SCOF - Fall 2020 - Issue no.37

S.C.O.F ISSUE NO. 37

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FALL 2020

everything that matters

southern culture SCOF

MAG

STILL FREE

It’s All Home Water.

On our home waters, change is the only constant.

As anglers, dealing with that change is what we do.

Off the water, change can be more complicated. It takes community, resources and action. It takes your voice and your passion. Together, our commitment to the things we love—wild fish and clean water— is one thing that will never change.

We Stand for the Waters We Stand In

Passion. Purpose. Progress. Hilary Hutcheson and Ebon Robinson keep moving forward, one step at a time. Flathead River, Montana. ANDREW BURR Š 2020 Patagonia, Inc.

SCOF Fall Fluffer

Photo: Indian River Lagoon, Florida - September 2020, Steve Seinberg

Photo: Watauga River, TN - September 2020, Steve Seinberg

Photo: Charleston, SC - October 2020, Dave Fason

Photo: Indian River Lagoon, Florida - September 2020, Steve Seinberg

Photo: Houma, Louisiana - February 2020, Dave Fason

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catching a striper: the rube goldberg way

by david grossman photos: steve seinberg

features

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heading home: grayson highlands

by dave fason

110 call

the captain:

bluegrass and blue skies with woody platt by franklin tate

148 albies

r u here?

r u touching yourself? (be gentle) by david grossman

Photo: Steve Seinberg

photos: john smolko

8 scof fall fluffer

26 a letter from dave .david

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haiku

60

fur and feather matinee

.deep

departments

grossman

float

.sleestack

.matt callies

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pocket poem

92

scof uncovered

.bridge fishing - joe dahut

.deep float

134 bench .crack

press

attack crab .robbie powell

170 the

.scof

back page

no. 36

PAYLOAD Featuring a fast action for casting large flies and a powerful tip to help lift heavy lines off the water, the PAYLOAD is ready to tackle any heavyduty work from Smallmouth to Musky.

Handcrafted in the USA

BIG FLIES

/ FAST ACTION

sageflyfish.com

s.c.o.f fall 2020

issue no. 37 fuck 2020 editor co-publisher:

David Grossman creative director co-publisher:

Steve Seinberg

contributors: Dave Fason Robbie Powell John Smolko Deep Float Joe Dahut Matt Callies Franklin Tate

copy editor: Skynet copy editor emeritus: Lindsey Grossman ombudsman: Rand Harcz general inquiries and submissions: info@southerncultureonthefly.com advertising information: info@southerncultureonthefly.com

cover image: Steve Seinberg

www.southerncultureonthefly.com 22 all content and images Š 2020 Southern Culture on the Fly

S.C.O.F MAGAZINE

S.C.O.F MAGAZINE

Photo: Dave Fason

southern culture

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A letter from Dave, the editor...

Summer 2020 Sooooo, are we gonna talk about it?

You know, IT? Somebody won and somebody lost. Half of us still seem to hate the other half of us, and that half thinks the other half should just pack up their shit and leave. I have friends on my side and I have friends who are woefully misinformed and are on the other side. We still fish together, but we argue more than we used to. I see a lot of fishing folks on both sides yelling into the abyss of social media. Who they’re yelling at I still have yet to discern, but what they’re saying requires no interpretation. Real hating-your-fellowman type of shit.

None of these people’s mothers raised them to say things like that to people. I say that knowing some of their mothers.

No one’s minds are changed from one side to the other because the sides now can no longer mutually agree on what a fact even means anymore. For a number of years now I’ve been culling old friends who don’t fish and replacing them with new friends that do. If all I want to do is fish, it’s easier to be friends with people who always want to go fishing too (doesn’t hurt if they row either, Steve). Needless to say, limiting your friend pool to people who really fish narrows the pool down to a puddle. If I can’t hang out with half the puddle or they can’t hang out with me, my inner social animal is gonna cower inwards like a plump penis in a cold pool. This part of my brain tells me the other half are good people, and you wouldn’t have been friends if they weren’t.

or form, including racism, sexism, antisemitism, homophobia, transphobia, and a whole litany of others that, in the end, boil down to hating someone because of the way they were born.

Let’s also throw fascism in there for good measure.

The other half has made clear they will no longer placate anyone who is godless, a socialist, a communist, a snowflake, or a libtard. If you do happen to fall into one theses classifications you should no longer have any say and it would be best if you would just shut the fuck up and let the real Americans make the country great again. The anger is real on both sides. The perceived righteousness is equally as real. I think (hope?) both halves can at least agree on protecting the wild places we as You can live with differences on fiscal fisherman/hunters/outdoorsmen hold as policy, social policy, and the proper way pillars of our outlook on life. But even to wipe your ass (no one can tell me this former sacred cow seems more wiping poo on your sack is proper), hell, readily laid at the altar of polarization for it even makes for engaging conversation its bloody sacrifice. on the boat. I know the other half think the same thing about me. We can have I don’t know what happens next. I don’t absolutely zero respect for each other's know if it will ever be like it used to. I opinion, while still having a great deal don’t know who to fish with and I don’t of respect for each other in every other know who will fish with me. I hope we all way. We are more than our opinions, can still find some peace in this hobby right? We rode this dynamic for a long that we all pursue. I also hope that we time, right up until the point we seemed can learn to talk to each other, and have we couldn’t anymore. Lines in sand differences, without walking away hating started to take shape and now it seems each other. I do know that in time things those lines are inked onto our collective will calm, I just wish I knew how much consciousness. Ism’s and phobias are time it will be. I miss the other side of no longer tolerated in any way shape the puddle.

