The Rookie and the Rainbow

It’s been a minute since I embarked on a fishing adventure ranked as a rookie, but I was eager to begin my first trout fly-fishing trip, especially since I was joining three friends with extensive experience.

The core group consisted of Mike Watts, Jim Mize, and Joey Frazier, who share a fly-fishing passion that other anglers should envy. Mike hosted us at his home in North Georgia, overlooking the beautiful Soque River. For two days, we fished near Mike’s home, with the grand finale, the third day, on the Chattahoochee River near Helen, Georgia. I’d only experienced the ‘way-down-yonder’ Chattahoochee through a country song, but fishing in a trout-laden sector of this beautiful river, accessed via Unicoi Outfitters (https://www.unicoioutfitters.com/), was a memory-making trout experience.

As a rookie, I didn’t know what I needed, nor did I have it in my considerable core of gear, which covers needs for bass, striper, crappie, bream, or catfish sorties.

Mike Watts had all the trout gear a rookie fisherman requires, including waders, a wading stick, great-gripping boots, and a flyrod several generations advanced from my bream and bass bugging rigs.

These anglers all tie flies and relish catching trout using their creations, employing flyrods that appear as seamless extensions of their right arm. I quickly learned that their blended mindset of focus and intensity is frequently interrupted with wide-mouth grins and laughter when they, or anyone in the group, hooks a trout.

My previous experience with trout was about survival. In my junior and senior years of college, I roomed with a like-minded fishing fanatic, also pursuing a Fisheries and Wildlife Management major at Tennessee Tech University in Cookeville, Tenn.

With a boat at our disposal on Dale Hollow Lake, home of the world-record smallmouth bass, we fished that clear, deep lake pursuing our naïve quest to catch a new smallmouth record. When we finished, we’d drive to the dam and fish the tailwater of Dale Hollow Dam in the Obey River.

Limits of corn-caught trout kept two 20-ish-year-olds from starving at times. On good days, we’d quickly catch our personal limits and have the leftover Green Giant corn as a side dish.

At that point in life, I was a trout eater, not a fisherman.
The journey to the Georgia mountains transformed my perception of trout fishing. The camaraderie, great food, diverse conversations, and fantastic fishing fueled our shared quest.

Team’ Troutfest’ (Watts, Mize, and Frazer) freely offered advice and encouragement, providing keys to spotting trout hideouts. They also gave me personal instruction on making a roll cast, mending lines, and fighting hefty rainbows. All this mentoring was essential in my quest for a one-on-one, fly-caught rainbow trout.

Magic moments occur daily on the rivers, making trips more enjoyable. On the first day, Mike Watts waded with me, sharing tips and techniques, coaching me as I practiced, and allowing me to work on it alone, but observed from a distance. I hooked a couple of trout, but my ingrained brute-power, catfish-battling techniques ensured none made it to the net. I pondered how much I didn’t know.

My first solitary ‘trout-catching’ moment occurred when I fished alone for an extended period.

My quest to hook and land my own rainbow had me mentally locked in. Despite a few decent casts to potential targets, I fooled no trout in the first pool. With ample water from the next angler upriver, I moved upstream, circling away from the next pool to avoid spooking fish. Using vegetation along the bank as cover, I peeked into the stream between the limbs.

It was a Bugs Bunny cartoon moment because it felt like my eyes sprang out of their sockets and returned with a dead-eyed thud. Right below me, I watched multiple huge trout patrolling the pool, moving effortlessly above a riffle.

At this point, I’d love to report that I did everything right and hooked the biggest trout. But at the outset, I did almost everything wrong.

I was too eager. Armed with adrenaline but no plan of attack, I hastily maneuvered to position myself for an open cast into the stream. My fly snagged a tree limb behind and above me. As sad-sack as it seems, this was my defining and deep-breath moment.

Of my many outdoor passions, roots run deep with turkey hunting, a sport that rewards patience, stealth, and planning, so I mentally reverted to that strategy.

Freeing my snagged fly was a multi-step, pressurized process, but the trout remained unalerted. Monitoring the trout’s movement, I slipped into the best casting position.

I acknowledge that I’m a rookie trout fisherman, but having fished all my life, I perceived that the two trout near the downstream riffle might be in feeding mode, both holding positions and facing upstream. I didn’t overthink the cast because the line rolled the fly to midstream with my best cast of the trip.

Both trout saw the fly and reacted; the larger of the two had the angle and won the race, taking the fly. The hookset released an explosion of kinetic energy stored within this fish because the silky-smooth movements of the trout pre-hookup exploded into a ballistic, missile-shot fury I’d expect rivaled a Trident submarine launching a nuclear warhead.

I then confronted a recurring mental reckoning crisis that manifests only when I’m shocked beyond all expectations. It’s always the same thought: “Well, Terry, whatcha gonna do now?”

Despite the serene setting, the scene embodied the ultimate mano-a-mano combat between man and fish: the rookie and the rainbow.

The battle was intense, the fish’s power alarming.

Numerous jumps, strong surges, tight turns, and the eerie ability to reverse course while airborne were astonishing.

I don’t recall the duration of the battle, but I remember the intensity. I wondered how mortals land fish like this.

Mid-battle, I’d be fine with any outcome by embracing the experience.

I stand corrected.

When the airshow stopped and the trout’s runs and turns slowed, I gently suggested via the tug of the rod tip that the trout lie in eddy water near the bank, a few feet below me.

I realized I needed closure and wanted to lay hands on and then release this fish.

With no net, standing several feet above the water, surrounded by thick vegetation, and no way to get to the river, I needed a miracle. I scanned upstream and then downstream for a physical manifestation of a miracle.

I saw it 150 yards downstream. I could see the top of Mike Watt’s hat and his flyrod executing a perfect roll cast.

Leaning into a 20-mile-per-hour headwind, I directed my vocal effort toward Mike’s hat and yelled: “Miiiiike!, Miiiike!” at max volume, elongating his name for effect. When his head popped up and looked in my direction,

I waved my free arm frantically.

Miracle Mike abandoned his fishing spot, ran to my rescue, and waded downstream to net the prize. Only then did I consider closure possible.

I joined him at the river’s edge with the trout safely in his net. Holding my rainbow too gently, it flipped and slipped from my grasp, falling toward the water. Good fortune was again with me, and the trout free-fell a few inches into the waiting net, firmly between my legs directly below the fish, as Mike had strongly suggested.

It was as if he had seen rookies do this before.

We took photos, fist-bumped, and released the trout. The easy sound of flowing water lapping over rocks and the simple allure of the stream that harbors big rainbows will live strong in my memory.

It made me want more. On the drive home, I wished I’d made this trip 20 years prior, equipped with younger legs and better balance, but certainly with these same guys.

The treasured moment of catching a trout on a fly didn’t define or end my quest at the end of this rainbow journey. The rookie will continue from this remarkable beginning because I realize it’s more than catching a rainbow; it’s the process and the people that fill my pot of gold.