LAUREL COUNTY, Ky. — A bit of spontaneity led three items crossed off the to-do list last weekend. The way things came together makes you wonder if making plans might be over-rated.

It was about 5 p.m. Saturday when I decided I wanted to wake up in the Smokies. I packed little more than a tent, fly rod and change of underwear.

I chose to take the back way into the Smoky Mountains through Townsend. Somewhere past Knoxville I discovered Todd Snider was playing that night at the Harley Davidson shop in Maryville. Most people will not be familiar with Snider, who the liner notes on his CD compare to Tom T. Hall and John Prine. More than a folk singer, he is an extraordinary story teller. As he says in transition between two songs, his stories might go on for 18 minutes.  He dresses like a hobo and wears no shoes, so we kind of have that in common.

The concert last for hours. There was the 90-minute show at the Harley shop and an additional couple of hours listening to the live CD I bought from another hobo with no shoes.

The plan to camp had taken a setback since I did not have a campsite reserved. I knew there were several camping areas along the little Pigeon River. The first I stopped at said no vacancy. The second looked promising, so I rung the office doorbell. A lady came out in a bathrobe and told me she had nothing for me.  I thanked her and moved on.

There was one more camping area or it would be a sleep-in the truck night. The office was closed, but a chalkboard said there were no tent sites. There were gravel RV sites available. Not exactly rustic, but a safe place to sleep.

It seems everyone turns in early on the “Quiet side of the Smokies.” I didn’t want to wake anyone, so I took an open spot near the front. There were no lights, which can make it challenging to put up a tent. I turned on the cargo light of the truck and held a flashlight to set up the tent in the bed of my truck. A foam pad and a sleeping bag made it cozy.

I slept well other than my 10-year old calling at 3 a.m. afraid I was being eaten by a bear. At 6:30 campers start to stir. They roll out of their dens belching and scratching.

That means time for this hobo to roll on.

I cast a few lures in the Little Pigeon River, but there were just too many people around. I stopped for an over-priced breakfast. They left me a whole pot of coffee, so I had no choice but drink it.

The coffee told me to drive into the Smokies.

Cades Cove might be the prettiest spot in the Smoky Mountains. I have always wanted to tour the 11-mile loop by bicycle. You can rent a bike for $6.00 an hour at the Cades Cove Campground. Another buck-fifty gives you a bottle of water. You can leave a security deposit or your car keys.

I tossed the kid my keys and started rolling. You have the option of shorter trails. There were young kids riding as well, so it could be a family activity. Some of the little whippersnappers passed me, but a few of the hills are challenging. It’s OK to get off and walk. Traffic is very slow around the loop and it is bicycle friendly. Cars stop often to view deer, wild turkey, or the several old cabins and churches along the road.

The kid seemed surprised that I made it back in just over an hour. I was a little shocked as well.

Next was Little River Outfitters, a fly fishing shop and a wealth of knowledge for people like me that have no knowledge.

Turns out Smoky Mountain trout were dining on yellow Parachute Adams. Tied behind the Adams was a trailing green worm called a Green Meanie.  He gave me a map and marked a couple of places that even a novice had a chance.

It didn’t take long before I caught a trout about the size of my longest finger. Minutes later I caught a second trout, this one bigger. It measured about the size of a small cigar. The third trout would be my prize.  All three fish took the Green Meanie.  The third trout was in swift water and waited for the worm to bounce through the rapids. I didn’t have to set a hook, he did that for me.  It was a beautiful 8 or 9 inch rainbow trout.

Todd Snider, Cades Cove, and rainbow trout produced from a trip that required no planning, a fly rod, and a change of underwear. Turns out, I didn’t even need the underwear.

mhoward@sentinel-echo.com