NO. 1 FALL 2011

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NO. 12 SUMMER 2014

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NO. 14 WINTER 2015

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NO. 22 WINTER 2017

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NO. 24 SUMMER 2017

NO. 25 FALL 2017

NO. 32 SUMMER 2019

NO. 33 FALL 2019

NO. 34 WINTER 2020

NO. 35 SPRING 2020

ve A FUN Summer southernHaculture

S.C.O.F issue no. 12

summer 2014

we’re better than them

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magazine

still free

NO. 11 SPRING 2014 S.C.O.F issue no. 21

Dance Poon...Dance Topwater Timing Totalitarianism Hardly, Strictly Musky Roadside Attractions Fishing the Proper Popper-Dropper

Disco Shrimp Gangsters of the Pond Von Beard Chronicles Linwood Blue Crab ...and more

fall 2016

olde time fudge shoppe

THE

ReJiggering

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MAG

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NO. 21 FALL 2016

NO. 31 SPRING 2019 28

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Everything that Matters

NO. 6 WINTER 2013

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NO. 8 SUMMER 2013

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NO. 16 SUMMER 2015

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NO. 18 WINTER 2016

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NO. 20 SUMMER 2016

NO. 26 WINTER 2018

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NO. 28 SUMMER 2018

NO. 29 FALL 2018

NO. 30 WINTER 2019

NO. 36 SUMMER 2020 S.C.O.F MAGAZINE

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Haiku

with Deep Float

Strips of human flesh.

A few strands of human hair.

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Catching A Stri The Rube Goldberg

By David Grossman Photos: Steve Seinberg

iper

Way

Do you remember the game Mousetrap? The one where you

turn the crank that engages the gear, that pushes the lever, which makes the shoe kick the bucket, in turn sending the metal ball down the stairs into the gutter, striking the hand, dislodging the marble that rolls around and through the bathtub landing on a diving board that sends the scared-shitless diver— on said board—hurtling through the air into a basket whose impact jars loose the cage, and sends it spiraling down the pole, and—by the grace of the almighty—ensnaring that vile rodent, lured there by the torrid promise of cheese, bringing a very satisfying end to a very remarkable chain of events?

Man, I love that game. We bought it for the kids, I play it all the time. By myself. So the other day when this same unlikely chain of events played itself out on the river, I couldn’t help but think of the man himself, Rube Goldberg: The inventor of Mousetrap, and the inspiration behind this serendipitous striper.

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They are simultaneously the most elusive fis fish in any bend they occupy on low water. T

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sh in the river, while being the most obvious They haunt my dreams constantly.

The Mouse Lake stripers run up this particular Tennessee tailwater during the summer months, escaping the heat of the lake and marauding their favorite meal: the lowly stocked rainbow trout. Yes, they also eat shad, but the rainbow reigns above all other baits, and thanks to the Tennessee Wildlife Resource Agency, the meals are plentiful throughout the river. Generally, these particular stripers in this particular fishery are caught on bait, on highwater, in low light. They once in a blue moon eat a mega-sized fly on 10-weight, with a mega-sized sink-tip line, but still on highwater in low light. They are simultaneously the most elusive fish in the river, while being the most obvious fish in any bend they occupy on low water. They haunt my dreams constantly.

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The Player My buddy Robbie. He’s a good dude to know. He can do all kinds of shit. But his greatest talent lies in the wrangling of critters. I have seen him grab a skunk bare handed, as well as the quick dispatch of many varmints at the end of his handcrafted slingshots. Robbie had been in town for a couple weeks and all he wanted to do was catch a striper. He had his fill of anything trout by this point, other than remembering their cohabitation in the same waters we had spotted a group of stripers in the week before. This was his second day ever on this particular fishery. It was my 123,407th. I still haven’t caught a striper on the fly there.

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The Game

We cranked the gear on the winch and lowered the boat into the the sun was high, without a single cloud to hide its smug glare. W having very little luck fishing beetles, and even less luck with our in any of this and his anticipation for the striper hole was palpab expectations, as we would arrive on low water, with the sun high

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e river. The water was low and We made our way down river r midges. Robbie had no interest ble. I, in turn, tried to temper his h.

