Editor’s note: This is the 13th installment of an upcoming book, Zoro’s Field, by Tuckasegee writer Thomas Crowe.

Chapter 13:
Fishing Zoro’s Field

“The river rises in a deep cleft or gorge in the mountains, the scenery of which is of the wildest and ruggedest character. For a mile or more there is barely room for the river at the bottom of the chasm. On either hand the mountains, interrupted by shelving, overhanging precipices, rise abruptly to a great height.”

— John Burroughs

I awake from a sound spring sleep to the noise of knocking at my cabin door. It’s still dark outside. In my half-conscious state, my mind immediately leaps to Poe’s poem “The Raven”— “While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came/a tapping,/As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber/door.” Slow to move, the knocking comes again before I am able to pull myself out of bed and ramble over cold wood floors to the door. Opening the door, there is Horace Pace standing out in the yard. “I’m goin’ down to the river to fish. Thought you might want to come along,” is all he says, slightly smiling. My mind still moving slowly, I try to make sense of the situation in order to come up with some sort of intelligent and appropriate response. All I am able to mutter is: “Fish?” My mind finally engaging, I remember I was going to spend the day working on the little barn I’m building on the east side of the field, and check the bees — do a first house-cleaning after a long winter. “Sure,” I say automatically, without thinking, with Horace still standing in the doorway waiting for my response. “Give me a minute and let me get on some clothes.”

Horace Pace lives in Saluda and enjoys a healthy reputation as being a consummate woodsman. For the past three years he has been teaching me to fish for trout in the Green River. This isn’t the first time he has shown up unexpectedly at my door before dawn. Because he likes to fish down in what the locals refer to as “Rocky Mountain Cove”— maybe the roughest part of the whole of the river — he likes to go with a partner, just in case something should go wrong. On days when he can’t get anyone else to go, he comes by here on his way down to the end of the road at Johnson’s Pond where he parks his truck and where there is an old logging road, downhill, that is easy access to the river.

During the first year of my new life here in the woods, I was an aggressive student, seeking out those who could teach me the necessary skills of self-sufficiency. Needing some kind of supplement to my mostly vegetarian diet, and with the river nearby, I thought of fish as an obvious answer. When I asked folks in town who would be the best person from whom to learn to fish, almost always the immediate response was: Horace Pace. I eventually met Horace one day over on Dr. McHugh’s place, where he was high up in a tulip poplar tree trimming out some limbs that were hanging over the roof of the house. After he had finished pruning the tree and had returned to the ground, I helped him drag the branches into the woods — a good ice-breaker for questions I had about fishing the Green River. He was quick to pick up the conversation and was off and running on the subject, which we continued over iced tea on the McHugh’s back porch. It wasn’t much more than a couple of weeks before Horace made his first appearance at my cabin door — much like this morning, unannounced and before daylight.

Those first trips to the river to fish for trout were little more than a comedy of errors. While I had done a minimal amount of pond, lake, and even ocean fishing, I was a true greenhorn on rivers, and especially on such a wild, whitewater river as the Green that roars through the Rocky Mountain Cove with a vengeance. At the end of those early trips, I would usually emerge from the river and the woods wet and covered in loamy dirt and leaves, looking like the legendary “Green Man” as recorded in Irish mythology. And rarely with any fish. I can only imagine the kinds of tales that were told in town, at my expense. But learning by my mistakes, I became a better fisherman, and more knowledgeable of both river and woods. In Horace Pace, I had a learned and patient teacher.

It was still early in the spring and the bees could wait another day, I thought to myself as I rummaged around the cabin looking for appropriate fishing clothes. The breeze that had blown in through the door as I opened it to find Horace standing there in the dark, felt unseasonably warm. A perfect day to “waste” down on the river, I rationalized. I loaded myself, my five-foot graphite fishing rod, and some walnuts and cornbread for lunch into Horace’s old workhorse of a truck and rode to the bottom of the hill and the end of the dirt road down at the old Johnson homeplace. From there it would be a short walk to the other side of the little lake, then about a 20-minute walk, downhill, on an old logging trail, to the river at the upper end of the Rocky Mountain Cove.

By the time we reached the far end of the lake and the old logging trail, the sun was beginning to show signs of coming up in the east. The woods were dark, but not so dark now that we couldn’t see where we were going along a rough and uncertain path through the woods. Birds were beginning to stir, as I could hear the early-morning calls of a cardinal and the tune-like trills of a chickadee not far away as a crow carped loudly in the further distance. The old path was still wet with dew and so we slipped and slid our way down the tight track through stands of hemlock, glades of poplar, and ravines of rhododendron — a little spring branch running quickly, yet Zen-like, over beds of mica and fools gold alongside the path — until we finally reached a small, flat, sandy beach that bordered the river to the west. By then the sun was up and we could see, clearly, the high granite cliffs on the opposite side of the river, as well as the river itself as it tumbled willfully downstream into Rocky Mountain Cove.

