Fly Fishing Beaverdam Creek: A Survival Story

A while ago, after fly fishing Beaverdam Creek in Northeast Tennessee one evening, I accidentally had to spend the night alone in the woods. I had no food, shelter, or treated water. It got dark and cold. For awhile, I wasn’t even sure if I’d make it through the night. It was no joke. This is the shocking story of that harrowing night.

Fly Fishing Beaverdam Creek: Tennessee

Now I don’t normally fly fish Beaverdam Creek in NE TN, but when I do it’s usually because the fish aren’t biting over on nearby Whitetop Laurel Creek in Virginia. So I give Beaverdam Creek a try on the way back home.

The reason that I don’t normally fish Beaverdam Creek isn’t because the fishing is second-rate or any worse than Whitetop Laurel. In fact, it has deeper holes than Whitetop Laurel, and consequently some bigger badder trout have been taken from there over the years.

Fly Fishing Beaverdam Creek: Brown Trout

Still, I just don’t go there regularly… well, because there’s something about Beaverdam Creek that has always scared me. Not sure what it is. Especially since it’s so beautiful and I’ve caught some nice brown trout on the few trips that I’ve taken there. Nonetheless, the place still makes me feel anxious.

Beaverdam Creek in TN: Close to Whitetop Laurel Creek in VA

However, on this particular day a while ago, after a few hours of no bites over on Whitetop Laurel Creek, I finally decided that I’d had enough. And that I was going to go over to Beaverdam Creek, no matter what. Driving over the mountain pass, I arrived on the roadway that roughly parallels the creek. But all that I could see in front of me was dark canopy and forbidding shadows hiding the creek. So, once again, I was seized by those same old uneasy feelings that I’d come to expect on this creek.

Forget it, I told myself, you’re just being paranoid.

And with that, I headed down the road toward the deepest darkest hole that I’d ever found on Beaverdam Creek.

Beaverdam Creek TN: Free Camping

A few miles further along the road on the right, I spotted the encampment that I hated. In a roadside camping area, beside a feeder creek, there were four or five tents setup, some of which were sheltered by some old weather-beaten blue tarps that were tied off to the trees. And I could see what looked like a bunch of locals–thick beards, pale faces–standing around a roaring campfire. Now I don’t begrudge anyone of their camping spot. But these guys, as usual, had completely roped off the entire area. So their group, with only four or five tents, had completely excluded anyone else from camping in a public spot that could’ve easily fit another five or six tents.

Beaverdam Creek: Roadside Fishing

“Selfish sons of bitches. Damn rednecks,” I grumbled to myself, driving past.
Then, I pulled over about fifty yards away from the sprawling encampment. Eyeing the “locals” through my windshield, I could see them passing around a bottle and throwing more wood on the fire.

Fly Fishing Beaverdam Creek: The Hole

Great, they’ll be drunker than hell, while I’m fishing the hole. Certainly, that was why they’d gathered here, I figured. To be close to the deepest hole on the creek, where the huge brown trout lurked in the deep.

But what if they come down while I’m fishing, I thought, apprehensively.
Oh no worries, you’ll just make some new friends, like always, I told myself.

Anyway, I didn’t have time to delay. It was really late in the day. The sun was setting. And I knew that the big browns would sometimes come out from their hiding places around this time. But I needed to get going before it got too late.

Beaverdam Creek: Posted

About ten minutes later in the dusk, I walked down the footpath toward the hole. On my way, I was greeted by a makeshift sign that was crudely painted onto a rotting rectangular piece of plywood, which had been nailed to the trunk of a tree. It read:

Stop!
Turn back.
Fur yur own good!
Keep out!

WTF! These God-danged necks were just trying to scare off the rest of us fishermen! Keep the hole to themselves! State must’ve just stocked it, I guessed.

Beaverdam Creek: Cherokee National Forest

Well, I for one, wasn’t standing for it. It was public land. Checking my phone for signal, I saw that I didn’t have it. Still, I felt safe, as I clutched at the fishing knife that hung around my neck. Then, I just headed along my way past the warning sign toward the creek.

Fly Fishing Beaverdam Creek: Rigging the Fly Rod

Down by the creek, I rigged up a sinking line on my 6-weight fly rod. Then, I tied a big woolly bugger to the end of my line. The sinking line would get my streamer down to the bottom of the creek, where the big fish lurked. Ready to cast, I checked the stream around me for snags.

Beaverdam Creek: Deep Holes

Looking down about six feet in front of me, I could see a submerged flat boulder about two feet underneath the water. But the rest of the pool was just black and inky. Hole must’ve been at least 15 to 20 feet deep, I guessed.

