Backcountry Fly Fishing On The Other Side

Backcountry Fly Fishing On The Other Side is based on true events…

My confession. If the truth be told. See. I had the most earth-shattering backcountry fly fishing trip, ever. Years ago. One that will never be topped. Not in this life. And it was just as the trip was starting. That’s when it hit me, like a runaway train. The epiphany. Knocking me right off my feet. And then, life, as I knew it, suddenly became strange, unfathomable, and one of the most startling revelations. So much so, that I was forever changed all in that instance …

But before I get into all that, I guess that I should just start by simply saying that I’ve always loved going fly fishing in the wilderness. In the backcountry. And, as a result, I’ve embarked on LOTS of backcountry fly fishing trips in my life to many different wilderness areas. Up and down the entire Appalachian Mountain chain. And, even out West in the Rockies.

That said, if I had to pick my one all-time favorite backcountry fly fishing stream in the East, it would be the …

I’m sorry. But I just can’t say…

However, even if I did tell everyone of you the name of it, why, this one is so remote and difficult to access that I doubt that any of you would ever go. And, even if you did, you’d probably get so lost on all those unmaintained footpaths that your head would spin.

But, not me, cause I’ve been backpacking into this particular stream valley for years. So I know the area like the back of my hand. Therefore, I’m quite comfortable backpacking in there, even on my own. However, whenever you’re dealing with remote wilderness areas, one can never be too careful. Or let one’s guard down…

And so, it was with a certain amount of respect and love for pristine nature, when I embarked on one of my seasonal fly fishing trips to my very favorite backcountry fly fishing stream just about fifteen years ago. And let’s just call it, the West Fork.

No, I won’t bore you with all my preparations, except to say that I’d meticulously verified that the weather was going to be absolutely clear for about seven days straight. Moreover, from Northern Georgia all the way up to Northern Pennsylvania. Up and down the entire Appalachian Mountain chain, I can tell you that not a single forecast was calling for any rain. In fact, there wasn’t even one drop of rain being forecast anywhere within a 300-mile radius of where I was going.

So you can imagine my surprise when I finally arrived at the trailhead on the ridgeline above the West Fork stream valley. And saw dark clouds cascading into the valley from the West.

What the heck?

Still, I figured, it was no big deal. After all, none of the weather forecasts that I’d seen were calling for any rain. But I couldn’t deny what my eyes could see.

Dark, foreboding storm clouds blanketing the entire mountain valley below me.

So, should I now drive all the way back to the closest hotel, which was at least one and half hours away? Or, just risk getting a little wet in these mild showers that I could see gathering in front of me, which were all these clouds could be, given all the forecasts.

So, as you can see, in my mind, I was absolutely sure that these clouds were nothing more than passing rains.

And therefore, I just resolutely shouldered my expedition backpack, filled with everything that I needed to enjoy the next six days in the backcountry. Then, I boldly walked through the break in the forest service gates, beginning my journey into the gray valley.

Of course, it was just after I’d passed the point of no return, descending enough elevation that I’d never even dream of hiking back up the mountainside to my truck, that the temperature suddenly just plummeted. Then, the winds began to howl and blow right in my face.

But there was no way I was turning back now with my seventy pound backpack. No way in hell.

As I was committed to making it to camp now. And anyway, these storm clouds would surely blow over soon, since it wasn’t supposed to rain anywhere at all up and down the entire East Coast for the next few days.

Still, within minutes, I soon found myself trudging through thickets and woods in a complete deluge. In fact, it was raining so hard now that I could barely see where I was going.

And this was a bit of a problem, because there is no real trail to the West Fork. Nope. There’s just a bunch of old overgrown logging roads, which you sort of have to cobble together to reach your final destination. A safe and serene campsite nestled along the far shore of the trout stream below.

Still, I knew these paths well, no matter how faint they were. For the most part. And no, I just wouldn’t allow myself to get lost. So I was sure that I could make my way down this mountainside through the woods to the shore of the West Fork. Even with the hurricane rains, which were lashing me now. This I truly believed.

