Kingfisher Society

A Time TooWe thought we were going there just to fish

for bass and giant bluegills. Little did we know what enlightenment awaited.

Story by Michael Altizer

Wonderfful

S P o r T I n G C l A S S I C S

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We arrived back at the lodge early the following May on a warm and inviting Tuesday afternoon, and soon we were out on the water with guide Robbie Everett. Within an hour

Chuck had caught and released a five-pound largemouth, two big crappies and a bluegill that would easily have gone a pound and a half, and I had taken a four-pound largemouth holding tight against the burl of an elegant, ancient cypress. We fished until sunset, then made our way back down the lake to the lodge to finish unpacking before dinner.

The next morning we were met by Clyde Douglass, a real estate developer and fly-fishing aficionado from Raleigh who had come down to shepherd us around the lake for a few days. Chuck continued with his spinning gear and I stuck with my fly rod, and as we eased out onto the mirror surface of the lake, Clyde suggested I try a dropper rig.

I trimmed down a deer-hair mouse pattern from my Alaska fly box, tied it straight into the end of the leader with a perfection loop, and bent down the barb. Then I handed the fly to Clyde and he tied a four-foot section of 2X tippet into the bend of the hook and attached one of his own flies – a long, rubber-legged variation I’d never seen. But knowing that local knowledge usually trumps standard protocol, I suspected that Clyde’s dropper would likely be the ticket.

We eased up the southern edge of the lake, weaving our way in and out of the ancient pond cypress, and when Clyde gave me the okay, I made my first cast of the morning. I assure you, my intentions were pure – to do exactly what Clyde said and let the deer-hair mouse rest on the surface for 30 seconds or so in order to allow the dropper time to sink before giving it a twitch.

But one big largemouth had other ideas.Suddenly the water imploded as the big bass inhaled my

Alaska fly, and I struck instinctively. The three feet of slack line in my left hand quickly came tight and then began tearing from the reel, its silver song clear and fulfilling as the fish carried the fly deep and away. The line tore through the water, throwing a wake on either side, but finally she turned, and I

e’d been hearing talk of the place for months. It was located somewhere in the

sandhills of central North Carolina and was reputed to be one of the most well-managed and

compelling destinations in the world for largemouth bass. What really got our attention, however, were the giant bluegills that were said to inhabit the lake and were rumored to range upwards of three-pounds-plus. But it was only when our friend John Burrell happened to mention it again when we ran into him on a wingshooting trip in Georgia that Chuck Wechsler and I finally determined to go and check it out for ourselves.

To be honest, had it been anyone other than John we might not have taken it quite as seriously. But if John Burrell says it, you can believe it. And so Chuck made a few calls, and though Thanksgiving was fast approaching, we packed up and headed there sight unseen, arriving just ahead of a cold front bearing in from the north.

I t is called the King Fisher Society, a name loosely derived from a close-knit group of friends who grew up together around Richmond Mill Lake near Laurel Hill, North Carolina. This 2,500-acre piece of undiluted

tranquility has been in the same family for five generations and is now under the leadership of owner Jim Morgan and King Fisher Society vice-president Dave Buhler.

We had certainly not been disappointed on that first autumn foray, for Jim and Dave had orchestrated a truly remarkable resource that in all respects lived up to the things we’d heard. Over those first few days I began to gain a loose understanding of the place and appreciate all the love and nurturing that had gone into its making – at least as much as one can on a first visit.

We’d caught and released some of the biggest largemouth bass of our lives and even a few of those big bluegills, and had finally indulged ourselves in a single blissful afternoon of quail hunting in the woods and fields that border the lake – all this despite the less than ideal weather.

And when we left, we were determined to return in the spring.


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could feel her every surge transmitted back to me through the fly line now delicately interwoven through my fingers. Then suddenly there was a massive swirl 30 feet off the bow, and for the first time we saw her as she slashed the surface and again turned for the depths. But the angle of pressure was gradually steepening as we drew closer, and I concentrated on keeping her head up as Clyde waited beside me with the release net.

The fish made one more surge and again nearly leapt. But by now she was all but ours, more angry and confused than tired. And as the tough little 6-weight powered her gaping mouth to the surface, Clyde eased the net beneath her. She was fat and healthy, though we did not take time to weigh her, preferring instead simply to photograph her and get her back into the water as quickly as possible.

We fished until just past noon, then made our way back down the lake to the lodge and another sumptuous lunch. The dining and accommodations were delightful, as was the afternoon back out on the lake. But the surprise came that evening at dinner when we were treated to some of the finest jazz piano I have ever heard from the lodge’s Steinway.

Now a Steinway grand piano seems at first a rather odd thing to find in a fishing lodge, fine though the lodge may be. But that night at dinner we began to learn some of the rich history of the place from Dave and Jim, and that this jewel of a lakeside retreat had originally been designed and constructed as a jazz rehearsal facility.

In fact, Jim Morgan and the area around Richmond Mill Lake and Laurel Hill all revel in a rich and storied jazz heritage. Nearly everyone in Jim’s family and inner circle is an accomplished musician, including Jim and Dave themselves.

C huck Wechsler (left) and Mike Altizer with a healthy pair of five-pound bass. Top: The author strikes as he approaches the lodge on his last cast of the evening. Seconds later the big bass threw the fly. Opposite: Altizer sends out a fly to inspect the dark waters of a hidden cove.


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line and a newly tied chartreuse-and-white Clouser minnow. The line unfurled smoothly just above the water’s surface and deposited the fly 60 feet away into the far edge of a deep channel. I counted down five, six, seven, eight to give the entire length of line time to reach proper depth and then began a slow, syncopated retrieve.