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The storm wate bathtub sending

The plan was to spot them on low water and then wait an hour f vulnerable on the water change. I, in no uncertain terms, told him low water, there was absolutely no chance of catching them in th some force had enticed the shoe to kick the bucket sending a st overtook us about a mile upriver from the bend we knew to hold emergency weather cave just in time to watch the rain come dow

Once again, forces were at work behind the scenes. The storm w bathtub sending a mudplug hurtling down a tiny trickle of a tribu giving every striper in the hole a perfect ambush position to gorg

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er had snaked its way down the gutter and through the a mudplug hurtling down a tiny trickle of a tributary,...

for the generation to hit and see if we could catch them m that while it would be tempting to cast at the visible fish on hose circumstances. At that exact moment, unbeknownst to us, torm cell building and racing across the countryside. The squall d stripers. We were able to time it perfectly, pulling into the wn while eating sandwiches and smoking our daily medicinals.

water had snaked its way down the gutter and through the utary, creating the most distinct orange line down the bank, ge themselves on the remaining trout.

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The rain subsided as quickly as it began, leaving behind a curtain of low, grey clouds. As I rowed into the bend and saw the mudline in the exact right spot, I had never been so sure that someone was going to catch a striper as I was in that moment.

I handed Robbie my 10-weight with a 9-inch Gamechanger and watched as the cage spiraled down and Robbie came tight on his third cast—a weird chain of events leading to an unlikely outcome.

Epilogue Creating the concept of Mousetrap isn’t really Rube’s whole story though. While Goldberg created the concept, a toy developer took Rube’s idea to make the physical game. The toy developer made millions and Rube never saw a dime. I’m really happy Robbie got that striper, though.

Photo: Todd Field

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Pocket Poem

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Bridge Fishing

By Joe Dahut

The rat’s nest of rusty lures & braid braided further into headache on the telephone wire shakes in the wind.

I’d like to add my mistake to the nest.

From the bow of an expensive boat driving very fast under the bridge, I glanced up and saw the guys jigging ballyhoo and pinfish for anything hungry next to the slick pylons. Once, I was a bridge fisher throwing out my shoulder & cursing the boats flying beneath me. And before that, I spent years largemouth fishing on my feet.

Snipping worms into pieces, slipping pieces onto trebles and spinners by the lake.

I’d still rather get my feet wet.

There are days, even in my belonging where I think I don’t belong.

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heading home GRAYSON HIGHLANDS

By Dave Fason

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I’ve always wanted to fish an area close to home year-round to experience all the seasons. With good intentions, I would plan on it each year but regularly blew it off to do something else a bit more exotic. My 2020 was full of remote jobs and traveling adventures but, beginning in March, my schedule was no longer determined by me. It went a little something like this: Me: “Belize tickets booked!”

Covid: “Enjoy your refund.”

Me: “Flood tides are looking great!”

Covid: “I’m spreading in the US like crazy...you could catch fish and ME!” Me: “Bahamas, bonefish, Kalik?”

Covid: “Sorry friend. I got all travel banned. Looks like it’s going to be your house, catfish, and Bud heavy for the foreseeable future. Oh, and hope you stocked up on toilet paper.”

I am pretty sure I had a two-year-old temper tantrum, drank like Nick Cage in Leaving Las Vegas, and talked with friends like a high school teen about how life sucks. After my personal shit show had its season finale, I snapped back to reality. I thought back to my original idea, fishing home waters for a year. I could make this happen after all.

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A good friend, Chris Barclay, and I regularly fish together. We are pretty like-minded when it comes to our ideal fishing. In short, we both really enjoy catching brook trout out of mostly small creeks and streams.

The two of us live less than an hour apart in North Carolina. Most people assume that our home waters are in western North Carolina but to us the Grayson Highlands in neighboring southern Virginia is what we call “home waters.” We’ve explored a handful of creeks in southern Virginia that have a soul and personality of their own—the type of place that creates wonder and calls you back each month. Without ever talking about it, we were on the same page.

This was the perfect “safe escape” for our sanity during the very serious but equally nerve-racking Covid outbreak.

sign to stay away or at least to tread lightly. There was a larger waterfall that had access to fishing around it. The only issue was the solid ice encasing it. With poor judgement driving our decisions, we had to figure out how to “safely” get to the water. The following few minutes went something like this: Chris: “We’ve already come this far.

We’ve got this right? I mean, we do have spikes!”

Me: “Totally, just walk slowly...”

Me: “Chris! Holy shit! Did anything break? Are you alive?!”

Chris and I attempted to hike up the side of a frozen rock wall, thinking we were proficient in technical ice climbing. Then our adventure ended with one of us falling, Home Alone Rewind to pre-Covid lockdown and style, 20 feet down the waterfall edge into the month of February. Fishing to land in a freezing pool of water. creeks this time of year can still be Luckily Chris only suffered from productive, but nothing like spring bad bumps and bruises and both of through fall. However, venturing out us lived to tell the story. Defeated, this time of year is a great way to we made our way safely out of scout the land and locals. We learned the woods and to the neighboring it is also a great time to figure out the country store. Hot coffee and biscuits things that you should and should helped warm our wet and frozen not do. One of the first outings was bodies. The locals mended our egos, a cold morning with light snow and offering empathy after telling them ice. The forecast was in the high 30s of our story. Our winter outing left us but it never broke freezing. It was yearning for spring to come, but this cold enough for smaller waterfalls journey kicked off season one of our to have the edges frozen over. While year of fishing in our backyard. it was picturesque, this was a good 72

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Defeated we made our way safely out of the woods and to the neighboring country store. Hot coffee and biscuits helped warm our wet and frozen bodies.

