# Going To Water



## NCHillbilly (Sep 23, 2019)

The Cherokee, and probably other people, had a ritual called "Going To Water." It was a ritual of purification, observed before any major ceremonies, important decisions, pivotal life events, or other times of stress or strife when cleansing and purification was needed. It involved submerging one's self in a flowing mountain stream, and purified the participant, both physically and spiritually.

I am not a Cherokee, but over a half century of life lived outdoors in these same mountains they inhabited has given me similar thoughts about the land surrounding me. They were here for at least a thousand years. They know the place like no other folks have before or since. They noticed minute details of this ecosystem and the physical and spiritual aspects of living in harmony with these ancient mountains.  They were right. The older I get, the more I believe that.

It's been awhile. Several weeks. I have not been back in the woods, nor waded into cold mountain water since mid-August. That won't do. Sunday morning. Many folks head to church. I am much the same, except I head back into the mountains.

I wanted to go out and fish awhile today. I didn't really even care whether I caught a fish or not. I just wanted to be there. Away from here. Away from people, problems, bills, and life. I want to be there. Back in that place where time melts and nothing exists but you, the flowing water, the fish, and the breathing woods around you. Hollers so dark that a few katydids sing even at mid-day. No other people, no problems, no worries. Just the water and the fish. And me. With me being the smallest part of the equation. My body and soul were hurting. I needed to Go To Water.

I didn't even have to think about the place. A nearby valley in the Smokies draws me like the needle of a compass. It's where my ancestors eked out a living from the mountain soil and water for a hundred years before the park service ran them out in the 1930s. Their bones still nourish the thin mountain soil here. It's the place I first learned to fly fish, from those who were Going To Water long before I was born; even if they didn't completely understand what drew them to the cold, dark currents that spill and drip from the ridges, brooding cliffs, and dark hollers. Or maybe they completely did, and just kept a tight lip about it, because thoughts like that didn't mesh with the fundamentalist culture of the influential folks in mid-1900s southern Appalachia. It's the place where I learned about how I fit into these mountains. It's my home water. When I am in this valley, I feel like I do nowhere else on this planet. It is a place of renewal. A place of purification. The influx of tourists the last few years can't change that. The place still speaks to those who belong here and open their spirit to hear its voice. Everything else is just superficial chatter.

Successful fishing and spiritual cleansing rely on proper nutrition. I recommend two gas station sausage biscuits. Just be careful where you eat them, the Tall One likes them too:



It has been unseasonably hot and dry for the last month. When I pulled up at the trailhead, the main creek was low and gin-clear. And crowded. Sundays here used to be peaceful. Now they are riots of folks in Subarus, Priuses,  and various SUVs, came to See The Elk. They line the fields like a drive-in movie. They come and stay, but they don't see. They never really feel the primordial energy here. They are drawn here without understanding why. They can't let go of their artificial lives and join the world that they so desperately want and need to. Their priorities are skewed.  They are static. I wanted to avoid static.



So, I hiked about three miles up one of my favorite small tributary streams. Past the trailside creek waders, the photographers, the Tenkara hippies who feel the primordial energy but don't understand it. If you weren't born here, with your ancestors' bones building the soil you walk upon, you never will, unless you are very lucky.

It is good to belong to a place and understand it. and to understand how you fit into it.

On the hike in, the creek beckoned, but I resisted the urge. I wanted solitude.



This late in the season, not much is blooming along the trail. Some blue wood asters:



And white snakeroot:



The white snakeroot holds a mysterious and fascinating story. Long ago, in late summer, a disease called milk-sick would strike mountain settlers. It was characterized by fevers, trembling, severe intestinal pain, vomiting, and partial or complete loss of muscular coordination. It was often fatal. Abraham Lincoln's mother died from it. No one knew the exact cause, but it was noticed that it affected those who drunk milk from cows that were grazed in certain shady, north-facing mountain coves. Eventually, it was discovered that the "disease" was a direct effect of a toxin called tremetol that is present in the white snakeroot plant, which, once ingested by the cow, was transferred through its milk to those who drunk it.

