I hate waders. Well, no, that’s not exactly true. I hate wearing waders. Actually, I suspect that it’s most accurate to say that I hate having to wear waders.

You see, I cut my fly fishing teeth chasing North Carolina shoals largemouths – wet wading steamy Piedmont rivers with water temperatures in the 80s and air temps and humidity percentages way beyond that. Air so thick that you wish you had gills. All I needed, all I wanted, was a pair of light, quick drying pants to protect my legs during the bushwhack to the water and a pair of sturdy boots. Waders? You’ve got to be kidding.

But, as most fly fishermen do, I eventually expanded my fishing horizons, turning to the fairer species - those delicate rainbows, browns and brookies - and in the South that means tailwaters for a good portion of the year. And that means waders. But while the water coming from the bases of Fontana and Philpott and the mighty South Holston might be as cold as sweet iced tea, the air remains pig cooker hot. It doesn’t take long to get steamed like a Cajun crawdad.

There’s no wader funk like southern wader funk.