Now, to my way of thinkin’, I could just
see all the fish through there that were just awaitin’ to be caught by a couple
of adventurous paddlers. Now, never mind that that there stretch of river was
way back in the mountains, surrounded by nothin’ but National Forest lands; no
roads, no houses, no nothin’ anywhere near, just the fish, the snakes, the
squirrels, and maybe a bear or two. Now… surely you can see the kind of spell
that durned GOOGLE EARTH threw on me, a modern-day adventurer.
 |
| 'The Falls' rapid |
After a few weeks of searchin’ the
Internet about that section of the river, with nothin’ but a few vague
whitewater kayakin’ references and nothin’ on the fishin’ back in there, as
well as, pourin’ over topo maps and satellite photos, I determined that the
only way to really know what was back there was to push off in a ‘yak and find
out for myself.
Well, now, Keith was all about
float/fishin’ the river when I texted him askin’ if he wanted to go on the
followin’ Friday; although, somehow or another, he missed the ‘where’ of the
intended trip. We were halfway to the put-in when he asked what section we were
floatin’, and you shoulda seen the look on his face when I told him. Now,
Keith’s a trooper, and even though he’d just spent the last several hours
on-shift at the fire department fightin’ a commercial structure fire, he
grinned and said, “I’m in.”
 |
| 'The Falls' |
We put-in just below the Taylor ’s
Branch Rapids; me on my ‘Weak If You Don’t’ sit-on-top and Keith jammed inside
an old sit-inside ‘yak. For somebody that’d never been in a ‘yak before, Keith
took to it pretty darn quick, and after the first couple of hundred yards or
so, he was a pro.
Good thing, too,
‘cause right after that we come to the roughest rapid on the river, the one
folks call ‘The Falls’. It’s a long, tricky-to-navigate Class III rapid with a
3-foot drop at the very end that, ready or not, you gotta plunge right through.
Like I said, it was rough, and we’ve got a busted paddle blade to prove it.
Once past that, the river settled out for a good
ways, and we went to fishin’, pullin’ Bass out of them clear, cool waters, one
right after another. Now, these weren’t your everyday, run-of-the-mill ol’
Largemouth Bass what most everybody else fishes the lower stretches of the
river for. These were Redeye Coosa Bass. The same little jewels that I’d
brought famed outdoor writer Wade Bourne up here to fish for, not two years
past*. And, boy, let me tell ya… they were fighters, each and every one of ‘em!
Those hard-fightin’ li’l river fish caught on an ultralight rod was fishin’ at
its best, and I’m tellin’ ya… we wore ‘em out.
For the rest of the day, we’d work
our way through the rapids, routinely hangin’ up on barely-submerged rocks,
bangin’ off midstream boulders, and occasionally havin’ to walk a particularly
shallow run. Sometimes I’d go into a slot wrong and get unhorsed from my boat;
other times, Keith would hang on a rock, lean a bit too far over, and have his
‘yak suddenly fill with water. Yeah… it didn’t take long for us to figure out
that the whitewater wasn’t as much a problem for us as was the low water
conditions. A river gauge readin’ of 5’ or more would make for a much better
float than the 3½‘ it showed on that day. We were still havin’ a good day,
though.
As we came out of each rapid, Keith
and I would fish the heck outta the runs and long pools below. Back there where
they get very little to no fishing pressure whatsoever, the fish were both
eager and cooperative. At times, it was almost too easy.
 |
| A nice Redeye |
In between sips of Crown Royal and
cussin’ all the hidden rocks we kept hangin’ up on, we were reelin’ in true
trophies, one of which was a 2-lb. Redeye; that had I had the presence of mind
to keep it, would’ve made a beautiful mount on my livingroom wall. Alas,
though, I tossed it back without thinkin’ as I pulled five more fine fish from
the same ‘hole’, while Keith was doin’ equally well in a ‘trough’ not a half
dozen feet below where I was.
Oh, and the scenery was just
gorgeous. Mountains rose almost straight up all around us, with rhododendron
bloomin’, thickets of mountain laurel, and towerin’ Hemlocks all along the way.
For quite a ways, the river ran through a sort-of walled-in section, kinda like
a gorge, with the sides of the mountains rising nearly straight up from the
water’s edge. It was obvious that if you had to get off the river through here,
it was gonna be tough goin’, for sure. And, talk about remote… why, other than
one small airplane and a high-flying Medi-vac chopper, there were no sounds of
vehicles, trains, or other signs of civilization back where we were; just the
incessant noise of cicadas and the constant sound of rushing water.
 |
| Deep in the mountains |
By the time we finally reentered Tennessee
for the second time in nearly two-miles, we were beginnin’ to get tired. All
the pushin’ and a shovin’ we’d had to do to get through some of the rapids was
beginnin’ to tell on us, not to mention the early mornin’ fire Keith had
worked. Besides that, the sun had already started down behind the ridges, so we
stowed the fishin’ rods and set to paddlin’ our way on out of the mountains.
We paddled through rapid after rapid, around bend
after bend, so ready to see some sign of our finally nearin’ Willis
Springs
While waitin’ for Keith at the
bottom of one particularly troublesome spot, I noticed somethin’ shiny bobbin’
along in the current towards me. I had to grin when I recognized what it was.
Apparently, a stainless steel whiskey flask rides rather high in the water when
near empty. Yep… when the whiskey runs out, it’s time to call it a day.
Just before dark, we finally found
a place to take-out within easy reach the road. We were just past Minnewauga
Creek, and still a good two-miles shy of our intended take-out spot. We didn’t
care, though. We were tired; we were sore, and we stunk, having been on the
river for a full 10-hours plus. Yet, we had accomplished what we had set out to
do. We had floated the National Forest stretch of ‘our’ river, exploring the
route and samplin’ the fishin’ through there. We now knew as much about it as
any man, and a lot more than most. As a matter of fact, we were already talkin’
‘bout doin’ it, again.
Only, next time… we’ll make sure the water is up.
J
* - See the July/August 2012 issue of BASSMASTERS magazine - 'The Redeyed Princess of Northeast Georgia'
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