Reliance, Tenn.

I'm standing thigh high in 58-degree water, precariously balanced upon an algae-covered rock, trying desperately to cast a Woolly Bugger into the Hiwassee River, one of four rivers that crisscross a tri-county area known as the Tennessee Overhill.

"Don't bend your wrist," instructs Zandy Zechella, the man immersed beside me. "You start low. Come back. Speed up, then stop around your ear."

Zechella, a fly-fishing guide for Hiwassee Outfitters, apparently doesn't realize he's talking to a person with the physical coordination and range of motion of a penguin. But when I turn to him with glassy eyes and gaping mouth --- an expression common to both first-time fly-fishermen and the trout they're trying to catch --- Zechella patiently takes the line to show me just how it's done.

In his expert hands, the line moves with the speed and efficiency of a frog's darting tongue, and the Woolly Bugger --- a bushy synthetic fly at the end of the line --- sinks below the river's surface like a stone fly or a crippled minnow. Encouraged, I cast again and nearly hook something --- er, someone. My fishing guide.

In theory, fly-fishing sounds simple. An angler attaches a synthetic fly to the end of his line and casts it into the water. To a trout's tiny brain, that fly is supposed to look like a delectable morsel, typically a mayfly.

But there are hundreds of synthetic flies intended to imitate different insects in different stages of life, and the angler must figure out what looks tasty to the trout from day to day.

Fortunately for fly-fishermen, the Hiwassee, about 2 1/2 hours north of Atlanta, is blessed with bugs and the fish that love them. "This river has more variety of (insect) hatches than other rivers in the area," says George Beasley, a Hiwassee Outfitters guide who has fished the river for 20 years. And of course, more bugs mean more fish to feast upon them.

The Hiwassee, which cuts through the Cherokee National Forest, offers excellent fly-fishing for rainbow and brown trout from early spring to late fall, but it's not just the fish that lure outdoor enthusiasts to this section of southeastern Tennessee. It's the chance to shoot Class IV rapids on the Ocoee River, site of the 1996 Olympic canoe and kayak competition; to canoe or kayak the Tellico River, also known for its trout; or to snorkel in the Conasauga River, a haven for colorful darters and minnows and the federally endangered Conasauga log perch.

Personally, I enjoy just floating down the Hiwassee on my green rubber raft, winding through pristine gorges, past clear, placid pools that beckon 'tubing teenagers to pause for a dip. Ospreys grace the sky overhead, and somewhere in those rolling hills, white-tailed deer and wild boar roam.

"Trout just live in beautiful places," observes John Murphy, an orthopedic surgeon from Florence, Ala., who has had a decade-long love affair with fly-fishing. This trip down the Hiwassee, which features a 3 1/2-mile designated trophy trout fishing area, is an anniversary gift from his wife, Nancy.

"It's just nice to see him relax," she says.

Murphy nods. "You can't fly-fish unless you can relax, because it's all about the rhythm," he explains. "You can't think about anything else."

Of course, if you're casting from a boat that is drifting downstream, that Zen-like trout trance is bound to be broken by the sound of roiling water as you near several sets of rapids, including the Widowmaker, also known as the Devil's Shoals.

Fortunately, I'm in the hands of Charlie Martin, who has teamed with Zechella to ferry our small group of rookie fly-fishermen down the Hiwassee in two three-person boats.

Martin, who has fished this river for half of his 53 years, glides through the white water effortlessly, backpaddling here, pausing there, and coming out on the other side with barely a splash.

Even the ominous-sounding Widowmaker is no match for him. With his snow-white mustache parting in a mischievous smile, Martin declares, "We're gonna hit it head on --- and laugh about it." And we do.

Each time we clear the rapids, we cast, and cast again, under the watchful gaze of our guides. "Getting that cast down is real hard," Martin acknowledges sympathetically. "I used to go out in my backyard and practice casting until my arm hurt."

After four hours of fishing, my right arm aches, but gradually, I start to get the hang of this casting thing. The fatigue drains away as I become immersed in the rhythm and flow, forgetting for a moment about the fish.

That's when it happens. A tug on the line. "I've got one! I've got one!" I scream. And then it's gone, taking the fly with it --- proof, at least, that there really was something there.

"Oh yeah, that was a big one, too," Martin says with a smile.