Noontootla River, March 2003
Late last week I had an opportunity for a last minute flight to Atlanta to visit my sister, so I grabbed it, happy for any chance to get away and clear the mind. I'd have Monday to myself as my sister and brother in law would be chained to work, so I emailed Charlie Choc and, retired guy that he is, he managed to free his schedule for St. Patty's day and agreed to join me for some time on the waters of North Georgia.
	The Chattahoochie close to town was pretty well blown out by recent rains and the attendant invasion of e Coli. Charlie suggested we head further north. He mentioned one of his favorite pieces of water, the Noontootla, and based on his description, I was more than happy with the choice. We rendezvoused at his place at 8:00 Monday morning, loaded our gear into his one-of-a-kind Land Rover Defender and, after a brief stop at Sam's Discount Emporium for a license for me, headed north. The slow but constant drizzle that I'd woken to continued as we drove north and even increased to a steady rain. The noise of those southern raindrops on the window, the whine of the vehicle's significant differentials, and the roar of the knobby tires on the pavement of 575 all combined into a soupcon of music akin to a Foster serenade, our conversation spoken at a level high enough to rise over the ensemble of vehicular rattle. I think there were tunes on the stereo, but I couldn't be certain. One's ear can only discern so many signals at one time.
An hour later we were bouncing happily through the muck of a forest service road. The southern tip of the Appalachian mountains had suddenly appeared in the mist moments earlier, appearing as smoky as those more famous mountains across the border to the north. We were within spitting distance of the Appalachian Trail, a magnet at this time of year for northbound through hikers. A few miles up the forest service road we pulled into a camping area where we'd assault the 'toot.
	Charlie had warned me that the fishing was tough, but who cares? This is a gorgeous piece of water, and the rainy weather only helped make it look all the prettier. There it was, rough and tumbling it's way Gulf-ward, a pocket water stream, some fifteen or twenty feet wide, clear as a lite beer. There were many likely looking holes and runs, so we rigged up quickly (partly to get on the water, partly to keep from getting soaked with rain) and made our way bank-side. Like any Appalachian stream, casting was a trick, for this fisherman a combination of flip casts and roll casts to get the parachute BWO out onto likely water. The banks of the river are absolutely chock-a-block with rhododendron and hemlock. We fished a few likely runs, unproductively. We both had one or two rises to our offerings, but beyond that, nary a bump, let alone a take.
We had a quick packed lunch in the truck, then headed upstream to the next parking area. Again, the stream was packed with short runs and much pocket water. And again, no fish rising in sight. There were tiny blue winged olives hatching, despite the rain. I also spotted several (and even managed to wrangle one) big March Brown duns, size 12 or maybe 10. Despite this airborne wealth of eats, neither of us saw a rising fish. I'd switched to a nymph, with hopes that dragging it through the tail runs of the many small falls would produce a catch, but that failed as well.
	Skunked, wet, but smiling, we headed back south late in the afternoon, me struggling to stay awake while Charlie energetically held up his end of the conversation. I'm looking forward to spending more time in that part of the country.

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