Last month saw the return to the great outdoors. Dad and I were able to escape up to the mountains. Returning once again to one of our favorite spots, Cherryhill campground, and not far away, the revered Chattooga River. I would definitely consider the Chattooga River our family river. It has a history with the Sosebee name—whose roots are in Northeast Georgia—much of which I’m unaware.
Nevertheless, it’s where I spent most of the camping trips during my lifetime. It’s for this reason that it holds a special place in my heart. It’s a beautiful part of the country. I’ve been west quite a few times, yet there’s still something about the Appalachians that tugs at my heart. There is memory of antiquity that seems to echo on forever, to the roots of the world. I love those echos.
Many a day was spent wading in the waters of the Chattooga fishing. There’s nothing quite like the cold mountain water running around you while you’re waiting for that rainbow trout to strike. On this last trip I waited and waited. And finally one took my fly. Rainbows put up a good fight. It’s a thrilling catch. I told Dad I could’ve left after that first catch. Mainly because it was raining while standing in the cold mountain water, but mostly because the trip was complete.
But this was only after the previous evening. Grilling steaks, baking potatoes on Dad’s famous home-made oven, coffee around the lantern, and timeless conversation.
I’m grateful for those times. I’m thankful that Papa took Dad to the mountains, and that Dad took me.