These Fish Are Insane...

It had been a week since we put it all together, just a gnat’s eyelash ahead of the gale and pounding rain that stuck just as the last bit of our stuff was shoved inside the tent. Mikey was on a schedule the next day and we packed it all up, locked the gate and departed with a sense of accomplishment.

Approaching the Ranch a week later and looking through the first bend in the river the flow was noticeably lower. Farmers must be drawing heavily upstream. It has been hot and field after field of wheel lines sprayed river water over crops that would be ready to harvest soon. This was a critical time, crops where nearing full growth and more water was needed to sustain maturing plants until they could be harvested.

With that realization a thought struck me.  I floored it to the camp site, jumped out, popped open the back hatch, unloaded a few things, slipped on waders, twisted the cap to the TCR tube, assembled the rod, set the reel, slid the line one by one through the guides, then tied on the perfect hopper imitation.

Sprinted up the hill to the dike road toward the river. Approaching that one vexing spot where success had eluded my every attempt, I spied that willowy far bank containing dark fishy water where one big cut refused my well placed hopper imitation only a few weeks before. Walking on the road approaching the flat bank it could be observed that low flows now presented an opportunity that had been so elusive. I stepped off the bank into the flowing current with rod in one hand, the other arm held out like an outrigger for balance against the current, I waded to that vertical shelf that, combined with high water, forced me back to the near bank numerous times. Approaching the shelf, I cautiously lifted one foot set it atop as the other leg pushed off the rocky river bottom giving a big lift up and out of the current, I strode beyond to the bank at the bottom of the grassy island that separated the fast water from the slower flow of the channel that streamed quietly beneath the willowy bank

The run was magnificent. Classic. Fishy, as hell. If nothing rose to my hopper in the first few casts, then all of my life’s experiences have taught me nothing about reading a river.

The anticipation was tangible as I worked out line. Concentrating to the max, the final cast released the hopper as it landed just right of center of the run, in a bit from a color change in the water. The river bottom near the island bank was shallow with fine gravel, then it dropped fast into a hole that turned the water dark and ominous. Experience had taught that often fish hold just below a shelf in the deeper water where the water is cold and quite until the opportunity presents and it moves in for the take.

The big hopper sat high and dry atop the water surface for a couple of seconds when up from the bottom, this torpedo crushed the hopper with fierce intent. It was awesome. What a rush. This was great. Oh, man, this is what it’s all about. Nineteen inches of infuriated wrath played out before my wide opened eyes. Rod bent in half as the cutty headed for the deep willowy far bank for protection. I dropped the rod sideways in an effort to hold it back and deny it protection from the tangle of roots and fallen branches directly under the stand of willows. At last it tuned toward me as I stripped in line with my left hand to keep it taught. Then it took another run upstream and sounded into the place from whence it came. It became obvious that if I stood in the same place, the advantage would go to this pissed off Cutthroat and I’d likely see a tight line go limp. I didn’t want to experience that deep sense of self disgust after a big fish breaks off. I began to walk backwards to direct the cutty into more open, yet shallower water. It began to tire and respond to the consistently applied pressure of the rod tip as I gained line and ground.

Finally, I reached down and held this most beautiful specimen, then gently set it back on  wet gravel to take a pic in an effort to memorialize this experience. No sooner had it touched the rocks, it began to flip out. It wnet nuts.  I shot pic after pic and in the end all I could muster was a fish in motion caught in the frame at odd angles. Any thought of taking the traditional pic with nice fish lying in the grass with rod and reel strategically laid beside to give perspective was not to be.

If this were a blind fold test, I would have guessed the frenzied fish attached to my line was a nice brown or bow. I’d never guess this was a cutthroat. These fish are insane, must be something in the water.

"This is living"

Another day in paradise was the thought as we greeted the morning.  Walked to the deck to touch its surface to see if the stain was still tacky. It felt and looked spectacular, although recommended dry time was 24-hours. Something less would have to do, we were not putting off the final set up that long.

Mikey was up stirring around. He’s a real gadget guy. Half the boxes on the trailer held a lot of his stuff. This morning I saw him leaning into the opened back hatch of the 4-Runner searching for his reel case. Must be time to fish.

We set out to cast a bit to let the stain dry further. Looking upstream from the dike road I could see a few ripples on the water surface just above the rocky check. We cast to a few risers, but somehow my heart was just not in it this morning. The draw of the deck and the completion of the project were too much. I looked at Mikey and said, “Let’s finish the job”. He said, “Go ahead, I’m fishing.” Since the final phase of the project was a two-man operation, I had to settle for casting to rising fish.