As if to make up for the lack of flowers, partridge berries are ripening, and brightening the trailsides:



Cinnamon-barked Clethra, a large shrub or small tree, sprouts up through the doghobble and ferns with its shreddy, exfoliating bright red bark. The pictures don't do it justice:



Overhead, Fraser magnolias are crowned with umbrellas of two-foot-long leaves:



After awhile, I stopped at about the fifth creek crossing of the trail. I was far enough back. At three miles in, if you meet anyone, they are probably there for the same reasons you are. It was time to Go To Water.



I rigged the rod and headed upstream.



To be continued.....


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## Taxman (Sep 23, 2019)

Thank you for sharing.  Understanding the nature surrounding us does open our experiences.  Whether it be the Sierra Nevada's, the Cascades or the Appalachians.  I believe taking the time to learn about your environment allows you to appreciate it more.  I can still remember my Grandparents pulling off the road in the Cascades to pick some plants for a tea.  I take time looking at plants but not enough time to research them.  I wish I did.  Thank you for reminding us.


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## NCHillbilly (Sep 23, 2019)

The creek. It flows endlessly across ledges of quartzite, graywacke, schist, sandstone, and gneiss, wearing them smooth over timeless eons.





Yet, among the timelessness and silence, one senses things. For thousands of years, copper-skinned people have roamed this valley, hunting, camping, fishing, and existing. A hundred years ago, the banks of this stream were in many places cleared, plowed, and planted. Huge poplars and hemlocks were girdled, their skeletons standing bare and stark in the fields until they fell and were piled and burned. Hammer mills and gristmills ground the corn that was raised in these newly-cleared fields, powered by the same current that still flows after most of the signs of the mills are long since gone. Houses and cabins  were built along the banks, children walked to school along the same trail that I walked in on, cattle and horses grazed along the streambanks, and men in overalls seduced colorful speckled trout from these same holes, with a piece of stickbait strung on a horsehair line attached to a cane or birch pole. Then, in the years when the south fought the northern invaders, the dregs of both sides spilled into these isolated valleys, bringing death and suffering with them. This valley in particular ran red in blood more than once. The bones of some of the victims still lie here on the banks of this stream, forgotten by most, their graves slowly becoming indistinguishable with every passing year. 

The ghosts of generations still linger here, even though the creekbanks are long since thickly grown back over with rhododendron, laurel, and doghobble; and respectable-sized hardwoods and pines rise once again from the former cornfields of men both red and white. It seems lonely, but you are never alone here if you stop and listen.

...​
I tie on a dry fly, because I want to see the trout. I want to entice them into my space. Make them meet me halfway.

As I work my way upstream, the creek is blocked with boulders, small waterfalls, and huge logjams. Since the hemlock woolly adelgid came here from Asia, thousands of our virgin forest giants have died and fallen.  Massive hemlock boles are piled across the stream where the spring floods left them, tangled masses stripped of bark and limbs by violent, rushing waters. Climbing over these logjams ranges from mildly annoying to downright strenuous and dangerous.



At least someone left me a lucky buckeye in the middle of this one:



I said earlier that I didn't care really if I caught a fish or not. That isn't really accurate. Fishing is always better when fish are hitting. And they were here. Abundantly.

The bug of the day was my version of an Orange Palmer, an old, traditional fly pattern that originated here on the streams of Haywood County. I couldn't buy a decent hit on anything else, but fish rose to this fly eagerly.



Up this high, the fish are small, but they are wild, spooky, energetic, and colorful.

Rainbows in the 6"-8" range were plentiful. I soon lost count.







In this hole, a foot-long rainbow with a wide, crimson stripe engulfed my fly with a classic head-and-shoulders rise. When I set the hook, it streaked to the end of my line in less than a second, launched itself two feet straight into the air like a missile, and left me standing there in awe with my fly hung in a tree limb fifteen feet overhead.



