A weekend in Blue Ridge.

North.  Away from civilization.  Away from the understated "hustle and bustle" of Atlanta's crowded infrastructure. “Sprint and Dent” is more like it. After a long work week nothing takes your head out of your bosses ass like a trip to the mountains. Ok, it’s hard to consider N. Georgia as ‘mountains’ after living in Jackson, but nonetheless, it ain’t the city. 

We climb in Mitch's 80's model Toyota Landcruiser, sans doors and hard top. Every spare inch is loaded down with fly rods, tackle, a 22, a gas can, a tow rope, 2 cases of Budweiser, my dog Leena and 3 eager gentlemen, myself included. We burned up the highway at the screaming top speed of 61 mph and headed into the hills North of Atlanta in search of something more simple.  After an hour and a half trip up I-575 we braved the Walmart in Ellijay, GA to get something to feast on, not knowing what kind of sustenance the cabin had awaiting us. Frozen pizza would be the 

easiest, most economical choice for our supper, considering the constraints of a mountain town and limited appliances at Granny’s cabin. Ellijay is just far enough out of the city to see some ‘necks out on a Friday night trip to Walmart, which was packed. We went down some windy mountain country roads and the pavement finally ended. Our turn down into a nearly washed out gravel driveway opened into a big yard. ‘A River Runs Through It’ came to mind simply because a river did run through it, the front yard. Upon our arrival, Mitch cut the lights and we were soon enveloped in complete darkness. Not city darkness with that orange haze that hangs over a populated area seen from afar. I mean the absence of all color. We creeped up under the porch and found the switch box. It worked. We built a fire and proceeded to drink whiskey and talk about man stuff. With so much entertainment I’m surprised the night ended as quickly as it did, or maybe we just ran out of whiskey.

When dawn broke, no I’m kidding. At about 10 we awoke to the best feeling weather outside I’d felt since leaving Jackson. I could see my breath. “Fall is officially here boys.” We explored the fridge the night before, and thawed out some sausages and cooked them up with some fried eggs for breakfast. Upon taking a dip in the cool mountain water, we discovered what shrinkage really meant. Mitch’s crazy ass even put on some swimteam goggles circa ’98 and did some “snorkeling.” Beautiful clear icy cold water running over our toes, there’s not quite a better feeling in the world. After a few Bud Heavy's and unloading a couple of clips from the 22 (target shooting using the first emptied Bud) we decided to take a 4-wheeler ride. My big ass, and Mitch and Griffin on the front and back of a tiny little Honda Foreman, you’ve never seen such a site. We cruised about 2 and a half miles to where the woods break into pasture land. Beautiful views of the Blueridge Mountain range. We could see clear into the next state. Leena chased us the entire way there, and with those tiny little legs she may not have made it back. Griffin scooped her up and we were on our way.

Back to the cabin. We popped a few more beers and watched mystified as Mitch began to tie some of his own flies. If you’ve never witnessed this, it’s quite interesting. Again, it made me mad I didn’t get a chance to fish while living in Jackson. But that’s beside the point. An array of peacock feathers and tiny black fluffs of thread all spun together on a tiny hook. Really an artisan perfecting his craft. Made me feel real American. Thank God for Mitch. After he tied a few we took to the creek to try and catch some trout (it’s pretty late in the season now.) We set off to a few honey holes and Mitch showed us where to cast, and where the trout would be hangin’ out. Quite a few more elements to concentrate on in fly fishing. Bass fishing in a lake, well you got your pole and your bobber and your beer and life is good. Fly fishing in a creek you got trees and rocks and other people and all kinds of good stuff to snag your hook on and lose your lure. I caught the first one. Mitch said it was a creek bass, not a trout. A real monster too. I could have fileted that sucker right there and had it on a salad or wrapped over some sticky rice if sushi is your forte. It felt good to get something on the line. It was an overcast day, drizzling rain from time to time. Perfect fishing weather, not too hot. Mitch landed the second, another creek bass. After a long hard thought, or maybe just an idea, we decided to go into town for dinner. Oh, and to find somewhere to watch Ga-Missouri. And the faint chance that we could find the Ole Miss game somewhere. Down the country roads, imminent death looms 2 feet to our right and left, we charged on in search of pizza.  We found it. And we found the Ole Miss game on TV eventually. In a small watering hole in downtown Blueridge, some german Beer Garten scribbled on a sign with two wooden blackbear carvings standing guard at the door. They filled our bellies with good cold flowing IPA kegbeer while the owner from Minnesottttta proceeded to get hammered on Chardonnay while entertaining his customers. After a few too many, we head on back up the road to camp. We fished the next morning and caught a few more each. We let them all go in the hopes they'd keep growing and have some babies and re-populate this fertile clearwater creek for next summer. All in all is was a great relaxing bros weekend. We packed up the cruiser and rolled back south to Atlanta. Speakers blaring. Back to reality.