Making good friends when you’re young is easy. It can be through neighborhood proximity, a shared classroom or extra curricular activity, or even some parental matchmaking. Since everything is new, the common experiences that come out of those relationships only deepen those bonds.

As an adult, I’ve had trouble with maintaining good friendships. Family, work, and other “grown up” responsibilities, although not necessarily in that order, have consumed a lot more of my time. This is not necessarily a negative, simply a change in dynamic.

Over the past few years I’ve consciously made an effort to create some adult-onset friendships. Using fly fishing and the pursuit of trout as a vehicle, the multiple gatherings our group makes become a highlight of each person’s calendar. We make a point to travel from near and far at least a few times a year to partake in these endeavors. 

Now, I’m certain when we gather, we envision ourselves as a rugged and highly capable wolf pack, possibly resembling the cast of The Magnificent Seven. In reality, we’re more likely to remind the unbiased observer of the cast of one of Adam Sandler’s buddy films. You know the ones featuring some combination of Kevin James, Chris Rock, and David Spade. Does that mean I’m the Rob Schneider of the group? Eh, it really doesn’t matter.

The November 2023 gathering location was a beautifully maintained and historic house situated at the confluence of the Rocky Fork and Mills River in North Carolina. It made for the perfect trout camp on this crisp, late Autumn weekend.

A few days of fishing laid ahead, with each morning finding a crowded kitchen full of conversation, intense jockeying around the coffee maker, and continuous gear inspection and adjustment for the day’s upcoming activities. We’d then split into smaller groups, hitting different sections and tributaries within the watershed.

The first full day (Friday) one subset of our group took a bit of a drive in the search of native brook trout. From what I understand, the fishing was difficult, but they were very successful in their quest.

My group of four stayed a bit closer to base camp, eventually finding a trailhead to launch out on our exploratory mission. The trail paralleled a creek from high above along a ridge line. After hiking an undisclosed distance, and beginning to get the itch to end the meander in favor of stringing up our rods, we dropped down to water level and began fishing.

While things got off to a slow start, after about an hour’s time we were all into trout. Actually quite a bit of them. However, I’m not going to pretend our collective fishing acumen was what created the sudden success. Among the smaller, stream-bred and parr marked jewels that made their way to our nets, there were many more larger specimens eagerly and clumsily taking our flies. A quick inspection revealed a clear indicator of hatchery raised fish. The stubby pectoral fins hid few secrets of the origin of these trout.

Stocked or wild, we had a blast meticulously making our way upstream, rotating turns through riffles, runs, and pools while bringing fish to hand. You’d fish until you caught one (or got hung up), and then take your place at the back of the conga line to cheer on the “next up.” Or more likely, playfully critique them on all the things they were doing wrong.

After hours of fishing, the final pool would yield the trout of the day, a bruiser of a rainbow caught by Jim. We didn’t take many fish pics on this day, but in this case it was warranted. It was a great way to close things out, and the heightened mood made the hike back to the trailhead go by all the way faster.

Evenings back at the house consisted of encircling the fire pit for storytelling, sometimes recollecting the day’s fishing activities, but mostly featuring alcohol-impaired meanders through unrelated topics I’m not at liberty to document here. Some tales are best to be left around the campfire.

The next day (Saturday) was much the same for most. Half of the guys wanted to replay the prior day’s travels. Those deep holes chock full of fish were just too enticing to pass up. A few others went off to a nearby river in search of large brown trout.

Being the weird Rob Schneider, I chose to go solo, a little bit further and deeper into the valley than the day before. The promise was wild fish, most definitely rainbows, with the possibility of native brookies. I’ll note, I don’t consider myself a wild fish snob, but when given the option of an unknown stream to a known, I’ll always opt to explore.

As I hiked back up and into the headwaters, the fitness setting on my watch repeatedly chimed aloud that I had hit my daily steps goal. 1x… then 2x… then 3x… It was probably more an indication of my typically inadequate level of aerobic activity than the actual distance traveled, as my both lungs and quads were certainly burning hotter than last night’s campfire.

When I arrived at my destination I found a pristine trickle of cool, rhododendron sheltered water. Relatively shallow throughout, with the occasional plunge pool creating refuge for the resident fish. I was unable to locate a brook trout on this day, but was instead greeted by several beautiful silver flashes that were eager to graze on the feathered offerings at the end of my line.

While I know rainbow trout are not native to the region, I feel like they’ve become an ingrained part of the fly fishing culture of the southern Appalachians. They and their subsequent offspring must have obtained a form of naturalized citizenship by now. As far as I’m concerned, wild rainbows no matter the size never disappoint.

After hours of fishing, the hike back out was a bit longer today without any companionship. And not eager to make new friends, an occasional vocalization of “hey bear… hey bear” tried to keep my solo status intact.

Once back at the house, and of course following one more evening around the fire, the trip was essentially over. Almost as soon as it began. Sunday found everyone picking up the rental, packing bags, loading up vehicles, and trying to eat all the leftover food that couldn’t get left behind. It’d be a tragedy to waste a half full box of donuts, right? But that’s always the way reunions like these tend to go. Good times with great friends always fly by much too fast.

In looking back, the contrast between the two days was not lost on me. In most instances, I’m an introverted, solitary angler. Time alone with my fishing rod and thoughts allow me to decompress, re-calibrate, and forget about the real world, if only for a little bit. The alone time spent during my Day 2 outing was desired, no, make that necessary to maintain my mental well-being.

However, time on the water with my friends completes the other half of the physical and mental equation. It satisfies the social need for belonging. The constant laughter stimulates my heart, lungs and muscles, and increases the endorphins that are released by my brain. The instructions for survival that are hard-coded into our subconscious demand we seek out the comfort and companionship of like-minded people. There’s a reason why our ancestors lived in tribes.

So while I always think I prefer to fish alone, the occasions in which I’m able to fish with my friends make me realize the importance of that activity as well. I leave with strengthened bonds and fond recollections, typically grinning and thinking to myself, “Man, that was a fun time, I can’t wait to do it again!”

And after a largely fish-free few months, that next opportunity to mill around the river can’t come soon enough.

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