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The Piedmont Triad International Airport is located just west of Greensboro, North Carolina, and it is an absolute dream. It’s small, sleepy, and Southern, the opposite of the complete mayhem airports are known for. After a quick pit stop, I climbed into a white unmarked Sprinter van for the hour and a half drive to The Lodge at Primland, a sprawling 12,000-acre private mountain estate in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I am on the record as not being the outdoor type, but from my poking around, this looked like a just-luxurious-enough way to tap into my Southern roots and touch grass without pitching a tent or hunting my own food.
I have been friends with the author David Coggins for years. He has written two books on fly fishing and speaks about it in such an attractive, poetic way that it has slowly begun to interest me. It’s a sport that I have very little understanding of, much like pheasant hunting or skeet shooting, but I find the methodical process intriguing. I am not a patient person, and the idea of standing in thigh-high water in a pair of less-than-breathable waders for hours on end, with little action, was intimidating. Nevertheless, the trip to Primland offered a chance to try my hand at the sport with little effort from my end. Barbour had set us up nicely; I just had to pile into one of the hotel’s co-branded big body Jeep Wagoneers and take the 20-minute drive to meet our guide. The journey was piloted by a charming, chatty nineteen-year-old who had blown out his knee playing high school basketball and was plotting his next moves. His accent was so thick I thought I was talking to my own mother.
The activity center was ground zero for ATV riding, shooting, and fishing. It had an old-school pro shop with all kinds of branded gear. Behind a stack of sweaters was a small promotional sign that had a rifle with a red stiletto and a martini sitting on the barrel. It read “G.R.I.T.S. Approved,” a classic acronym that in this context stood for “Girls Really Into Shooting.” I filled out some paperwork, obtained my first-ever fishing license, and was introduced to Andrew, our guide. He put me in a pair of size XXL waders that had me feeling like a Kanye West experiment, but they did the trick. I slid my neoprene-covered feet into a brand-new pair of giant waterproof boots and shuffled to his old beat-up white Tahoe for the drive to the river.
Watching Andrew suit up and strap on all his gear was fascinating. He had on a Primland logo tie-dyed t-shirt, certainly a custom job. Over his shoulder was a grey sling pack stuffed with assorted fly boxes, nippers, forceps, a wading staff, and a net. He also had a grape vape, a watermelon Red Bull, and a red Gatorade. My man was ready to rock for three hours with a city slicker who couldn’t tie a fly if his life depended on it. I gingerly waded into the water behind him, my boots sinking slightly into the sand and mud, trying to move gracefully while feeling like a toddler wearing plastic overalls. Once Andrew and I settled on a spot, Coggins went upstream solo.
Source:
www.gq.com
