Good Ole Boys and Gated Communities

With my tires spinning down a gravel road that took me along a steep ridge into the heart of Appalachia, it was hard not to imagine my grandfather and his peers running moonshine up and down this same ridge. We were in the heart of shine country after all and the evidence was everywhere, if you knew where to look. Most of the high elevation creeks in Stone Mountain State Park still had remnants of moonshine stills, old vehicles and glass jars (some still intact) littered along the stream banks in the most remote sections.

As I turned left onto a large tract of public land, I looked at the vast wilderness on one side and to my right, the new gated community, comically named “Whispering Hemlocks”, despite the developer clearing every tree within sight. I assumed most of the residents couldn’t identify a Hemlock Tree if their life depended on it, but so be it. I had grand plans with my day off from work and planned to spend most of the day fishing a remote speckled trout stream that sees little to no fishing pressure.

Wilkes County has a rich history and one relished by locals is the identity as the “Moonshine Capital of the World”. In the early to mid 1900’s, every creek in the county had a working still on it as the lackluster economic opportunity in the area led to an opportunity for the more brazen of citizens in the area; runnin shine. Everyone in the area is familiar with Junior Johnson, the famous nascar driver labeled the last great American hero. Junior, like a number of drivers in the area, got his skills from modifying his car to outrun revenuers in the area and this ultimately helped led to the birth of nascar. The Wilkes Motor Speedway was the pride of Wilkes County back in the day and has recently been revitalized. Junior was so famous, he received a pardon from an earlier conviction when President Ronald Reagan took office and gained the support of many in our rural mountain area.

Junior and the good ole boys

Moonshine runs deep in my family history- my Grandpa on one side of the family served years in federal prison for conducting a profitable business running multiple stills and the other side of my family has relation to Willie “the uncatchable” Clay Call. The Calls have adapted to the times and run Call Distillery, which is still open to this day in the area. Although, any old timer will tell ya “if you’re paying taxes on it, it ain't real moonshine”. My great aunt tells a story about my grandfather outrunning revenuers while she was in the backseat. He held her down to the car floor as they shot out the back windows and he managed to get away with some quick thinking maneuvering.

Old newspaper clipping about the time my grandpa was robbed during a poker game for his hard earned moonshine money

In the 1970s, the moonshine business declined heavily due to two primary reasons-

1. Revenuers got the upper hand with new technology, as planes developed thermal capabilities and the Appalachian wilderness wasn’t enough to hide the stills anymore.

2. The Tyson chicken factory opened in Wilkes and for the first time, locals were able to find jobs that paid well enough to support their family.

Snapping back to present time, I put my car into 4 wheel drive and eased down the ridge, peering over the edge of the road to near vertical drops that made me white knuckle the steering wheel with both hands. Parking at the edge of the gamelands, I put on my large pack with enough supplies to get me through the day, my fly rod carrying case and my hiking stick. I knew I wouldn’t be wetting a line for a few hours, as this was no short trek to the stream.

As I descended the ridge and took in the beauty all around me, my mind wandered and I thought about all of the change occurring across Southern Appalachia. There is the ever-present development, gating off public lands, decline of brook trout habitat, warming air and water temps. I also thought of all the subtle changes to fishing culture which I despise- anglers prioritizing social media clout over appreciation for nature, guiding outfitters making decisions based off profit and not the health of our fisheries and even the privatization of water, which blows my mind. I also thought of my nagging ankle and sore shoulder, a reminder that I wasn’t as young as I used to be and the adventure I was undertaking today, may not be possible in the not too distant future as aging is unavoidable.

Finally reaching the creek, I was itching to begin fishing and reward myself after a long, grueling hike in. First things first, I set my tent up along the bank, as I planned to maximize my time down here fishing and get back to camp as darkness approached, instead of having to cut short my fishing time to hike out. Each pool held hungry brook trout, who had no clue what a fly or human was. Instead of brook trout wearily rising to inspect my size 14 elk hair caddis as they do in some of our more popular streams off the blue ridge parkway, these fish attacked my fly with no second thought or inspection. The section I started fishing in had a small population of brown trout before a barrier falls left the remaining 3 miles of stream all to North Carolinas only native trout.

My sleeping quarters for the evening

As I moved steadily upstream, I looked up on a hill where a local historian had written an article about a civil war era deserter, who was executed and buried at this spot. A somber reminder that my problems such as a grueling hike back to my car, a lackluster lunch I packed and frustration with modern times; weren’t all so bad after all. I also thought about a family friend who grew up along this creek before it was park land. When I asked him if he planned to leave his property to a nature conservancy like many of his neighbors were, I remember being stunned by his response-

“I know a few people who have deeded their land to a nature conservancy so their land can never be used for anything in the future but let go to nature. I like the idea of it. I like better not entertaining the illusion of projecting my control onto anything beyond my demise and my will. I'd rather leave my place to flow with future needs that are totally unforeseen from today.

I was always intrigued by his forward-thinking response. Although I have very little hope that future generations will use the land responsibly. Despite my negative stance throughout this blog on modern times and land use, I am not unaware that change is inevitable and we must adapt. I do so by supporting the wonderful nature conservancies who are doing great work preserving our natural resources, finding more remote, unpressured streams that haven’t been impacted by humans and speaking up when able and I see fitting.

Barrier falls that separates brown trout from native brook trout

After 4 more hours of fishing, iv brought well over 50 trout to hand and am covered in sweat from head to toe. I break down my fly rod and break out my hiking stick. Once back at my campsite, I pull out a copy of one of my favorite Harry Middleton books my father introduced me to as a kid “On the Spine of Time.”

The sounds of the forest come alive as darkness sets and I think about how fortunate I am to be born in a time and place where I can enjoy fishing for Southern Appalachian Brook Trout along the eastern escarpment. I think of those that came before me and made these mountains their homes, despite the harsh conditions and days of old. I think about my hope for us to find a better balance with nature in the future and in the words of Levon Helm “take what ya need and leave the rest”. I think about how quickly time closes up on the other side. And as I begin to doze off to sleep, I think about the large brook trout I brought to hand below a large cascade, a streak of orange disappearing back into the depths as I released it. How fortunate and undeserving I am to shake hands with a remnant from forgotten times.