The Axeman of Nantahala

On a crisp fall morning last October, I left my apartment in Asheville and headed west toward the large tract of southern Nantahala. It was only a few weeks removed from the storm that devastated areas of western NC and, for an angler like myself, drastically changed many places I frequented. Thankfully, farther west of Buncombe County, toward Swain, Haywood, Macon, etc., all was more or less fine from a fishing perspective. As I got farther away from Asheville, some sense of normalcy returned as more restaurants appeared open and the visible damage across the terrain lessened.

I had spent some time at other streams near the one being explored today, but not this specific creek. Like any stream I visit, I spent a significant amount of time looking at this one on the topo map, seeing what information online was available, and discussing it with a handful of other anglers who are crazy/determined enough to venture to these types of places. The conclusion: this was a remote stream with a healthy brook trout population and a massive waterfall upstream that was only recently documented in 2018. It's incredibly humorous to me the number of folks posting in online waterfall groups proclaiming they discovered some new waterfall in the 20th century. I would wager my next paycheck that any waterfall posted online or viewed in this century has been seen by plenty of native people and hikers prior to the social media age.

As always, my mind was racing on the drive to the stream as I passed large tracts of farmland and the mountains in the distance began to take shape, each forming its own unique personality. My mind drifted from the anticipation of fishing a new brook trout stream and the prospect of a big trout, back to the slight anxiousness that I may not be able to access it, a tree limb could fall on me, or any number of things that can go wrong when one is solo out in the wilderness. I used to get annoyed when these concerns would creep into my mind, but as you get older, you begin to appreciate the healthy role a slight bit of fear can play in our lives. Fear is a natural inclination humans have developed to aid our survival all these years, and it's certainly needed when out in the woods.

Turning down the last forest service road to reach my destination, the road required me to put my 4Runner into four-wheel drive and start paying close attention as gravel turned into rocks. A large washed-out section of road made me rethink my decision as I got out of my car and stood over the 75-foot vertical drop down to the creek. I decided I had come all this way; I might as well tempt fate with the last 200 yards of road. Thankfully, the road held out a bit longer and I was able to park my car at a primitive campsite where two streams confluence and the road goes completely rogue and is only navigable by foot traffic or determined locals in ATVs.

While rigging up my fly rod, I looked around at my surroundings and took note of the big overhanging rock wall and the mini cave with the remnants of a fire at some point weeks prior. I also noticed a big, dull axe a few yards off from another campfire, closer to my car. I picked it up and was unimpressed by the weight of the axe and how dull the blade was. It seemed like an inefficient choice of tool, probably discarded. I swung the axe into a nearby tree limb, left it hanging with the blade stuck in the tree, and began the hike upstream to public land.

I originally planned to hike in 45 minutes or so before fishing, but the section of creek far down the steep road just looked too tempting. I put my legs into mountain goat mode and started descending the 50-ish yards from the old logging road to the stream. The water here was a bit larger than most of the other tiny blue lines running down the ridge, and I was pleased with the depth of the plunge pools I could see in front of me. The first 20 minutes were unproductive until I finally got underneath a nice run with two or three good pools before the creek crossed under the road one last time. On my first cast, a nice 8" brook trout ate my caddis fly, followed by one a bit larger a few casts later. This was all bested by a chunky 10" brook trout that demolished the hare’s ear nymph tied a good 18 or so inches below my dry fly. The coloration of these brook trout told me they were obviously northern strain, but I didn’t care given their size and my surprise at coming up on a productive stretch of creek this far downstream.

With the brook trout from the lower section still on my mind, I hiked farther up the old logging road along the creek and, after 40 minutes of walking, got into the creek and started fishing. Up here, the stream was much more narrow and just had the occasional plunge pool worth fishing. I caught three small brook trout over the next hour before the stream became more rock climbing than fishing and the trail had gone up the ridge a long time ago, away from the creek. I packed up my rod, brought out the hiking poles, and started my trek up the ridge, knowing I would reach the remnants of a trail at the top. Once back on the trail, I took my time hiking back to my car, enjoying the nice fall day with a slight breeze. I took out my binoculars and looked at a bald on top of a distant ridge and the open rock face on the mountaintop next to it- pondering how pleasant it would be to sit in the fading sunlight on top of that ridge.

I was back at my car two miles, or 40 minutes, later and began taking off my wading boots and pulled out a sandwich I had prepared as my post-fishing meal. A few minutes into sitting there, enjoying the unseasonably warm fall day, I thought about the axe from earlier and went to grab it. I walked over to the tree and noticed it wasn’t there. Puzzled, I looked around to see if I had mistaken which tree limb I had stuck it in, but nothing else was nearby. I looked up at the rock ledge above me and the little cave inside and began to get an uneasy feeling. I packed up my lawn chair, cooler, and fishing gear and high-tailed it down the forest service road so quickly locals might have thought the Talladega 500 was in town. Once my mind stopped racing, I logically assumed I had picked up some local hermit’s axe used for cutting firewood, and he had returned for it while I was fishing. Regardless, each time I head back to that area, I think of those large brook trout and the Axeman of Nantahala.