Yes, spring had finally come, but it was not the spring we were wishing for, and we were in disbelief that something like a virus could sweep the planet like it did. You remember spring 2020. It was the time that you rationed toilet paper, disinfectant traded like gold, and no one was driving so gas was crazy cheap. The silver lining was we still had our home waters and winter had melted away. The country store was closed and while they still offered cheap gas, the biscuits and conversations were missed. Trees were budding and the stinging nettles were making their debut. This meant the fish were ready for food. We ventured to one of the creeks we found during our winter scouting that had huge potential. We nicknamed the creek after the campground grounds keeper, Steve.

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Steve was a good man we met on one of our many hikes. He shared information, such as easier routes and secret paths, but at the same time he swore we would not catch fish.

He said, “Sorry guys, there are none in here.�

Thankfully, while Steve was really knowledgeable about the land, he was wrong about the fish. Our day ended with 100 or more fish to hand. Thanks Steve! The spring that started with fear, lockdown, nervousness, and anxiety ended up being one to remember in positive ways. We were able to drive down empty highways to watch the forest canopy emerge and cicada larva become Big Macs for brookies.

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Next stop on our journey around the sun is summer and thankfully the world, while limping, is still intact.

People were learning how to navigate our new way of life. Well, some people. We were greeted at the country store but they looked at us funny for wearing masks. On our way out we noticed a sign that read, “If you have a medical condition that you can’t wear a mask, we ain’t asking.” It’s funny how much can change in six months. Regardless, they had cheap gas and those warm chicken biscuits were still delicious and easy to eat in the car. The summer forest was dense and filled with Godzilla-sized bugs, which means the fish were out and dumb to our flies.

This was our way to find personal peace and a departure from covid media coverage.

This is what we call small creek fishing at its finest.

After spending so much time in these now-familiar woods, we were getting to know the ins and outs of the creeks, but working in higher elevations with the summer heat still made it a nice challenge. Our days on the water also started to become something different. They were a needed way to unwind. This was our way to find personal peace and a departure from Covid media coverage. It was an important time for reflection to recharge the mind. I started to form a personal connection with the land in this area and a deeper appreciation for how it helped me during the pandemic. I focused on the little things that I normally would overlook. From a fishing standpoint I knew fall was around the corner—and so were horny brook trout.

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Now it’s fall in the South. The leaves are changing, the temperature is cooling, and I’ve received 1,049,375,738 texts from political parties. Covid is still around and cases are rising but you would never know it from the constant, repetitive sounds of the election.

People are tired, losing their minds, and starting to break. I have my days, too, but the things that continue to keep me together are family, friends, and those southern Virginia creeks.

These days we find any excuse for a fishing escape. We’ve had a few stellar days sightcasting to larger brook trout and Chris and I both enjoy the cooler dry air. Now our favored brook trout have started to spawn so we are leaving them alone. The good news is we found a couple of creeks that have been infested with wild rainbows. This makes it easier for us to give our natives a break. Our last outing was a week ago and I couldn’t help but sit and stare at nothing but my surroundings for a while. The original idea was to fish all the seasons of one area to observe the changing land and fish.

This feels basic in comparison to the events that actually took place. I have a tremendous amount of gratitude for these home waters.

They offered shelter and escape from the chaos and confusion of 2020 but, most importantly, they helped me find myself when I would start to feel lost and overwhelmed. For this I will always be grateful and promise to respect this land while encouraging others to do so as well.

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Dave Fason is a photographer based in North Carolina and the newest addition to SCOF’s stable of young creative steeds.

Dave gets around a good bit and we look forward to seeing more of his stuff in upcoming issues. Check out his work here.

REJECTED

FLYFISHING

FILM TOUR SUBMISSIONS

SCOF UNCOVERED Deep Float

“Fly fishing dies in darkness.”

- Deep Float

The seedy underbelly of fly fishing has laid dormant for too long. Horrific fly-tying scandals, murder, and possibly even incidents of cannibalism have been swept under the rug by the fly-fishing industry at large. It’s time for these atrocities to finally see the light of day. Lives will be ruined and careers destroyed, but the truth must always prevail.

Thanks to our well-placed informant who wishes to be known only as Deep Float, the investigative team at SCOF Uncovered has obtained a treasure trove of electronic documents, unaired films, and unsubstantiated rumors that we will bring to the flyfishing public. It is our duty to publish any and all information we receive from our source, who we have (partially) vetted.

In this, the first dispatch from SCOF Uncovered, we bring to you rejected flyfishing film ideas that have circulated throughout the industry for decades. This eye-opening report brings to light the dark side of fly-fishing cinema, and those responsible for it.

These may shock or terrify, but we remain steadfast in our vow to bring our readers the truth, no matter the consequences. What follows are verbatim fly-fishing film pitches and rejection notices obtained by Deep Float and now published for the first time.

Title: American Shad X Pitch: Two brothers face down their demons in an attempt to catch the world-record American shad on the fly.

Drama ensues as they race around the country nymphing every river they can find with only one thing on their minds.