Even this high up, browns are here, exhibiting the same European wanderlust that brought us to this continent and led us to spread out back up into the hills and hollers. These browns have taken on the colors and spirit of the place. Brilliant golds and scarlets complement the colors of the leaves that are beginning to change along the streambanks:



To be continued even further.....


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## NCHillbilly (Sep 23, 2019)

But-this day was mostly about the specks. The natives. The fish that have lived in this creek since mammoth and mastadons trumpeted along the banks, giant ground sloths ripped the branches from the trees to feed, and dire wolves and sabertooth cats lurked in the same shadows where katydids sing at mid-day today. 

Once, specks ruled the waters here. Eventually, logging, farming, and introduced rainbows and browns drove them upstream, back into the icy headwater trickles where their enemies couldn't follow. After a hundred years of regrowth, they are moving back downstream. They are reasserting their place in the hierarchy of the stream. Every year finds them further and further downstream. I applaud them. They are survivors. They outlasted the Pleistocene megafauna. They outlasted the loggers and farmers. They are learning to deal with the rainbows and browns. They are back. And I wish them well. 

I caught dozens of these little colorful jewels, the fish that belong here. Fish from out of the mists of deep time that shroud these ancient mountains. 





Most are in the 6" range. But, I also encountered this 8 1/2" fat butterball sporting a black mouth, and the beginnings of a hook jaw and fall spawning colors. In a few weeks, he will be fertilizing eggs in a redd fanned out by the lady of his choosing:





Back into the creek to get on with making some more specks for next year and the generations of fish and fishers to come:





It seemed like a fitting point to end the day of fishing. 

As I broke down my rod and walked back out, I heard a sound that echoed down the hollers and through my spine, leaving me with a strange tingling feeling. There are a few sounds that can affect me this way. 

The wind howling through a rocky pass at high elevation. Snow hissing quietly through the trees on a still winter night. The whisper of moving water falling over a rock ledge. The howl of a wolf or coyote. The otherworldly call of an owl or whippoorwill. The plaintive, minor notes of someone like Ralph Stanley singing a hymn A capella in the mournful, quavering mountain minor key. An electric slide guitar in the hands of someone who knows what to do with it. 

And this sound. The bugle of a rutting bull elk. It reverberated down the hollers. It echoed off the cliffs and ridges. It blended in the distance with the roar of falling water. And it stirred my soul. Even with the influx of tourists they have brought, I am glad they are back after 200 years of absence. I could hear all of the pent-up anger, loneliness, and frustration it was experiencing in that shrill, guttural cry. It raised the hair up on my neck. 

I headed back down the trail, revitalized and satisfied to be walking through a place where time sometimes stands still, sometimes rushes ahead or oozes backwards, but always moves in circles. What is old is new, what is new is old, and it all fits in with the overall plan of time. It was a good day to be alive and to be in these timeless mountains. 

_Fin. _​


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## whitetailfreak (Sep 23, 2019)

Excellent post Steve. I needed that.


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## sasmojoe (Sep 23, 2019)

Thanks for taking us along, headed there this weekend


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## trout maharishi (Sep 23, 2019)

The Boogerman was watching you and he approves Sure do wish it would rain.


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## Big7 (Sep 24, 2019)

I could use a basket of those.

That size if perfect for bait. 

Hope you had a good time in the creek. ?


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## gobbleinwoods (Sep 24, 2019)

Love the tail on that palmer.   What did you use to tie it?


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## NCHillbilly (Sep 24, 2019)

gobbleinwoods said:


> Love the tail on that palmer.   What did you use to tie it?


It's golden pheasant tippet, a pretty common tailing material in a lot of old southern Appalachian flies, strangely enough.


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## NCHillbilly (Sep 24, 2019)

trout maharishi said:


> The Boogerman was watching you and he approves Sure do wish it would rain.


I think I would have gotten along just fine with Mr. Palmer.


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## NCHillbilly (Sep 24, 2019)

Big7 said:


> I could use a basket of those.
> 
> That size if perfect for bait.
> 
> Hope you had a good time in the creek. ?


Either you get it, or you don't.