The little Clouser hadn’t moved ten feet before something smacked it. It was another big largemouth, this one cruising the edges of the main channel and plotting mayhem. But as I played her, there suddenly came a wild and exhilarating exclamation from my accomplice up on the bow of the boat.

As I had hoped to catch my career largemouth here, Chuck had long dreamed of tying into one of King Fisher’s legendary mega-bluegills. And now it seemed he had done precisely that. His rod was bent nearly double and the fish was actually pulling the bow of the boat and turning it toward the opposite shoreline. There was a massive billow in the water where the fish had just rolled, and as I grasped my fish by the lower jaw and slipped the barbless hook from her lip, I could still hear the line tearing from Chuck’s reel.

Finally he began to gain on the giant bluegill and was

Dizzie Gillespie was born just 20 miles south of where we now sat dining together, and John Coltrane only ten miles west of here. And now the lyrical grandeur of our surroundings started implanting itself deep into my psyche and began to broaden what had begun simply as a fishing adventure into something with ever more depth and purpose.

o ur final morning dawned clear and cool, with temps in the low- to mid-50s. The lake was slick calm with the first warming rays of daybreak lightly touching the trees, and by the time we’d

had our breakfast, both the sun and the temperature had begun to rise to more tolerable levels. We cut our morning short in favor of an early lunch, then made our way back out onto the lake for one final afternoon of bliss.

We headed toward the upper end where Clyde wanted to show us a beautifully sheltered little cove. The subtle colors of spring reflected in the calm surface, but for now there seemed to be nothing lurking beneath it, and so we eased our way out into the main channel.

I was curious to put my 8-weight into play with its sinking

T wo jewels: Richmond Mill Lake at sunrise and a monster bluegill from its vibrant and mysterious depths. Opposite: An evening of fine jazz made the author’s last day at the King Fisher Society a truly transcendent experience.


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A s a musician interprets the music, so too a writer interprets an experience. A writer sings solo, for the treasures of the written word can only take form and grow deep in a single spirit.

At its finest, writing is a solitary process of indulgence and discovery, just you and your soul alone together in the Greater Reality and eager to see where the writing may lead.

But jazz is a celebration of kindred souls. The jazz musician shares himself in real time with other like-

minded individuals who understand the objective and the themes, complementing each other and enhancing each other, thrusting and parrying and playing off other musicians as they create something that has never before existed, and in all likelihood will never exist again, at least not in this same exact form.

And so in the end they’re really not all that different, jazz and fishing, at least when your intentions are honorable and you are fishing well. For fishing, like jazz, is a continuing process, an idiom all its own that connects past to present, present to hope.

You approach fishing with the same basic instincts each time you take to the water, and then wait to discover where the fishing may lead. You respond to the moment, to the circumstance, to the theme, be it bluegill or bass, trout or salmon, tarpon or bonefish or marlin, tailoring your moves to the situation, waiting for the fish, waiting for the take, waiting for the inevitable pull that tugs at your spirit, responding to the moment much as the trumpet responds to the piano and the piano to the stand-up bass while the music itself informs and infuses them all.

And so I left the good folks at the King Fisher Society the next morning with an entirely new point of view, my heart filled to overflowing and reveling in new friendships, new experiences and, most significantly, new perspectives.

I promise I’ll be back.

Note: The author always welcomes your comments, questions and input. Please keep in touch at [email protected].

If You WAnT To GoCall the Kingfisher Society at 910-462-2324 or visit their

website at www.kingfishersociety.com.A special thanks to John Burrell, president and CEO of the

High Adventure Company, for encouraging us to experience firsthand the fabulous bass and bluegill fishing at the Kingfisher Society. Visit www.highadventurecompany.com.

eventually able to turn it, and when Clyde finally eased the net beneath it and raised it from the water, the only thing bigger than the fish was Chuck’s broad grin. She was magnificent, reading a full three pounds, two ounces on Clyde’s pocket scale, her eyes an angry ebony, her head and face and back nearly black with rage. Her throat and mouth were trimmed in a subtle tropical green and her chest and belly seemed sculpted from pure ancient amber. The sharp spines along her back betrayed her anger, and she writhed as Clyde eased the hook from her jaw and then held her in his hand as I snapped a single photo before he turned her back into her native element.

Chuck was beside himself with glee and fulfillment, and before the afternoon was done we had each caught and released more of these giant bluegills and more huge bass. Once we even doubled on bluegills, with a pair of two-plus-pound slabsides in the net at once.

Standing sentinel on the bow as we approached the lodge at day’s end, I couldn’t resist one final cast and was rewarded with the last largemouth of the trip, who took my fly three feet

into the air and then unceremoniously threw it back at me and disappeared. But no matter . . . the sunset smells of supper here on our final evening were already wafting across the water toward us, the fishing now full and complete.

I had a long, hot shower and was getting dressed for dinner when there began filtering into my room the intricately interwoven sounds of a full-fledged jazz trio coming from the main hall just outside

my door. It was none other than trumpet legend Ray Codrington along with Dr. Willie Lockett on stand-up bass and Dr. Scott Marosek on the Steinway.

Ray Codrington is a jazz icon who has worked with the likes of Dizzie Gillespie and Cannonball Adderly and John Coltrane – “Trane,” as Ray called him. And that night, as he and Willie and Scott played, their music seeped into our souls as it filled the lodge and filtered into the woods, then wafted out across the still waters and into the night to become a part of the rich continuum of our surroundings. And later when Dave and Jim joined in the session, I knew I was bearing witness to something as wonderful as anything of which I have ever been a part.

At evening’s end Chuck and I shook their hands and thanked them all profusely, and I felt a sudden, sublime connection to something far more enduring than any single evening of great jazz or a few days of fishing could ever be.

And I knew deep in my heart that I had something new and good to write about.

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Kingfisher Society