Rejection Note: Too many racist overtones, and I don’t think anyone really wants to see a rainbow trout getting curb stomped at the boat ramp.

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Title: 8MM Beadhead Pitch: For Michigan-bred anglers, nothing comes before state pride. Except for revenge. In this chilling thriller, angling celebrity Kelly Galloup leaves his adopted home of Montana for the wilds of his native Michigan to track down and eliminate his arch-rival, the one and only Tommy Lynch, aka the Fish Whisperer.

After discovering Tommy stealing his fly recipes, Kelly sets out on a mission for vengeance, knowing full well only one man will come out of this alive.

Rejection Note: Holy shit. I think I just saw Tommy Lynch beheaded on film.

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Title: The Princess of Tides Pitch: A regionally-renowned beauty queen enters the world of fly fishing in the place she lives and loves: Charleston, South Carolina. She trades her tiara for a 8-weight and sets off to master the tides and redfish of the lowcountry marshes, in search of her favorite thing in the world: gold.

Rejection Note: Not that we’re against it, we’ve just never seen anyone fishing from a flats boat in stilettos. Unfortunately, that was the highlight. With over ten minutes of beauty pageant footage, this film could use more editing, less exposition, and more actual fishing footage. And a lot less eating disorders.

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Title: Kill Bill, Vol. 3 Pitch: The war between fly fishers and conventional anglers has droned on for centuries, a battle for supremacy on all the waters of the world. One woman must take up the mantle for all fly fishers everywhere and defeat the leader of the Bass Assassins, Bill Dance. With more twists and turns than a mountainous highway, this heart-pounding action flick promises edge-of-your-seat entertainment hurtling through from the first tense seconds until the mind-bending finale.

Starring Meredith McCord as the Bride and featuring Bill Dance as himself.

Rejection Note: So the twist was that Bill Dance was DEAD THE WHOLE TIME?!?

In a sort of Weekend at Bernie’s meets the Sixth Sense, with a little fly fishing thrown in, I can’t put into words how horrible and derivative this film was. There were some fun sword fights with fishing rods thrown in for good measure, but this blood-soaked croaker made me wish I was born blind. Or found a better career path.

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Title: Loomis, Loomis Pitch: A coming-of-age tale of a young fly fisherman’s strange, erotic journey from Trenton to Roscoe. This biopic tells the tale of a wandering angler named Gary Loomis, learning about life and love on his fishing travels throughout the northeast. Starring Blane Chocklett in the role of Gary Loomis, the legendary angler, rod designer, and… playboy?

Rejection Note: This is little more than Upstate New York soft-core porn. The sheer amount of nudity, large women in flannel, and farm animals involved in this outrageous creation far outweighs the short, and often boring, scenes of tiny brook trout being caught on Royal Coachmen. I never thought I would use “fly-fishing orgy scene” in a sentence, but here we are. This is 15 minutes of pure filth that rivals the worst of John Waters. And I don’t mean that as a compliment.

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Title: The Land Before Tom Pitch: Imagine the world when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Creatures great and small swam freely in the rivers and oceans, undisturbed by fly rod or reel. That is until one plucky little triceratops spun some feathers onto a sharp stick and began pulling fish after fish out of the nearest river. This animated tale shares the imagined origin story of Orvis legend Tom Rosenbauer, setting him and his hilarious animated friends on a breathtaking adventure of loss, redemption, and volcanoes.

Rejection Note: This might be the first animated fly-fishing film I’ve come across that deserves an R-rating. The scene when triceraTom shoves the Phil Monahan velociraptor into the raging volcano was quite bleak, but not nearly as unnecessary as the blood-soaked finale, pitting triceraTom against Steve Rajeff the T-Rex. I came into this film expecting good, family fun, and left with my mouth agape at the senseless slaughter of triceraTom and his companions—although, I must say that Rajeff T-Rex creating the first fly rod out of triceraTom’s vertebrae and internal organs was an unexpected outcome.

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Photo: Steve Seinberg

woody platt

Call the Captain: Bluegrass and Blue Skies with Woody Platt

By Franklin Tate Photos: Courtesy of Woody Platt

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Photo: Chris Franzen

Quite a few blurry years ago, I took up residence in a little shack in the hills above Asheville. I was freshly separated, a newbie bachelor with time on my hands, so of course one of the first things I did was buy a Mitzi skiff. The next thing I did was get a clawhammer banjo. Mornings, I would sit on the porch and try to learn the simplest old-time tunes.

The sound of a rank amateur working over a banjo is a galaxy away from pleasant.

And with the clawhammer, it can be hard to hear any music there at all, but merely a random bum-diddy assortment of plucks, pulloffs, and hammer-ons. Shit, I often wondered if maybe I’d gotten a defective instrument.

I realized that finding my way around a banjo was similar to my early days with another instrument: the fly rod.

In both clawhammer and fly casting, there is all of this motion with both hands,

all of this back-and-forth that, when executed poorly, possesses the coordination and grace of a feral cat on an ice skating rink. So it is in this shared initial awkwardness that I find myself fascinated with individuals who are good musicians and anglers. Who stands at the convergence?