Rocky Mountain Cove had gotten its name largely because of the sheer rock cliffs and huge boulders that had fallen into and on both sides of the river. Steep slopes of rock and rhododendron thickets defined the western side of the river while smooth granite rock-face outlined the river to the east. Both banks of the river were merely anchors for the high mountain ridges overhead — hence “Rocky Mountain Cove.” But we were there to fish, not sightsee, and so we collected our gear and divided up the night crawlers and crickets Horace had dug and gathered up that morning before he had arrived at my door, and made our way over the sandbar and onto the boulders that lead, like stepping stones for the mythic Cherokee giant Judacullah, downstream.

As was his habit when we fished together, Horace would pick certain pools and eddies in the stream, cast his line back into the dark water which flowed back in and under the large rocks, and I would follow suit, following him and fishing the same or another angle of the hole, all the while watching his methods of approaching the holes, his casting techniques, and his general manner around the fast-moving stream. We would take turns fishing around any given hole until Horace was convinced there were either no fish or no fish biting in this place, and then move on to the next likely spot. We would continue this routine for an hour or so, which constituted the teaching segment of our expeditions together.

At some point, about mid-morning, Horace would bring his line in from fishing a hole we’d exhausted and say, “I’m going ahead. I’ll meet you at the pools beneath The Narrows.” Which meant: “I’ve taught you all I can teach you, today, and I’m going ahead to fish certain spots that I know about and which I’m not going to tell you about, where I am pretty sure there are some fish.” And he would disappear into the laurel thicket and be gone. At this point, I was on my own and had to fend for myself. On this day, I reeled my line back in, sans worm, and followed his trail through the steep and slippery banks of the laurel hell, thinking I’d catch up with him at the next pool. When I got there, as usual, Horace was nowhere to be found. I decided to stop here anyway and try my luck in a large pool bordered by giant boulders, knowing this was a spot where I’d never even gotten as much as a nibble or a bite before.

The most important thing that I’d learned from Horace over the years was the idea that in order to fish for native trout, you had to learn to think like the fish you were fishing for. In mind’s eye, become the fish. Where would a trout hide? What kind of food would it go for at this time of day? Would it be lethargic or active? In the three years I’d fished this river with Horace and on my own I’d learned a great deal about trout and their habits. Like living in the woods and being in touch with the habits of the plants and animals, one needed to know the water-world and its inhabitants if one was going to go home with a mess of fish. I’d become good at making my way over and around the rocks, through the laurel and rhododendron without snagging my pole, and casting low enough as to not get my line tangled in the overhanging trees. Technically, I’d become efficient enough, but there was more to fishing than athleticism, there were also the elements of instinct and luck.

As I fished the big pool just above The Narrows, I knew that Horace had made his way well down the river ahead of me. The Narrows is a part of the river which quickly narrows into a little canyon where the river is only about 10 feet wide (hence giving it the local nickname of “The Narrows”), creating a sluice of whitewater that is not only loud but powerful as it descends down a shoot of water-whittled rock into a pool some 100 feet below. The local lore pertaining to The Narrows is as long as the river itself, which includes stories of young people who had been foolish enough to try and “jump” the river, only to fail and be washed down the slim shoot of rapids to their death. As I approached The Narrows, these tales filled my head as I stepped cautiously in the wet leaves and on the slippery stones, taking note of new-leafing ginseng and trillium. Since there was nowhere to fish the sluice itself, I made my way around the roaring whitewater as it hurled itself downstream, coming finally to a large pool at the bottom of the shoot which was adjacent to a grove of new-growth poplars and oaks. Here there were several spots where the water eddied up quietly, near abandoned beaver lodges, into calmer dark areas that were perfect habitat for the trout. On previous trips, I had had some luck fishing this hole, and so I figured that realistically I could expect to catch a fish or two. With that thought in the back of my mind, and the sound of a grouse drumming in the woods, and with two green darner dragonflies strafing the shoreline, I baited my hook with a big, fat night-crawler and cast my line in under a large rock at the south end of the pool.

