My brother, Dawson, my father, Cooper, and I took a weekend to visit the mountains of South Carolina in early April to go fly fishing for trout. We planned to reside in the same cabin village as we did in our previous trip in February. The weather was forecast to be clear skies, with daily temperatures ranging from 40-70. It would be a perfect weekend to spend in the mountains. Fishing weekends sometimes require planning in advance, and everyone marking the weekend on the calendar before anything else can take its place. After that, you just have to keep your fingers crossed and hope to be blessed with good weather.
We settled in the cabin Friday night and spent the night on the back porch sorting our flies and getting the tackle prepared for the morning. This cabin was substantially smaller than the last we stayed in; it consisted of one room with a bed, a pull out couch, a kitchen, and a bathroom. I had discovered several holes in my waders on my last fishing trip and was unable to seal all of them, so I knew that I was in for a cold and wet morning. We woke Saturday morning, ate a quick breakfast, and rushed to the Chattooga River Fly Shop to talk to Karl. Karl is a fishing guide who is always willing to share some of the latest fishing trends on the river, as long as you buy some flies from the shop. There are so many types of flies and life cycle stages that the artificial flies imitate. Matching the flies on your line with those that are hatching is a must in order to have an eventful day of fishing. This weekend being in the spring, I was hoping we would see trout rising to the surface to eat dry flies (flies on the surface), but Karl told us the trend was still to use nymphs and let them drift through the current close to the rocks on the river bottom.
Dad, Dawson, and I reached Cassidy’s Bridge on the Chauga River, which has always been a personal favorite stretch of river for me. We suited up with our waders and hit the river. As I stepped into deeper water, I felt the cold mountain stream water filling my socks, and working its way up my pants. I had accepted that this would be a cold morning and focused on catching fish. Dad and I were fishing a rapid together when I heard some commotion down river. Dawson had caught a pretty brown trout and took a moment to show it off to us. Dawson goes to school at USC Upstate in Spartanburg, SC, and has ample opportunities to fish the Green River in North Carolina. He fished the weekend before and landed a brown trout which was far larger than any that I have ever caught. Dad and I worked our way up river seeking out potential sections of the river and working together, taking care not to miss any hiding spot for a hungry trout. The bite was slow in the morning, and we were constantly changing from one fly to another trying to figure out what it was the fish wanted to eat. We left Cassidy’s Bridge after having caught one rainbow trout myself, Dad catching 2 rainbow trout, and Dawson having 2 rainbows and one Brown trout. We ate lunch at the only gas station within 50 miles and quickly returned to the river.
  We decided to fish a section called, “Hell Hole” for the afternoon. Hell Hole is a part of the Chauga River, several miles upriver from Cassidy’s Bridge. I do not know why it is called “Hell Hole,” because there is nothing hellish about it. The trees are bright green on both sides of the river, rising all the way to the top of the steep mountain slopes. The Chauga River rushes through the valley at a steep incline and several notable drops. This was the first place Dawson and I had ever visited for fly fishing, but we have always fished upriver from the trailhead. This time, we decided to venture down river into unknown territory and to find new fish off the beaten path.
Walking down river turned out to be an excellent guess. We began catching more fish, and they were all of larger than average size. I landed one brown trout which measured 16 inches. Even if I had not caught another fish, this would have still been a thrill for me. We continued to work our way down river, or slosh down river in my case with wet feet. I began fishing along the base of a waterfall. I scrambled the rocks to get to this spot and quickly hooked a nice rainbow. Dawson was on the trail up on the side of the mountain and saw me playing the trout. He climbed 80 feet down the side to get a picture for me. Dad was about to come down the hill, but it was too steep. Dawson and I could not find a way up, and we warned Dad not to attempt climbing down. It was late in the day, and we were all worn out from a full day of fishing. Fly fishing can sometimes be summed up as 3/4 hiking and 1/4 fishing. We spent the night at the cabin eating hamburgers while sitting around a camp fire. The wind was howling through the trees, and we could see all the mountains around us changing shades as the sun set.
We were back on the river fishing, my waders filling up with cold water, first thing in the morning on Sunday morning. This time, we were on the Chattooga River, which is much broader and swifter than the Chauga. As I approach this river, I think about the river’s size and always question how, of all the space in this river, am I going to place my tiny fly within easy range of a hungry trout? I found one pocket of water which held fish, and I quickly landed 2 rainbow trout. After releasing them, Dad joined me and caught two more rainbows himself. We continued to work our way up river fishing but moved at a slower pace. The Chattooga River is so wide that it takes more time to thoroughly fish each section. The morning progressed, and the sunlight was creeping down the side of the mountain until it finally reached us, warming us and bringing functionality back to our hands. We fished through the morning and caught several more trout until noon, and it was time to call quits and make the four hour drive home.
It is always a privilege to spend time fishing with family and this was the first time that Dad had been trout fishing with Dawson and me in the mountains. We had a great time and caught many picture worthy fish. One last note not to forget; the picture that Dawson climbed down the 80 foot cliff to take of me with my trout turned out to be blurry.