Who wades in both those waters? It’s an unusual skillset, for sure, but then Woody Platt, frontman for the nationally-acclaimed Steep Canyon Rangers, is anything but usual. In everything he does and gets involved with, Woody sets a high standard, and he has shaped a life out of not only playing some of the best bluegrass heard today but also sharing his passion for fly fishing and trout streams. Oddly enough, he never expected it would turn out like this. Not at all. He’d always envisioned returning home after college and settling into the life of a guide. After all, that’s what he had done every summer since high school, so why would anything change?

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I find myself fascinated with individuals who are good musicians and anglers. Who stands at the convergence? Who wades in both those waters?...

Photo: Sandlin Gaither

As karma would have it, during his senior year at UNC Chapel Hill, Woody started playing bluegrass and, in his words, “For the first time in my life I had a new hobby that could rival the joy that I got from fly fishing. We started a band called Steep Canyon Rangers and it quickly gained momentum and some musical success started to happen.” This new unexpected career path through music derailed his plan to become a guide. It was a tough decision, but he wisely chose music.

Take a moment to ponder which big-time celebrities are also bluegrass banjo virtuosos and only one name floats to the surface: Steve Martin. The woman angler on the trip that day was, in fact, the future wife of the famous banjo-playing actor and comedian, and their time fishing together would lead to a jam session between Mr. Martin and the Rangers.

With Martin on stage with them, the Rangers embarked on a “World Bluegrass Tour” that Life for the Rangers was good included stops at some of the in those early years, with two world’s most prestigious concert seminal albums, Old Dreams and halls. Since then, while either New Dreams and Mr. Taylor's playing with Martin or without, New Home, gaining critical praise. the Steep Canyon Rangers have Then, in 2001, the group took first not peered into the rearview. prize at the Rockygrass Festival They have won two International and earned mainstage space Bluegrass Music Awards, and their the following year. Additional 2012 album Nobody Knows You albums continued to gain attention was named Best Bluegrass Album nationally, but, ironically enough, and won the group their first it was a fishing trip in 2007 that Grammy. They have also received elevated the Rangers to a new two other Grammy nominations. In level. As Woody tells the story, he 2017, they joined the likes of John was guiding a woman angler and Coltrane, Earl Scruggs, James her family that year, not realizing Taylor, Nina Simone, and Doc the trip would result in more than Watson by being inducted into just the typical tip and day on the the North Carolina Music Hall of water.

Fame.

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Photo: Shelly Swanger

Since COVID, the Rangers have pretty much shut down their road operations but have still managed to put out three new albums: Arm in Arm, the Merlefest North Carolina Songbook, and Be Still Moses with the Asheville Symphony. Trying to catch up with Woody is never easy. He’s always in motion and on to the next thing. Both before and during the pandemic, we have managed to square away some time and go a bit deeper about fly fishing, music, and fatherhood.

“Thank goodness we had three new records in the can when all of this broke out,” Woody says, the relief in his voice evident and clear. There are lots of other things he is grateful for during the pandemic, such as being able to go back to guiding and spending time with his family.

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Photo: David Simchock

I was curious about the balance between it all, and Woody agreed that it was not easy to maintain. He is forever taking his fishing gear on tour and sneaking away for a therapy session on any nearby stream or river. He made it sound like he had no choice in the matter, that time on the water was essential to his success as a musician.

“There is music in a trout stream,” Woody explains. “I love the sound of the water flowing ahead of you and behind you. There is so much rhythm in a flowing river, and being there is a great way to clear my mind and wash away the miles from the road. Fly fishing gives me a mental reset and helps me be more excited to create music—the balance is important.”

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Woody became fascinated with fish and fishing while still very young. One childhood memory stands out, the time he fell off a dock into a mountain lake, which wouldn’t have been a big deal if he had known how to swim.

Yet instead of flapping about like a boy about to drown, he remained very still, his face down in the water. Woody’s mother was the one who had to save him, jumping in fully clothed to pull him back to the surface.

An exasperated and soaking Cindy Platt asked her son, “Why in the world didn’t you try to get out of the water, Woody? Why’d you just lie there?”

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“Cuz I was looking at all the fishes, that’s why,” Woody replied.

Around his boyhood home of Brevard, North Carolina, Woody fished every pond he could find, then one Easter Sunday, when Woody was in third grade, his dad brought home waders and light-action spinning rods for the Platt brothers. Woody spent the next five years using that same gear to catch trout in the Davidson River, employing the “WP technique” of a downand-across swing through the riffles and runs with a small split shot and a few pieces of corn.

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There came a moment in Woody’s life that completely rearranged his concept of fishing: he was given a Fenwick fiberglass rod with a Pflueger Medalist reel. Woody recalls, “From then on my mom would drop me off on the upper Davidson in the fly-fishing-only, catchand-release section. I remember the first trout I landed on a fly like it was yesterday.

Being IN the water, the sounds of the water all around you, the smell of the river, the peacefulness, the ‘alone time,’ and the day I met a kind old man who filled my hands with fly patterns I had never seen or heard of.

It was just magical, man, and it still is.”