Yet, I now worried that once I got there that there’d be an even greater obstacle facing me. And this was fording the West Fork. Now normally, of course, this would’ve been an enjoyable experience. However, in this kind of downpour. No doubt, the water levels in the main stream would be rising rapidly.

Still, I had lots of whitewater rafting and kayaking experience under my belt. So who better than me to safely ford a swollen wilderness stream?

That said, I tried to pick up my pace a bit in a bid to outrun the flood surge that I was certain would be coming. Still, one can only move so fast through rugged, steep terrain with limited visibility in the driving rain.

And, in these deteriorating conditions, another disconcerting thought popped into my head. Which was that I really shouldn’t stop moving at all now. As the temperature had dropped from the low 70s all the way down to the low 40s in a manner of minutes. Moreover, this explosive storm had struck so fast that I hadn’t even had a chance to pull my rain gear out of my pack. So I’d only worn light clothes in anticipation of a sweaty hike down to the West Fork.

But now, in these cold winds, my body and clothes completely soaked by the deluge. No, I didn’t foresee that it would be out of the question that hypothermia might set in, should I dare to stop moving.

So, needless to say, I kept a vigorous pace. My legs and arms churning on my hike into the valley. And, most importantly, my warm blood flowing outward to all my extremities…

Until I eventually arrived on the rain-soaked banks of the West Fork, from where I could see the daunting task looming right in front of me.

Fording a raging, swollen, muddy, thigh-high river, which was normally just a gentle, ankle-high, clear mountain stream.

However, in the aftermath of more than an hour of unabated torrential rains, I could see that it wasn’t gonna be so easy to cross my old friend, the West Fork.

Indeed, for a while, I doubted that I could do it. As the waters were foaming, churning, and threatening. And easily surged, at times, to at least my waist. Still, the whitewater boater in me saw all the slight breaks, weaknesses, and micro safety eddies in those menacing currents. Anyway, I didn’t have much time to think about it because the waters were still rising in the rain. And had yet to crest. I guessed.

So I reached for my trusty wading staff. Then eased in the water.

And felt those strong currents tugging at my legs. Still, I waded to the first safety eddy behind a submerged boulder. Then waded to the next safe spot. And it was like a wrestling match. With your relentless opponent constantly shooting for your legs, pushing you back. At all times, trying to trip you up. Throw you off balance. For good.

Still, I just had to lean into it. Keep a strong, square stance. Face those oncoming surging waves. And, most importantly, keep my feet and wading staff underneath me. No, I’d not get swept.

It was roughly halfway across the stream, when I thought that I heard the distant rumble of thunder. And with it, an unmistakable sense of impending doom just crashed all over me.

It was all over. I’d messed up. Made a grave mistake.

You see, the headwaters of the West Fork, started on the expansive rock faces and cliffs of Irontop Mountain about 8 miles away. Then, those headwaters picked up steam, running through a geological V-shaped fault line, which was a literal deep and narrow crack in the earth, running all the way down a 2500-foot mountainside.

And so, at the summit of Irontop, there was very little canopy cover to break up or slow down all these torrential rains. And certainly, also, very little fertile soil in those mountain headwaters for the water to soak into. Thus, when the full volume of all this rainfall finally converged and funneled into the fault line, well, it would all just be magnified in the narrow crack in force and speed. Beyond all belief! And then, why, it’d all just coming thundering down this very stream valley, taking out everything that dared to stand in it’s way.

It was already too late. The deafening roar shook the world around me.

This was the inevitable destructive flood crest of the West Fork on this day after several inches of unexpected rain had absolutely lashed Irontop Mountain in a short time frame. Staring upstream in horror. Jaw agape. I caught a brief glimpse of the monumental 7-foot wall of water, barreling right at me. At the speed of a runaway freight train!

Throwing my arms in front of my face, I braced for impact.

And when it hit me, I was gone… Swept away, to the other side…

Gary Alan

After a long career in the publishing industry, Gary Alan left his corporate job to pursue his next adventures in life as a blogger, writer, investor, fly fisherman, hiker, and traveler. He is the author of the adventure fiction book, 'Big Thunder-Hearted River'.