By now it’s late in the morning and warm enough that if there are any trout to be had, they should be hungry and willing to move out from under their hiding places to snatch my meager menu of worm or cricket. Casting upstream and not finding any takers under the rock at the bottom of the large pool, I crawl around a slick rock with deep potholes where the footing is a bit treacherous and get into a position to fish another spot where I can cast from a more inconspicuous downstream angle. I can see that Horace has been here ahead of me, as his footprints are clearly etched into the wet moss on the rock. As I wonder if he’s had any luck in this spot, or if he’s left me anything to catch, a kingfisher flies up into a river birch on the other side of the river and sits there, un-phased by my presence, watching a small water snake wriggle its way out of the water and onto a sunny rock. This is a good sign, I think to myself as I bait my hook with a small young cricket. The kingfisher wouldn’t have stopped at this place unless he’d had success here before. I try to think like the big blue bird and to get a read on what part of the pool he’s watching. There is already a glare on the water from the sun overhead, making it difficult to discern the deep from the shallow water. Regardless, I pick my spot and toss my line into the water about 20 feet from where I am standing.

Almost immediately I get a tug that becomes a bite, and my line goes taught. I can tell from the pull and the action on the other end of the line that I’ve got something of good size. I pull, it pushes. I push, it pulls. Each of us trying to outguess and out-maneuver the other. But I’m wining this tug-of-war, and I’ve soon got the fish up near the shore as it finally breaks water and I can see it’s green-gray skin shining against the noonday sun. Sixty seconds later and I’ve got the 15-inch native trout in my hands and am taking the hook out of its mouth.

Not having a basket, a proper satchel, or even a line to secure the fish, I lay the trout down on a sandy spot above the water and break a branch off of a dogwood sapling and break it a second time so that it takes the shape of a large, long-handled fishhook. I slip the short end of the stick through the gills and out the mouth of the fish, giving me a means of transporting the fish for the rest of the day. After a few more casts into various spots in the pool and not having any further success, I pick up my “fishstick” and make my way further downstream. Here the banks are not so steep and the water calmer, making it easier to move from one spot to another. I make out deer tracks in the soft dirt. From the looks of the tracks, they must have been here drinking earlier in the day. In no time I have found another of Horace’s pools. Where I am standing, a buttonbush limb inhabited by a treehopper has recently been snapped. Feeling lucky, and since it worked for me before, I bait my hook with another cricket and cast it into a place where the water swirls back upstream in a quiet little pool under the overhanging branches of a young chinaberry tree. Immediately I get a bite and jerk my line to set the hook. But my line goes limp, and I reel it in, the hook empty. I put another cricket on the hook and toss a line into the same hole, scattering water-striders as the hook hits the surface, hoping whatever fish took the first cricket will be hungry enough to want more. I make two or three casts into the same spot before I get the second tug. This one’s even bigger, and I’ve hooked it this time. After a long fight, I land the fish — another 14- or 15-inch native trout — and thread it onto my forked carrying stick.

After several hours of fish psychology, climbing boulders, negotiating laurel thickets and leafy embankments, I’m beginning to think of home. Two trophy-sized native trout seem enough for bragging rights, as well as a substantial meal, and so I put my gear in order, pick up my fish-stick and turn to make my way downstream where I will hopefully catch up with Horace near a spot where we can hike back on another old logging trail that follows a ridge-line that will take us not far from where we’ve parked the truck. No sooner had I taken a first step on the mossy rock around the pool where I’d caught the second fish, than the next thing I know I’m waist-deep in the river, thrashing around to keep my balance and not get any wetter than I already am. As I finally recover and make my way out of the water, holding my rod in one hand and the forked stick in the other, I notice that what I am bringing out of the water in my left hand is an empty stick. My two native trout and all the bragging rights that go with them have slipped off the end of the stick and disappeared into the river. I’m sure Horace must hear my cursing downstream, as I stand on the bank of the river letting fly with all manner of expletives. “Sure, you did,” I can already hear him saying to my telling of the story of the two large trout I’d caught. Wet, tired and embarrassed, I begin walking downriver toward wherever Horace and inevitable humiliation await.

When I finally catch up with Horace, he is sitting in the sun on a small sandbar eating a meatloaf sandwich he’d packed in with him in his fishing vest. As I approach, checking my pockets to find only soggy cornbread, he pulls his fishing basket out of the water, opens the lip, revealing five large native trout. “You have any luck?” he asks. “Not much,” I respond. “Caught a couple small ones upstream near the big pool at the bottom of The Narrows, but threw them back, as they were less than 12 inches,” I say, not wanting to make a fool of myself with the story of the lost fish. “Looks like you got wet,” he says, looking up from his sandwich. “You’ll have better luck next time.” I could see him checking out my dripping pants and the crooked stick I was still carrying in my hand. He smiles, gives me a knowing wink, and goes back to eating his sandwich, not pushing me for the rest of the story that is written all over my face and clothes.

I had potatoes, cornbread, and applesauce, as usual, for dinner that night. All of which tasted like those two large native trout that got away.