By the time he graduated from Brevard High, Woody guided for Davidson River Outfitters in Pisgah Forest. Guiding added a new dimension. “I loved nothing more than sharing the experience and knowledge with other people. It's become a lifelong passion and a big part of my identity. Now, even 20 years later, I still

guide when I have the time, and I haven’t lost the love of sharing fly fishing with others.”

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Photo: Frank Prince

Photo: Gary Paczosa

In fact, Woody has become an ambassador not only for the sport but also for trout and rivers. He has taught scores of bluegrass musicians to fly fish, restored a long section of damaged river that runs through his farm, and raised funds to install a unique aquarium setup for the Brevard Boys and Girls Club so that kids can raise trout from eggs to fry. Whenever we have a chance to connect, Woody and I brainstorm up new ways to get the next generation involved with fly fishing and conservation, a cause that is even more front and center now that he’s a father.

When I ask about that, he observes, “As an angler, I’m so excited to share my passion with my son, Rivers. As a conservationist, I love knowing that anything we can do to protect our natural environment will impact my son’s life so that he, too, will be able to enjoy a healthy stream.”

And Woody does have a little firsthand experience with what is and isn’t a healthy stream.

He and his wife bought a small farm on the outskirts of Brevard, and the North and East Forks of the French Broad converge on their land.

Early on, Woody realized a piece of the farm’s East Fork was a major source of siltation to the upper French Broad.

He worried about fish and hellbender salamander habitat downstream being impacted, and as landowners, he and his wife felt a moral obligation to try and fix the problem. Nine years of collaboration and partnerships later, they finished a major stream restoration project, and the French Broad now runs clear and deep past their farm.

Since COVID, his piece of the East Fork has been a silver lining in Woody’s life. He has gone back to one of his first loves in life and is guiding again while the country’s stages and venues are shut down. He runs trips weekly on the East Fork, plus he gets his family out on the water every chance he gets.

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Photo: David Simchock

As he talks about it all, I can hear the thankfulness in his voice, plus I can tell just how happy time on the water has made him: “Honestly, the guiding has brought me so much joy! I’m so thankful to have the option during this time to stay busy on the water.”

community of Brevard lives on. She has been such an inspiration.”

I think back to that story of his mother pulling him out of the lake and consider how far Woody has come--both in music and in fly fishing-since that day. Such progress can be hard to measure, The pandemic has made him especially when you’re living slow down and remember through it. Maybe that’s why his priorities and some of his we all return to the rivers deepest joys in the world—a and streams that mean so true mixed blessing when much to us. We are hoping you stop and think about it. to slow it down a bit, hoping His latest obsession is hitting to discover rhythms outside the river at night with his and beyond ourselves. favorite mouse pattern.

The musician, the fly fisher, When I ask him about other the poet—each connects to sources of inspiration and the sublime through a ritual where he finds the motivation counting of beats, casts, and desire to write and play syllables. Simple math, the world’s best bluegrass indeed, yet the end result music, Woody doesn’t miss a can be magical. beat.

Woody Platt seems very “My mother, Cindy Platt. She comfortable with this idea. was a champion for children In fact, if anything, he seems in our community and she to live within a world where spent her entire career that is not only all a person working to enrich the lives needs, it’s what he has of underprivileged youth. come to expect from a crazy, She passed away four years wonderful life of rivers and ago, but her impact on the songs.

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Photo: Shannon Whitworth

Photo: Shelly Swanger

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bench press Robbie Powell

Photos: Dave Fason

Robbie Powell

The Crack Attack Crab is a go-to fly for the fall flood tide fishing in the Lowcountry. The fly is designed to be made small and lightweight for those spooky redfish doing headstands looking for fiddler crabs. You don’t need a lot of movement in this fly; small ticks and quick pauses is all it takes. You can change up your colors depending on the water in your area; a good black-and-purple color combo works really well for stained/dirty areas.

Material List: -Umpqua X-Series Backcountry hooks, size 1 -Danville’s 210 thread, tan -Estaz, purple medium -Sight Cast Fishing Marsh Legs, sand/blue, orange tip -Sight Cast Fishing Redfish Brush, blue crab -Sight Cast Fishing Easy Shrimp Eyes, black -EP Fibers, tan -Bead-chain eyes, medium -Hard mono, 30-pound 136

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Step 1: Add a baseline of thread to cover the hook. Take the thread just into the start of the bend of the hook and attach purple Estaz. Wrap 4-6 wraps and tie off.

Step 2: Take two of the Marsh Legs, tie a knot on both of the color divides, giving yourself one piece. Attach the legs to the side of the hook with about 1/4-1/2 inches of space from the hook to the knot you just tied. Trim excess of the legs (solid color) past the knot down to about 1/4 inch for claws.

Step 3: Take your thread to the front of the hook and attach your medium bead-chain eyes firmly on top while leaving enough space to add a weed guard later.

Step 4: Flip your hook over and attach the Easy Shrimp Eyes on the bottom side of the hook. Adjust length to your liking.

Step 5: Flip your hook back over and attach your Redfish Brush; wrap the brush 5-6 times and tie off. Using a bodkin, pull some of the fibers loose.

