This is all George Miceli’s fault. Since he started the dang thing, though, I might as well confess a secret embarrassment from 50 years ago. But I’m getting ahead of myself …
George is editor of the Norris Bulletin, one of several weekly newspapers I’ve subscribed to over the years. I enjoy smalltown weeklies. They provide a pleasant break from the nonstop turmoil that occupies much of the major, everyday news.
Anyhow, Page 1 of a recent Bulletin edition blared, “City of Norris ‘Births’ a New Lake,” along with photos of kayakers plying the placid water. Huh?
Seems this “new lake” had sprung up in the town’s Commons area after thunderstorms dumped five inches of rain in less than 48 hours. Soon as the skies cleared, kayakers and kids arrived, paddling
and wading, respectively, in deep and shallow spots. The whole she-bang dribbled away within hours, and everybody went back to whatever they were doing.
I chuckled and thought, “Cute way to report a flash flood, George.” But then I remembered — oh, crap! — being duped by a similar situation.
This occurred in the mid-1970s. I was the News Sentinel’s outdoors editor. On a nostalgic whim one morning, I tossed fly rod and fly-fishing vest into the truck and headed for Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Specifically, to a remote section of a certain stream (sorry, some secrets are still sacred) that I hadn’t fished since high school.
Which is precisely how long it had been since my last visit there.
Way back when, dear colleague Carson Brewer was Editor in Chief of All Things Smokies. The remainder of East Tennessee’s outback was my beat. Which explains my long absence from the park.
Nonetheless, I knew I could find my stream and did. Eventually.
En route, however, I passed a beautiful creek that didn’t ring a bell. I turned around and drove back. How come I couldn’t remember this water that looked so inviting? Oh well; why not try it?
I fished 40-50 yards or so without a strike. Then suddenly noticed the absence of polished rocks and aquatic insects. That’s when the truth hit like a 2-by-4 across the brow.
“Venable, you blithering dumb%$#&!!” I seethed, spooling line before turning around to vamoose. “You’re ‘fishing’ the remnants of a flashflood somewhere way on up this mountain!”
I hightailed it. Drove to my original destination. Caught trout.
But you better believe as I stowed my gear for a hasty getaway, I prayed, “Lord, I don’t care about the tourists. But please don’t let anybody I know drive by and think I was fishing in this ‘stream’.”
Nobody did. Until now.
Sam Venable’s column appears every Sunday. Contact him at sam.venable@outlook.com.
This article originally appeared on Knoxville News Sentinel: Beware of enticing waters that appear out of nowhere | Sam Venable