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## splatek (Sep 24, 2019)

whoa... that was a great read! A true fishing essay! Great work!
thanks for the trip.


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## xdguy226 (Sep 24, 2019)

Man, what a great post. I love getting to "The Back of Beyond", I just don't get to do it as much as I like. Thank You Sir. That was Awesome!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


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## Cmp1 (Sep 24, 2019)

Great read,pic's and catches,,,,


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## Bream Pole (Sep 25, 2019)

I feel that way about the Altamaha and the swamp on either side.  Terrific writing and pictures.  Thanks.


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## RedRock (Sep 26, 2019)

Very good read NC !


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## blood on the ground (Sep 26, 2019)

Amazing brother!


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## NGAHILLBILLY (Sep 26, 2019)

Great story as always. And you are absolutely right I can't imagine living anywhere else myself. Family been here since the Cherokee my great grandmother is full blooded. It is true a special place thanks for the great story


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## northgeorgiasportsman (Sep 27, 2019)

Steve, my friend, you've got a gift that I can only imitate.  This valley is home, no matter where you lay your head at night.  I've got a similar place, not near as widely known as yours, but I can feel the ghosts of my ancestors as I walk in their footsteps.


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## Buck70 (Sep 27, 2019)

Thank you.


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## Nicodemus (Sep 27, 2019)

Good writing. I have the same thoughts about my beloved swamps and waterways of South central and Southwest Georgia.


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## Snowdawg (Sep 27, 2019)

We used to have a couple of spots in N GA where we could find those little brookies.  Now only once every 2-3 years we happen upon one.  We have to go to Colorado to get our fix now.


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## Randall (Oct 1, 2019)

Thanks for posting. Been wanting to go back there for a while.  Been about 25 years.  Was home of my ancestors as well.


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## Paymaster (Oct 1, 2019)

Thank you Steve!! Love your posts and pics!!!


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## Burdawg (Oct 2, 2019)

Long time lurker here...this post made me join up, to thank the OP for the well written post.  I guess we can all identify with "special waters" that offer soul healing peace in our mad world.  It reminded me that I don't have to be in Wyoming to get my fix and to be more thankful for my "home waters".


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## NCHillbilly (Oct 2, 2019)

Burdawg said:


> Long time lurker here...this post made me join up, to thank the OP for the well written post.  I guess we can all identify with "special waters" that offer soul healing peace in our mad world.  It reminded me that I don't have to be in Wyoming to get my fix and to be more thankful for my "home waters".


Welcome, and looking forward to hearing some of your stories!


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## Dan DeBord (Oct 11, 2019)

One of the best post I have read on Gon .


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## hopper (Nov 25, 2019)

Great post Buddy. Wish I had roots like that. Always been drawn to the water. Every were I lived as a kid the creeks soon became my highways and trails. I get out as often as I can were I can.
Beautiful post Man.


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## fish hawk (Dec 11, 2019)

Wow man the colors on those fish.


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## NCHillbilly (Dec 11, 2019)

fish hawk said:


> Wow man the colors on those fish.


Aren't they something? If there's anything on earth prettier than a little native speckled trout, I don't know what it is.


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## northgeorgiasportsman (Dec 11, 2019)

NCHillbilly said:


> Aren't they something? If there's anything on earth prettier than a little native speckled trout, I don't know what it is.





Maybe???


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## NCHillbilly (Dec 11, 2019)

northgeorgiasportsman said:


> View attachment 994773
> 
> Maybe???


That would be the closest contender, I think. 

Or Dolly Varden:


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## northgeorgiasportsman (Dec 11, 2019)

Never caught one.  Let's you and me and Chris take a road trip and do some field research.


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## NCHillbilly (Dec 11, 2019)

northgeorgiasportsman said:


> Never caught one.  Let's you and me and Chris take a road trip and do some field research.


Twist my arm.


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## 615groundpounder (Dec 13, 2019)

All around Great post!  I need to get back to the mountains more.


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## ken w (Dec 13, 2019)

Best read I have had all year!   Love the pics!


