Fishing the Nantahala by Bradley A. Evans

“Let’s check out Rufus. See if he’s around.”

“Who’s Rufus?”

“He’s a brown I’ve been chasing for two years.”

“We’re looking for a single fish?” I asked, a bit perplexed.

“Yeah, he’s a legend, twenty-six inches.”

Thomas and I parked next to a small cliff. A jam band was trickling through the speakers as my guide took a gander along the craggy river. Lo and behold, as I was lost in the cloudy transcendence of the canyons, Thomas found Rufus. “See that table rock… he’s at two o’clock,” he said, pointing at a needle in a haystack.

Being that I share optical DNA with Ray Charles, I had to squint like hell, but sure enough, I saw a MASSIVE brown trout languidly moving in an “S” formation, its pelvic fin functioning as a ballast.

“I’ve caught him twice, but never got em’ in the net.”

My cigar drooped in my mouth as I stood there awestruck. I was fishing with a guide who knew the whereabouts of a single trout. Guesswork wasn’t the name of the game – strategy, knowledge, and professionalism were – even if our rods were held in place by windshield wipers on his weathered SUV.

I met Thomas through a mutual friend who knew I was a fisherman. I was told he was on Team Georgia in the South Eastern Fly Fishing League, to which I replied, “That’s a thing?” I had worked at Orvis and spent a few college summers fishing in Jackson Hole, so I thought I was a bit of an expert when it came to fly fishing, but I had never heard of a fishing league. To me, it sounded a bit “Augusta-esque,” as in, how do you get in, and would a guy like me have a chance? Well, it’s a thing, and I don’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.

Thomas used to be in finance, but after 15 years of Monday morning meetings, there was something inside of him yearning for liberation. It’s a feeling all men know, but it’s especially pronounced in outdoorsmen. Thoreau famously said, “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” It’s a terrible reality that soils our souls and suffocates the muse. We distract ourselves with ambitions and the admiration of like-minded men, but all we desire is to be in
the natural world, from whence we came.

It’s the sound of a river that haunts us. It’s the smell of a forest that we must ignore to keep our sanity, which by its very nature is delusional. It’s the little boy who lives in all of us – the little boy who wants to test his courage, who dreams without constraints, who wants the approval of his father, who knows he’s a warrior, or an artist, or an explorer. What he is not is who he has become. So, when a man sheds his corporate identity for a shot at discovering his real one, it
comes with as much terror as excitement, but therein lies the economics of the natural world.

For Thomas, it happened in the summer of 2023 when he hung up his sports jacket and put on his vest and waders full-time. What most men only dream of doing, Thomas did when he started Winged Waters Executive Escapes. The idea was simple: instead of a group of corporate guys going on a golf trip, why not take them fly fishing or bird hunting? Suffice it to say, it worked. He now finds himself guiding the Soda Butte Creek in Yellowstone and duck hunting in
Stuttgart, Arkansas.

I was told to meet him in a parking lot in the mountains of North Carolina. He gave me an address but warned me that GPS wasn’t of much use when you’re that deep in the woods.

Right he was, because when I finally arrived, I didn’t know where the hell I was. I could no more spilled the beans on the whereabouts of this stream than Keith Richards could pass a drug test. Was it by design? I don’t know, but it was brilliant either way.

I lit a cigar and put on waders as Thomas rigged up the equipment. I was expecting a mile long hike en route to Mecca, to some delicious honey hole known only to him, but that didn’t happen. Hand to God, I’m telling the truth: we walked a sum total of twenty feet to a stretch of public water. To say I was surprised would be an understatement of Biblical proportions. In fact, there was a guy fishing sixty feet upriver. Nothing made any sense – until it did.

“Cast upriver to that little pool, let the fly sink six inches tops, and keep your tip up. Got it?”

“Uh, yeah.” All the while wondering what in the hell was going on.

But after three terribly conceived casts, a brookie sunk its lip into my fly. I couldn’t believe it! I was fishing in public water, steps from a parking lot, with another fisherman in sight, and I’m reeling em’ in. I quickly learned that if I did EXACTLY what Thomas said, I’d be in pig heaven. It turns out a professional fisherman knows what he’s doing…who would’ve thought.

I finally asked, “What kind of fly is this? It’s incredible.” To which he responded, “Oh, you know, something I threw together last night. I don’t even think it has a name.” OK, that’s fair; I’m fine with an asymmetrical relationship; this is how you make a living. I get it.

As much fun as I was having reeling in trout, the real joy came from spending an afternoon with Thomas. As anyone who’s fished with a guide knows, their sense of humor and patience can make or break a trip. Luckily, Thomas is world-class. He has a ton of hilarious jokes and doesn’t get flustered when he’s untangling a mess you made (for the third time).

And BAM!!!

Wiiiiiisssssshhhhhhh went my reel…screaming as line shot through the guides on a three-weight like a missile off the deck of a battleship. I had a big boy on the other end fighting for his life.

“Let em’ run!” yelled Thomas.

After several minutes of runs, I reeled in a seventeen-inch rainbow. And man alive did it feel great! Twenty minutes later I landed a brown and completed the Appalachian Slam (rainbow, brook, brown).

After fishing several stretches, we went after Rufus. We scaled down a cliff and hiked a hundred feet upriver. Thomas was damn near scientific about every part of my cast…there was no room for error. I got into the bad habit of setting the hook upriver. I must’ve screwed that up a dozen times and lost at least four fish on account of it, but Thomas kept coaching me in a way few are capable of.

And once again – BAM!!!!!! But this time I had a real son of a bitch on. I thought my seventeen incher was heavy, but he was a lightweight compared to this fatty. I fought him for what felt like half an hour. I’d get him close, and he’d get another shot of adrenaline. All the while Thomas was telling me to be gentle…to let him run and be patient.

But damned if I didn’t let my nerves get the best of me. I had old butterbean damn near in the net when I started forcing him – and dadgummit, I lost him. Snapped the line. I felt terrible and continued to feel that way for a full week. Not a night went by when I was about to fall asleep when memories of butterbean popped into my mind. I consideredseeing a therapist. I was truly distraught.

And then I witnessed genius when Thomas picked up a rod. Like Dylan writing “Positively 4th Street” or Bobby Fischer playing chess, Thomas was at the top of his game. He was an artist in the purest form, a poetic predator of sorts.

As Schopenhauer said, “Talent hits a target no one else can hit. Genius hits a target no one can see.” No truer words could be said of Thomas on the fly.

It wasn’t long before he snagged a whale and patiently guided it into his net. The last time I saw that level of focus was watching John Daly light a cigarette on a windy day.

We soon found out he didn’t land his beloved Rufus, but he did reel in a beauty. And if it were anyone else, I would’ve been consumed with jealousy, but I wasn’t. I was genuinely happy for Thomas. He earned it.

I lit another cigar as we got out of our waders and called it a day. We ended up talking for 45 minutes about nothing in particular. As odd as it may sound, I enjoyed those last 45 minutes as much as I did fishing. I needed a day in the woods. I needed a day in the canyons of North Carolina. What I really needed was a day on the Nantahala with a friend.