TROUTING IN THE BLUE RIDGE COUNTRY. 



A. G. ROBINSON. 



On my first visit to the mountains of 

 North Carolina, I took my trouting tackle 

 and an idea that fish would be so abun- 

 dant my tackle would be worn out before 

 the season was over. The next time I 

 went to that delightful region, I took some 

 line and some flies, and cut a little pole 

 in the woods, just as the natives do. For 

 the reason that the average mountaineer 

 has found trout fishing more enjoyable than 

 hoeing corn, it is necessary to get well 

 away from the larger settlements to find 

 any trout worth taking. Without the 

 passage of some restrictive laws and their 

 rigid enforcement, in a few years trout 

 fishing in the Carolina mountains will be 

 about as satisfactory as it now is in East 

 river. But, unless one measures his en- 

 joyment by the number and weight of his 

 catch, he may do far worse than camp a 

 few weeks among the Carolina hills. He 

 will have, at least, 2 compensations for 

 shortage in the weight of his creel. He 

 will breathe marvelously invigorating air, 

 and be in the heart of the most beautiful 

 scenery in the United States. 



Much of the fishing there is hard. The 

 streams are swift and rocky, with many 

 little pools and eddies of the most favor- 

 able sort for trout ; but most of the trout 

 water is narrow, often overhung by low 

 branches, and not infrequently bordered by 

 huge bushes of laurel and rhododendron, 

 whose interlaced growth makes passage 

 difficult and fishing almost impossible. I 

 should not recommend the region for the 

 angler whose sole object and interest is the 

 catching of fish. I do recommend it, with 

 all my heart, to him whose requirement is 

 an outing wherein every moment brings 

 some new beauty to appeal to the artistic 

 sense, and who is satisfied with fish enough 

 to eat, until the appetite for trout is ap- 

 peased and its place is taken by the stom- 

 ach's demand for that reliable old standby 

 of the woodland camp — fried pork. When 

 I am in the woods and find myself get- 

 ting hungry for fried pork, I feel satis- 

 fied I am putting on health with every step 

 and flesh with every pound of pork. 



No section of the Carolina hill country 

 has so well suited my requirements as the 

 upper waters of the Tuckaseigee river. 60 

 or 70 miles Southwest of Asheville. The 

 river forks 12 or 15 miles from its head- 

 waters, and each prong is more beautiful, 

 more wild and more picturesque than the 

 other. The East prong is the better fish- 

 ing ground. On the main stream of the 

 West prong are 2 falls, 80 to ioo feet in 

 height, and on the tributaries of the East 



prong there are 3, with a height of 150 

 to 200 feet, besides a number of lesser 

 plunges. It is worth a long journey to see 

 any of them. 



On the right kind of a day, with the 

 right kind of a fly, one can take some trout 

 from the holes under the high fall of the 

 Tuckaseigee river that will bend his rod a 

 bit. He will, also, be nearly deafened by 

 the roar of the falling water, and complete- 

 ly drenched by the driving spray. If he 

 fish the pool at the foot of the upper fall, 

 2 miles above the high fall, he must be 

 content with scenery, unless his luck be 

 better than mine. When the stream is 

 fairly full, this cascade is the most beau- 

 tiful water plunge I know. The pool at 

 its foot is one of the most deceptive spots 

 I have ever fished. It gives every appear- 

 ance of being full of trout, but I have 

 dragged flies across it by the hour with no 

 more than 2 or 3 fish to show for my work. 



Both of these falls are associated in my 

 mind with unpleasant experiences. One 

 day when I was to fish under the high fall, 

 my guide insisted that for that particu- 

 lar day and stage of water the most prom- 

 ising bait was live yellow jackets. I have 

 known yellow jackets from my boyhood, 

 but I have not learned to love them. I 

 admire them. They are beautiful. King 

 Solomon in his dress suit was not half so 

 pretty as a yellow jacket ; but they display 

 a familiarity on slight acquaintance which 

 is far from being good form. In spite of 

 my objections, Cy said yellow jackets, and 

 went in quest of a family or 2. On his 

 return I saw he had found them, before he 

 showed me the nests. One of his eyes was 

 nearly closed. There was a lump on one 

 cheek and 3 on the back of his neck ; but 

 he had the bait. He presented me with 

 one of the nests, or combs, which con- 

 tained, in sealed compartments, 50 or 60 

 active specimens of brown and yellow 

 malice in a potential state. He assured me 

 of their harmlessness at that age, and he 

 was correct. The yellow jacket does not 

 come to a clear comprehension of his pos- 

 sibilities in the way of deviltry until he has 

 had a little experience in this wicked 

 world. But throughout our 2 mile tramp 

 to the falls I could not disabuse my mind 

 of an idea that I had a little portable hades 

 in my coat pocket, and I had not fished 

 20 minutes before I left the rascally thing 

 on a rock and forgot just where I left it. 

 I prefer artificial flies ; they are vastly more 

 sportsmanlike, even if they be less success- 

 ful at times. I confess that Cy caught 

 more fish that morning than I did, but 