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## whitetailfreak (Feb 21, 2020)

I went back and re-read this perfectly worded description of the connection between these mountains, The Cherokee and by the late 1700's the first White pioneering families in the Smoky Mountains. Like NCH my ancestry runs deep in these mountains and his words really hit home. In one of the most isolated valleys in the Smokies I can catch native Speckle Trout within sight of my grandfather's childhood homeplace with nothing but a stone chimney now standing. I'll often stray from the creek and climb a mountain to visit kinfolk resting in an unkept primitive cemetery that once sat above the Church where now only forest exists. It's spiritual, it's emotional, and on these trips the trout are a bit of an afterthought. I for one especially appreciated this post and this forum is a better place because of NCH's writings. I hope he returns.


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## Buck70 (Feb 21, 2020)

whitetailfreak said:


> I went back and re-read this perfectly worded description of the connection between these mountains, the Cherokee and by the late 1700's the first White pioneering families in the Smoky Mountains. Like NCH my ancestry runs deep in these mountains and his words really hit home. In one of the most isolated valleys in the Smokies I can catch native Speckle Trout within sight of my grandfather's childhood homeplace with nothing but a stone chimney now standing. I'll often stray from the creek and climb a mountain to visit kinfolk resting in an unkept primitive cemetery that once sat above the Church where now only forest exists. It's spiritual, it's emotional, and on these trips the trout are a bit of an afterthought. I for one especially appreciated this post and this forum is a better place because of NCH's writings. I hope he returns.


Well said!


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## Triple C (Feb 21, 2020)

Yep.  One of the most soulful posts I've ever read on this forum.


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## GeorgiaGlockMan (Mar 1, 2020)

Triple C said:


> Yep.  One of the most soulful posts I've ever read on this forum.


No kidding. 

Cant believe that I am just seeing it.


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## Browning Slayer (Mar 6, 2020)

^My thoughts^ exactly!!

Dang Steve.. Best fishing thread EVER! Thanks for taking me along!


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## NGAHILLBILLY (Mar 20, 2020)

Absolutely right. By far the best posts on the forum and his level of intelligence is second to none. Very talented man in many ways hope he continues the posts myself


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## emptyfreezer (Apr 17, 2020)

10 yrs on this site and this is by far my favorite post.  Thank you NCHillbilly!  The old ones indeed "Went to Water", not just for special occasions, but everyday.  They visited what they called the "Long Man".  The Long Man's body consisted of lake's, his arms, legs and fingers were the numerous creeks and rivers.  Standing in the water literally gave a direct connection to the Mother. The water flows from the womb of the Earth, our Birth Giver, the one who Nourishes us and gives life to everything. The Old ones, The Proper People, buried near three forks of a creek to ensure that they return to the Mother after the short gift in human form. The words "Go to Water" Literally translates "To Pray" in Cherokee or at least that's the way I've heard it from respected elders. Thank you again for your beautiful words and pictures.  Aho! Mitakuye Oyasin!


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## trad bow (Apr 18, 2020)

I don’t know how I missed this NCH. You have done a masterful job of putting my thought and feelings in words in a way I never would be able to express. 
I’m drawn to running water in a way that is both soulfully and dare say spiritual to me. I need to Go To Water.


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## Triple C (Apr 18, 2020)

I was about to suggest that this essay be posted in the "Around The Campfire" threads. But then I thought better of it.  More would see and read it, but it would take away from the reverence of the message.

I just read it the 2nd time.  And will go back to it in the months and years ahead.


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## trad bow (Apr 18, 2020)

The OP needs to be sticky in top of this forum


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## Taxman (Apr 18, 2020)

Maybe an edit with car break in and bear attack embellishment 
would keep it serene and beautiful!!! lol))


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## Danuwoa (Apr 20, 2020)

I come here and read this every so often.  My dad would have LOVED this.  Reading it makes me feel closer to him and I get this in a way that I can’t properly articulate.  I go to water often.  Even when actual water is not involved.  Going to the woods is going to water in terms of what I’m seeking and I go often.


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