Step 6: Attach two more of your Marsh Legs on both sides of the hook, trim excess off about 1/4 inch past the claws you first tied on.

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Step 7: Pre-cut five-to-seven strips of EP Fibers in tan. Figure eight your strips tightly together to take up the remaining space on the top side of the hook.

Step 8: Pull fibers together on the top by pinching them together between two fingers. Make one cut at a diagonal with the lower side by the eyes to get evenly cut sides. Trim lightly on the top, bottom, and sides of your fibers to get the clean look.

Step 9: Pinch a piece of 30-pound hard mono together using needle-nose pliers and attach in front of the bead-chain eyes (hopefully you left enough space earlier).

Step 10: Secure weed guard to the hook and whip finish your fly.

Cut weed guard down to size and look for any loose fibers that may have worked their way out. Once happy with a clean cut and trim, cover the thread on the bottom as well around the bead chain and weed guard with Loon UV thin fly finish and cure with UV light.

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Robbie Powell is Lowcountry born and raised. Being relatively new to tying hasn’t stood in the way of developing some of the most effective patterns in the marshes surrounding Charleston.

If you’ve been on a boat down there in the last year or so you’ve probably seen his work. Robbie is now running a full-on craft industry out of his cave, supplying Lowcountry shops with the flies that catch fish. Check Robbie and Bend-it Flies out here.

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COHUTTA FISHING COMPANY WWW.COHUTTAFISHINGCO.COM 490 EAST MAIN ST | BLUE RIDGE, GA | 706 946 3044

GUIDED TRIPS AND TRAVEL

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SOUTHERNCULTUREONTHEFLY.COM 146

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NEW SHIRTS AND HATS

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Albies R u here?

R u touching yourself? (Be gentle)

By David Grossman Photos: John Smolko

Fly fishing can be defined, as much as any other single factor, by the sense of etiquette we conduct ourselves with while on the water. We are taught from an early age to give as much space to other anglers as we would want for ourselves. This means going down the trail out of sight on a trout stream, or skipping a flat altogether because it’s occupied by another boat.

It’s this righteous sense of right and wrong that leads to fly fisherman being classified as superior sons of bitches by our less-refined angling kinfolk. When a bait or spin fisherman’s only interaction with a fly fisherman involves the fly fisherman telling them to get the hell out of there, it’s easy to misinterpret etiquette for assholery. On the other hand, without etiquette on the water, we are left with anarchy. This anarchy is called false albacore fishing.

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Fishing for false albacore during the fall on the Carolina coast is a wonderous shitshow of pure quasi-human animalistic instincts.

The fish themselves lend to the frenzied nature of the whole affair.

Fishing for false albacore during the fall on the Carolina coast is a wonderous shitshow of pure quasi-human animalistic instincts.

They pop up in one place for a few minutes and then disappear; after a few minutes they pop up 100 yards away. There is no way to predict where they will go, as the bait has no real strategy besides limiting losses. This chaos theory fish behavior has the same effect as young children in a soccer game. They all just follow the ball. None of them know where the ball will go, or should go. They just follow.

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Now, imagine the children are an armada of 20-plus foot boats powered by horses in the hundreds. To those boats, add a few poling skiffs that don’t really belong there. At the back of the train are the recreational boaters in various jet, pontoon, and ski boats. Not only is there no room for etiquette in this marine menagerie, there’s barely enough room for anyone to hook a fish and keep it out of other boats’ props. I was quickly scolded for pointing at breaking fish, and was informed the other boats were watching. Watching led to jumping on plane for 40 feet and inevitably running over the fish while trying to cast a jig directly under the bow.

But let it be known this scene is equalopportunity poor behavior.

Spin-fishing folks have no monopoly on poor boatmanship. I saw a gentleman in a chartreuse flats boat power reverse 60 feet into oncoming waves because, in his calculation, turning the boat around would have cost him first access to the school that had just surfaced. For this, what can only be described as a baller move, he was rewarded with what appeared to be a swamped boat judging by the stream coming out of his bilge. It’s the farthest away from fly fishing you can be while still fly fishing. I love every minute of it.

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It’s fast-paced, requires teamwork between everyone on the boat, and there’s a lot of satisfaction in catching fish in front of other people who couldn’t quite make it happen, because they suck. If the fish aren’t around you take off and go run and look for either more fish and birds, or other boats that might be onto fish and birds. You are constantly checking the radio for clues into where other boats are and any fish they may be finding.

Once fish are found, fast, long, accurate casts on a rolling boat are rewarded with the best poundfor-pound fight in fly fishing. The fish themselves are adorned with colors and markings that dance across their missile-shaped backs depending which way the light hits it. Every one you catch seems like the first one because it is hard to imagine anything in nature more beautiful and purpose-built.

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It only makes sense that these fish lead to such boorish behavior. They are worth every middle finger thrown, obscenity screamed, and wake carelessly thrown your way. Albies are the shit, and every once in a while you gotta be ready for a fight.

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Photo: Steve Seinberg

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Photo: Steve Seinberg

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S.C.O.F Magazine | issue no. 37 | fall 2020