By early afternoon, and after hooking a few nice ones, I strolled back to the 4-Runner, opened the cooler and foraged for an apple and a Balance Bar. Rods stowed away, food in the belly, we redirected our efforts to the final push to set the Wall Tent onto the deck, and ultimately move in.

Its mid afternoon by now, the sky was beginning to cloud up with high wispy formations that cooled things down slightly and there was a faint breeze that gently cooled the sweat on the back of my neck. Welcome relief from the hot August sun. We dumped the contents of both canvas bags on the ground and sorted through the tangle of one-inch pipe pieces and connectors to lay out the frame. It went smoothly. It looked great sitting atop the deck, sort of like a framed house. The outline of the structure was impressive as the walls stood exactly five feet above the added foot for the deck; it traced the outline of the geometrical shape of what was to come shortly.

The canvas was heavy, yet supple as we worked at various approaches to lifting it over the rather tall frame. In the end we discovered that it was necessary to take off the vertical wall sections leaving only the roof so the canvas could be spread over the top while Mikey and I, from the inside, raised one end of the canvas covered roof section to insert the five-foot wall section raising it full height. After repeating the same on the other end, Mikey unzipped the mesh screen and the front opening and we walked out on to the deck. It was nearly perfect, except one corner had slipped off the deck and the whole thing went askew. After making numerous adjustments here and there, we secured the bottom of the tent by pounding nails through the holes in the metal grommets into the rim joist of the deck stretching the canvas tight for a nice fit. Mikey finished staking the sides as I started piling our stuff in side.

The tent site was situated just below the dike road that was elevated about a half dozen feet above the tent site grade. With an armful of stuff from the back of the 4-Runner I turned toward the tent deck and caught the scene from above it as I peered at this fully set up Wall Tent sitting on a finished deck against the back drop of a stand of cottonwood trees with the Tetons towering on the eastern horizon. I instinctively stopped and took notice. It was spectacular, exceeded my expectations, canvas, white as snow against the tall yellow August grass, the scene was epic.

The clouds were considerably darker to the south as the wind picked up and became gusty. The sky went from high scattered clouds to dark thick ominous looking formations signaling a gathering storm ahead. Things were secure so there was no concern there.

Moments later the sky began to rain down a bit at first until the wind velocity intensified in a matter of a minute or two. I grabbed the sleeping bags from off the deck and hurled them to Mikey who was setting up a couple of cots inside. Within a few of seconds the place was engulfed in an intense burst of drenching rain and howling winds. The deck clear of our stuff, and Mikey sorting through it all just inside the tent opening, I stepped inside, zipped it shut and began to set up my half of the tent.

The bay window, a rather nice feature, unzipped and my cot set up, I laid down looking out toward the Tetons watching the storm roll through. It was reassuring that the tent held up in this baptism by storm barely minutes following Mikey driving the last tent stake into the ground. This thing was sturdy, barely swaying in the howling gale.

The storm went on for most of the afternoon. We just hung out inside while it snapped off branches of the cottonwood tree and tossed them around the ranch. What a great way to finish this all up. We spend a day acquiring the material for the deck, build it, the next day, erect the tent frame, envelope the frame with new white canvas, secure it all safe and sound, dump our gear inside just in time for the storm of the summer to blast the hell out of the thing, while I lay on a cot inside watching this storm pound us for the entire afternoon, occasionally staring off to the east to view the Tetons jutting up out of the horizon, while I read several chapters of Bud’s novel.

I have to admit, this is living.

Up To Our Axles

 I remember that trip to Rock Cliff the year the dam was completed. The State considered it the crown jewel of the State Park system. The Provo River flows into the reservoir on the east side and just before it begins to back up and with the river still in its historical course, they built a rather magnificent campground. It’s a beauty. The latest thinking in campsite design, at the time. One unique feature was the way they constructed elevated tent sites, the surface of which was constructed with manufactured decking. It was clean to look at and it stood about eighteen inches above grade. We set up the Kelty and enjoyed a couple of days playing with the kids and hooking nice fish on the river.

I’m pulling out of Kirkham’s with a 10 X 12 white canvas duck bag containing the new Wall Tent, delighted in the discovery of the thing and the prospect of providing a more civilized place to live out the rest of the season.

