My dad was a Methodist minister who fished the Smokies from the 1940's on. My best days as a kid were spent walking up and down those long trails with him; fishing Fish Camp Prong, Hazel Creek, Middle Prong and Abram's.
He died two years ago, but he always told me that whenever I fished the mountains, he'd be there walking right along beside me.
There was a great story in the very first Little River Journal back in 1999 that was written by a guy about fishing the mountains with his dad; his dad giving him instruction on how to cast and encouragement as he played the fish. It wasn't until the end of the story that you realized the man's father had long since passed and it was just the memory of his father's voice he was experiencing. I feel that way now.
Anyway, great thread....