Across the creek, which was only about 12-foot wide, there was a dark cliff about 15-foot high. And on top of the cliff, there was a real tangle and mess of Mountain Laurel and Rhododendron brush. But I thought that I saw a small break in it, in which a critter darted away into the forest.

Beaverdam Creek: First Cast

Getting late, I thought, gazing up at the darkening sky. So without further delay, I cast my line into the moving water a bit upstream of me.

Beaverdam Creek: Fly Fishing the Deep Hole

I counted one, two… sixteen. Then, I heard the tick of my bead head bugger hitting the bottom. The current was slow, so I was able to bounce the streamer along the bottom of the stream bed. Down there, I hoped that I’d encounter a big hungry fish. And that it would gobble up my streamer in one gigantic and violent strike.

Lifting my rod, softly, the streamer drifted a bit more in the current, then suddenly stopped. So I lifted my rod again, but encountered complete resistance. Then I tried raising my rod again, and again. But it was just no use. There still wasn’t any line movement, at all.

Beaverdam Creek: Snags

Dammit! A snag. That was the problem with bottom bouncing. More often than not, you’d end up getting your hook stuck on a big log or rock.

This time, I jerked really hard on my rod, trying to free the hook. But, it held tight and firm. Still stuck.
“Son-of-a-bitch!” I hollered in a rage, jerking up on my rod again.

Suddenly, my line began shaking back and forth.
This is not happening, I thought.
Then, there was the inevitable scream of my drag, as the fish took off, full speed. Fish on!

Fly Fishing Beaverdam Creek: Trophy Trout

About twenty minutes later, she finally rose to the surface, my arm aching after her grueling and admirable fight. And she was heavy, glorious in the last light of the day. She didn’t even fit in my net. Her head and tail spilled out of it. She was so fat that it took two hands to heave my overstretched net back to dry land. She must’ve weighed 12 pounds. A real trophy brown trout! And, here, I had her on the shore. I reached for my camera in the pocket of my fishing shirt.
Why, this was the biggest brown trout of my entire life, I marveled.
That’s when I suddenly realized that there were people staring at me from behind.

Locals snuck up on me

Turning, I jumped in shock, accidentally dropping the trophy trout back into the creek. The bearded locals surrounded me. By this time, I could barely see their faces in the waning light. But I thought that I could see thick dog collars, fastened around their necks, and heavy chains, held in their hands. Now, I wasn’t sure what these guys were planning to do next. But I knew that I didn’t want to find out.

My hand flashed inside my fishing shirt and I yanked the snaps off my knife. Holding it out in front of me, I pointed it at the men.
“Don’t know what you guys have in mind,” I swore, “but I’m walking out of here now.
Or some of you is gonna die.”

Rip him limb from limb!

“I say we rip him limb from limb!” one of the men hollered, his eyes wild and crazy.
Suddenly, the man beside him bashed him over the head with the chains that he held in his hands. The man crumpled. Then, the other man attached the thick chains to his collar and began dragging him toward the trees.

“What the hell is going on?” I yelled.
“Get the hell out of here,” the man, dragging his friend, screamed back at me.

Time seemed to stop

Time seemed to stop. I looked up for a moment. Saw clouds drifting eastwards, revealing a full moon in the night’s sky.

The remaining men approached. Howling, screaming, beating their chests. Ripping their own clothing to shreds. Blood spatter hit my face.

Beaverdam Creek: An Adrenaline Rush Like No Other

Adrenaline surged in my veins. All I could hear was the sound of my heart pounding inside my chest. I was more terrified than I’d ever been before in my life. I could not win this fight.

Turning, I leapt. Splashed in the water. Somehow managed to keep my balance on that submerged rock. I leapt again and just missed the cliff on the other side. But there must’ve been a submerged ledge there, too, cause I only sank to my knees. In the blink of an eye, I scaled that cliff wall right to the top, where I grabbed a hold of a tree root. Clutching at it, I was just about to pull myself over the edge and into the brush when curiosity suddenly got the best of me.

Leapt across the entire pool

Turning back, I saw the men, on the other side of the creek, on their knees, howling at the moon.
“Fucking PCP freaks,” I gasped in horror.
But I swore that a few of them had fangs for teeth.

Suddenly, my eyes caught the eyes of the man who’d told me to leave. But was he even a man? In the dying light, he looked dark, hairy, wild-eyed, and bloodthirsty for me. In a single bound, he leapt over the entire pool, landing beside me on the cliff. His claws, clutching the rhododendron branches. His fangs bared at me. Lashing out with my hand, I jammed my fingers into his eyes. Then, this man-creature suddenly lost its grip, falling down into the creek below.

