into the biggest brown of the day, who had made just one foolish mistake. 

    Maps told us there was a reservoir about a two miles upstream from us. Both Sharkey and I being former track athletes, the hike up didn't sound too bad on paper. Yet the trails ended, replaced by huge patches of nettle and burdock, twisted and turning to who knows where. By now, the sun had risen up high above the thick canopy and my Monster Energy was wearing off, so we made the decision to call it and start the drive back home, stopping for a few side quests on the way back. 

    We only saw a few miles of the thousands of trail that makes its way from the Maine Northwoods to the Mountains of Western Georgia and already I feel them calling me back. Maybe I'm haunting the mountains, maybe the mountains are haunting me, maybe its a spiritual symbiosis that can't quite be put into words but is tangible all the same.