Fishing With Jeff
The red tail lights of Jeff’s Tundra blinked in and out of view as we rounded the mountain road. Leaves in shades of orange, brown, and burgundy drifted around us, swirling in the dust that billowed behind his truck. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, casting beams that illuminated the dust and painted the road ahead in a warm, golden glow. It was beautiful, familiar—being back in North Carolina’s mountains felt like coming home, like a hug.
Jeff led us to a graded camping spot beside a small creek. The sun hung low in the sky, but there was still time to fish before we built a fire and cooked dinner. I pulled my 4-weight fly rod from the truck and rigged it up. The nine-foot rod felt awkward here. The creek was narrow, hemmed in by rhododendron and spindly branches along its banks. Out West, this rod is like a trusty pocket knife—useful in almost any situation. Here, it felt like a kid who hadn’t quite grown into his size, clumsy but determined.
My first cast was stiff and awkward, the fly snagging a low-hanging branch. I felt a pang of embarrassment and frustration at the creek’s smallness. Beside me, Jeff worked his 3-weight with ease, a bow-and-arrow cast sending his fly effortlessly beneath the tangled rhododendron. I couldn’t help but smile. The fishing wasn’t the point—not really. Being here, finally at home—in the place I love most, sharing this time with an old friend—that was the point.
We moved upstream, hopping from one small pocket to the next, pulling out tiny native rainbows when our luck and skill aligned. We fished until the light had nearly disappeared, the creek just a shadow in the dusk.
Back at the trucks, our fire had come to life quickly, snapping against the evening chill. Dinner was simple but perfect—aluminum packets of sweet potato and okra, and skewered hot dogs—all cooked over the open flame. Naturally, we stayed up late, silhouetted against the firelight, reminiscing about past adventures, old friends, and solving the world’s problems. Words and memories flickered and faded as quickly as embers in the night sky. We made resolutions and plans—though the follow-through mattered less than the act of speaking them aloud. In the end, it was a perfect campfire - a perfect day.