Pulling myself over the cliff, I scrambled into the dark brush. Limbs and thorns ripped at my skin. I think I got onto a game trail. Ran through the woods. But where to? I didn’t care. Anywhere, that was away from the horror and death that was surely waiting for me back at the pool where I’d been fishing.

I ran through the woods, faster and faster. Still, something was chasing me. Closing in on me. This inhuman predator was infinitely quicker than me. There was no escaping. The thing was at my heels!

Kicking and screaming, my back against a tree. I saw searing eyes, staring straight through me in the pale moonlight. Felt a warm blast of moist breath on my face. Then, everything went black on me.

The next morning

The next morning, I woke up. Cold, dizzy, and dazed. My head aching where it rested, propped up on a bloodstained rock. Shaking in the chilly morning air, I got up and nearly fainted. Stumbling around, I found my broken fly rod, net, and knife. Picked them up. In a haze, I lumbered back through the woods to my truck. Took off my gear. Threw it in the back.

Inside my truck, I started her up and noticed that the encampment that I vaguely remembered seeing the night before, which had been occupied by those good old boys, was now empty and abandoned. There were no trucks, no tents, no firewood. Not even any trash left. Just ashes in the fire pit from the previous night. Funny how I just couldn’t seem to remember anything after seeing those guys at this campsite last night. It was all just a big blur after that. And the only thing that I did know now was that I should go home. Get washed up. Clean the dried blood from my hair and scalp. Then, get some much needed rest.

Piecing it all together

So, over the next couple of days, and weeks, I did eventually begin to piece together what had actually happened to me that night. Yes, I’d gone fly fishing on Beaverdam Creek. And yes, I’d caught a 12 pound brown trout. But after I’d landed it, I must’ve slipped and fallen backwards, hitting my head on a rock. Knocked myself out for the rest of the night. And had a horrible nightmare at some point.

Beaverdam Creek: The Aftermath of the Fall

No doubt, I’d suffered a concussion. Maybe even some minor brain damage. I say that, because, ever since that night, just about every month, I suffer the same terrifying sleepwalking incident.

It’s strange. I go to bed at night fine. But then, I’ll wake up in the morning, naked and muddy, with scratches and bruises all over my body. And sometimes, all I can remember are the most unsettling nightmares involving blood, guts, and ripping animals and people apart in the pale moonlight.

I’ve visited a neurologist and clinical psychologist as a result. But all they did was give me a prescription and told me that the sleepwalking incidences would probably fade in time as my brain slowly heals from the injury. Scans revealed no serious brain damage. So I’m hopeful that those doctors are right and that I’ll get better soon. But I did want to mention this accident to everyone, so that they’ll be careful out there in the wild, avoiding these kinds of dangerous falls.

Fly Fishing Beaverdam Creek: A Great Place to Fish

I also did want to say that Beaverdam Creek is still a great place to fish, despite everything that happened to me there. Matter-of-fact, I’m planning to go back there at night on a monthly basis, just as soon as I recover completely from the fall. However, if you do ever go there, with the hope of catching a big brown trout, like the one that I landed that night. Well, then, I’d definitely recommend fishing it in the evening. Maybe even at night. Just keep this warning in mind, though.

Don’t ever go there on a full moon night.
If you do, you’re gonna end up running for your life.

Backbone Rock Recreation Area and Backbone Rock Campground

If you want to visit Beaverdam Creek in NE TN, there’s a couple of interesting areas to explore. First, you can camp at Backbone Rock Campground, which is right on Beaverdam Creek. There’s also a day-use area: Backbone Rock Recreation Area, which is split in two by the dramatic Backbone Rock spur ridge. The recreation area is a nice place to picnic with pavilions, picnic tables, grills, and vault toilets. You can also take a hike to Backbone Falls on Backbone Falls Trail.

All in all, the area makes a great day trip. Or an overnight camping spot for an extended fly fishing, biking, or hiking adventure. If you prefer more luxurious accommodations, well, that shouldn’t be a problem as Damascus, Virginia is right down the road.

So what are you waiting for? I just know that you’re gonna want to visit Beaverdam Creek in Tennessee real soon. And, the locals are also very friendly, too.

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Thank you for reading my blog post about Beaverdam Creek in Northeast Tennessee. If you’ve enjoyed this survival story, then you’d surely love reading my adventure fiction book, ‘Big Thunder-Hearted River’. Which is the ultimate survival story about an older Native American man, who can shapeshift to animal forms at will. And must teach his young friend, Eddy Arway, to do the same, in order to save Eddy’s life and make him a legend, who will never be forgotten throughout the Southern Appalachians. So click, here, to learn more about my book and get yourself a copy today!

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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'.