Written by Henry Hooks of Tall Tails Media

Memphis, TN - home of Elvis Presley, world famous barbecue, and the Memphis Grizzlies. A music and cultural hub known for its food, artists, and unfortunately, its crime rate. In short, a bustling city on the banks of the Mississippi River with an increasingly questionable reputation. However, nowhere on the list of its many attractions would you find fly fishing.

Memphis sits a mere three hundred feet above sea level, and while it overlooks the most famous river in America, you would be hard pressed to find someone in the city who had ever picked up a fly rod, much less was proficient. This knowledge weighed heavy on my mind as I made the move from the foothills of Appalachia to Grind City a little over a year ago, but I was determined to find (if not create) a community of equally passionate anglers in my new home.

Like most great relationships, my friendship with David started with a DM on Instagram. He was an established fly tier who had lived in Memphis his entire life, and I was hoping I had found someone to open my eyes to the wonder of southwest Tennessee fly fishing. Unsurprisingly, that wonder was limited to my own perception of the word. He frequented a few ponds around the city and took his paddleboard to some of the larger lakes, but only one place really stood out to me. A small creek paralleling the interstate that needed the perfect amount of rain to flow but not too much to muddy the water. It was full of tires, needles, and wrappers, but it held everything from largemouth and bluegill to catfish and crappie. It was small enough to fish with a small glass rod, but big enough to hold species that could put a serious bend in that rod. It was enough to stoke the flame.

Winter in a city with only warmwater species is long. In the frigid gloom, the warmer months bring with them the promise of being back on the water, but tying flies during those dismal winter days does only so much to satiate the urge. As spring rolled around, David would drive by the creek every few weeks to check the flows and the stain. For months, we were turned away. Any rainstorm turned the small stream to chocolate milk, and the dry spells left it nearly empty.

Finally, in late June, the water levels were steady enough to return to the creek. I got a text about tying flies at David's house, and when you live somewhere like Memphis, even a few hours spent next to the interstate warrants its own tying night. I grabbed a six pack and dodged potholes and yellow lights on my way out of downtown, arriving at his quiet suburban house a few minutes later. As we cracked open the first beer of the night, I was reminded of a year prior. I had moved to a new place with no friends and certainly no one to share my passion for angling, and yet here I was, with a new friend, at his home, sharing a beer, and tying flies. Saying things like, “Life has a funny way of…” always seems so trite to me, but passions truly have a way of uniting people regardless of background, and fly fishing is no exception. A few beers and an equal number of flies later, we agreed to meet at the creek the next morning at 6 o'clock.

By 6:15am, rods were rigged and we ducked into the tunnel of overgrown weeds that shielded the creek. With the early rays of sunlight stabbing through the trees, we stepped out to the creek for the first time in almost a year. Despite an uneventful start to the morning, as we made our way upstream, our luck slowly began to shift. After dredging up a small channel catfish, the jig flies we had tied the night before proved their efficacy and not long after, a largemouth pushing two pounds was fooled by the same. What proved to be the fish of the day was made all the sweeter by the work that went into landing it.

My favorite place in Memphis is uninspiring.  It runs beside a major interstate, it smells bad, there is trash everywhere, and the whole time spent there is plagued by a tinge of fear that I will return to my car to find the windows shattered. On the surface, all it has to offer is a few small fish and the potential for any number of diseases. But what living here has shown me is that the surface rarely paints the whole picture. The more time I spend in the city and the more people I meet, the more my perspective changes about my new home. In order to find joy in something like a small creek by the highway, I have to spend time there getting to know its intricacies.

In keeping with the trend of trite phrases, how about “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” To be the beholder of beauty is becoming something that bears much more weight to me these days. The older I get, the more moments tend to run together and daily life takes on a gray hue. Especially living in an urban environment, beauty swiftly becomes something to seek out rather than something to happen upon. A day spent on a murky creek with the echo of sirens and horns ringing in my ear becomes the highlight of my month because instead of seeing it at face value, I now see the beauty that it hides.

I did not choose to move here. It was forced upon me by my career choice, and I dreaded it for so long. But living in Memphis has shown me more about beauty and joy than any place I have lived before. It took my home waters changing from clear streams full of smallmouth to a litter strewn creek with catfish to recognize that my joy and passion for fishing does not solely rest in the destination. As the beholder, beauty became the early morning walk to the creek or the turtle dashing under a log, or a vibrant bluegill in an unlikely home. It became the sunset glancing off the glassy pyramid as I sat on the deck of my favorite brewery. It became the ability to find joy here in the Home of the Blues, the Bluff City: Memphis, Tennessee.