I died a few years ago on Hazel Creek in Great Smoky Mountains National Park in North Carolina. And, even now, I not so sure that I actually made it out of there alive. Impossible, you say. Otherwise, how could I write this? An objection that’s understandable. But I’m telling you. I truly lost my life on Hazel Creek. There’s just no denying it. And if you don’t believe me, well, you will come to see the light. Like I did, back then…
Briefly, I will tell you that I’ve only visited Hazel Creek twice before my last journey there. Just twice. And both times, I got rained out. Now, the most memorable of these two camping trips was the very first time that I ever ventured into Hazel Creek with my ex-girfriend, KD, many, many years ago.
Unfortunately, for her and I, despite the sunny forecast, it started raining early on the second day of our adventure. Moreover, the rain didn’t let up for 2 1/2 days straight. So, for all that time, we were stuck inside our tent, which miraculously stayed bone dry, despite the downpour outside.
So you might think that this would’ve been a terrible time. But, we’d brought along some mini playing cards. And a mini board game. Both of which occupied our time much to our delight. And then, we’d just sort of spent the rest of our time, lying around and relaxing, cocooned inside our cozy tent. While a golden rainy fog enveloped our lush campsite.
So it became a magical, haunting atmosphere, in which we’d stare into each other’s eyes. Then, smile and laugh at the foul weather outside.
No, we didn’t know it then. But we never had it so good together just holding onto each other inside our tent, while that mighty rainstorm lashed our tent for days and days.
And, indeed, it was this very memory that was so fresh on my mind when I first stepped onto the banks of Hazel Creek again, many years later. After a nice canoe ferry across Lake Fontana at the beginning of the Fall during the time of the great sickness in 2020.
And heck, when I hiked past our old campsite a few miles upstream on the Hazel Creek trail, I could almost see the ghost of KD, standing outside in the clearing in her raincoat. With the summer rain pouring down all around her, while she stared back at me, smiling.
But, she’d left me some years later after that trip. And I was certain that she’d never come back. So it was over between us. For all time. I guessed.
And this sense of finality and loss stayed with me on my hike until I arrived at my new campsite much further upstream at the junction of Hazel Creek and another very robust tributary creek.
Here, I took some time to set up my camp to my liking. Ate dinner. Cleaned up. And even, set up my ultralight hammock, in which I watched that spirited feeder creek rush past me until it got too dark to stay outside. At which point, I finally retired for the evening with my rain fly peeled back, as I prepared to fall asleep, gazing up at the Smoky Mountain stars.
Unfortunately, for me, there would be no rest, nor relaxation, that evening… I’m not sure what happened to shatter my peace of mind, either. Was it something I drank? Ate? Destiny? Fate? All I know was that for the next two days, I didn’t sleep a wink.
And what was crazy. Get this? Was that I was terrified about paddling back across the lake again in my canoe.
Which makes absolutely no sense at all. I mean, sure, that ferry from Cable Cove to Hazel Creek in my 10-foot canoe had been a little unstable. But nothing that I couldn’t handle.
And anyway, all I had to do to fully stabilize my canoe on the way back was break a few items out of my backpack. Then, distribute the load lower and around the middle of my boat. That much I knew. But, for whatever reason, I just couldn’t shake the feeling that I was going to die paddling back across the lake. Which is even more insane, given that I’m an experienced former class V whitewater kayaker. And raft guide. So how on earth was a flatwater lake gonna do me in?
Nonetheless, the visions, the unrelenting thoughts, of me capsizing on that lake continued unabated for the next two days, and nights, absolutely ruining my nights and fishing during the days. I mean, over and over again, I’d lie awake, restless, unable to sleep, repetitively envisioning my canoe cracking and fracturing. Then, filling with water. And, me, not being able to make it to shore.
Or, just getting caught in the massive wake from a huge motorboat. And swamping. And every time, I was just about to find some much needed sleep, some other implausible scenario of me flipping my canoe and ultimately drowning would invariably strike. Out of the blue. Until I finally came to the realization on the third night that I really didn’t care so much about dying. It was just that I didn’t want to die that way. Not on the flatwater of a lake.
I mean, what would all my old whitewater friends say about me? He what?? Died on a lake? The idiot!
And, I didn’t want all my expensive camping and fly fishing gear sinking to the bottom of that lake, neither. I mean, I guess, I wouldn’t need it anymore… But, at least, if I died some other way… Well then, my brothers, or friends, could have some of my most cherished camping and fishing gear.
But, it was my time to die. And I knew it. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. And why? Because I kept hearing a voice inside of my head telling me that it was my time. To go into the light.
So yeah, it would be over for me soon. But, as soon as I accepted this. I then prayed to God to give me a better death than on the lake. Which would really embarrass the crap out of me. For whatever reason. Even beyond the grave.
So I asked God, and Jesus, for a more honorable death. Something worthy of a former whitewater kayaker and raft guide. So that my family and friends would know that I gave it my all. Tried my best. Did everything that I could to stay alive. And wasn’t just some incompetent unprepared boater, who couldn’t manage to paddle his canoe across a couple miles of flatwater.
And, strangely enough, after my prayer. I kid you not. I finally felt at peace with myself and the whole world around me. Moreover, I felt that improbable anxious storm that had been lashing my mind for the last two days suddenly stall. Then evaporate into thin air. Such that I was now free at last to sleep in peace and enjoy without fear the rest of my adventure on Hazel Creek.
And so, I did. Finally waking up the next day feeling refreshed and rejuvenated. Like a new man. Then, I just proceeded with my original plan and began enjoying the fly fishing on Hazel Creek.
And, oh, over the next two days, I caught many fish. Lots of them. Lots of wild rainbow and brown trout between 7 and 11 inches.
So, of course, I was having the time of my life. Casting my flies and nymphs to them. Watching the voracious trout strike my flies on the surface of those pools and in the pocket water. Then, stripping the feisty trout in, one after another, all day long underneath the clear blue sky.
And what could be better?
Well, I’ll tell you. Catching a big one! You see, I hadn’t just drove all this way, paddled across a few miles of open water. And then, hiked for roughly 6 miles with a 50-pound backpack just to catch a bunch of average-sized trout. No way. In fact, Hazel was rumored to harbor some very large brown trout. How large? Well, I’ve personally met folks, who’ve landed five and six pound brown trout on Hazel Creek. But there are even bigger ones!
So, of course, I wanted to catch one of those deep water leviathans. And why not? After all, at my age, and with my experience. As a fly fisherman, I was at the top of my game. So I was pretty sure, sooner, or later, on this very trip, my time was coming to land the fish of a lifetime in the backcountry of Hazel Creek. Which would complete my destiny and fate. On this trip, at least.
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'.