An imagination in overdrive is a beautiful thing. Passing beneath the I-80 overpass on State Street just a few minutes after leaving Kirkham’s, the image of the white canvas tent sitting atop an elevated deck had taken full form inside my head. That’s it. We’ll build a deck and fasten the tent on top. It will be clean, comfy, sophisticated and as cool as the pic in the ad that spawned the whole idea to begin with. Rock Cliff redux, except, this scheme included an oversize deck that would extend well beyond the tent footprint; we’d build a double sized deck, half to accommodate the Wall Tent, the other half to stage all of our adventures, lounge on or just to stand atop and admire our kingdom. This was going to be very cool.

Mikey had a garage full of tools. The only problem, we’d need to sort through piles of stuff to find the right ones. Drills, table saw, walls full of hammers, wrenches, saws, blades of all kinds of implements, gadgets and tools hanging from one of those brown peg boards’ handy guys hang things from. Box after box of electrical cords, carpenter belts, paint cans and bungee cords. It was a mass of confusion piled over years of accumulation. I told him, “Somewhere in there we might find your BMW R1100RT bike that you no longer ride”. “He took offense”. Some things just aren’t that funny.

But best of all, he had a trailer. After a couple of hours sorting and sifting though it all, we loaded it with boxes of tools and equipment and headed to the ranch. En route an order for lumber and nails was placed at the big lumber store in Rexburg with delivery scheduled for the following morning. If the trailer didn’t blow a tire on the way, we were set to construct the deck and mount the tent in the morning.

Mikey’s great, I love the guy. We share the same set of parents. Generous to a fault, he’ll give you the shirt off his back, if he can find it. Thing is, he’s occasionally forgetful. He’ll stop at the store to buy a diet coke, only to discover there is a nearly full cup of the same sitting in the cup holder in his car. He’ll go into a fly shop, quietly search and find the things he needs, pay at the register, then turn around and walk out. At Jimmy’s one day, the sales guy came running out of the shop with a bag in hand as Mikey’s backing the Four Runner into the street. It happens on a regular basis. All the same, Mikey is a real pal and always a kick to hang with.

The morning sun came early as we rolled out of our bags. Even that early you could tell it was going to be a hot one. At about mid morning, I ran up the dike road to open the gate as the lumber truck approached. I hopped in the cab and told the driver to cut through the pasture and drive to the north end just past the big cottonwood tree. Once past the tree the rear wheels began to spin. Instinctively, he gave her more gas as the rear of the truck settled axle deep into the softer sand just beyond the pasture.

 

We took turns shoveling and laying old fence posts under the wheels, too much weight for the sandy conditions. The driver jumped into the cab, started the engine, yelling over the loud rev to us to get out of the way, then lifted the loaded truck bed to dump the load. Ten and twelve foot 2 X 6’s slid off the back onto the soft sand. We dug all four wheels, fore and aft, placed more old fence posts in each trench hoping there would be enough traction for the truck to climb out of the hole it was in. With great anticipation the truck slowly began to roll forward onto the old fence posts as it gently lifted up and out of the trenches. I yelled to the drive to keep going and don’t look back. He flipped a U-turn then took off stopping about a hundred yards into the pasture. We did a little paper work and he was out of there.

After lugging 2 by’s forty yards to the new site, we realized we had spent nearly two hours of extra fun in the sun we had not intended to spend. All the same, as we began to lay things out, things were beginning to take shape.

It went faster if we didn’t screw every board to the joists on the first pass. We had a couple of days to work finish that task later. It was important that we roll a coat of clear natural stain over the top to ensure some level of protection for the decking. The sun had set and we just rolled the last gallon of stain when we’d had enough for one day. Tomorrow we’d finish the job.

"I'm ready to buy, you ready to sell..."

That night I spent half an evening scrolling through images of tents that could provide shelter and a certain comfort for a larger array of guests at the Ranch. It was a tough crowd to please. Few appreciated the solitary simplicity of tenting beneath low hanging branches of the big Cottonwood Tree, sleeping on the ground on a thin mat in a one-man shelter for any extended period of time, or any time for that matter. Where I found peace and solitude, detaching from the outside world for a time, others only imagined sleepless uncomfortable nights where the uneven ground gave rise to aches and pains, tossing and turning, bugs and stickers, dirt and unruly hair. The perceived experience was draining and hard, possessing no redeeming value, comforts, nor pleasure. So, it was important, if I wanted her and others close to us to experience the place, to provide the proper balance between sleeping on a mat to staying at the Marriott.

Image after image of every possible configuration of tent scrolled past, made of incredible material that could weather the gales of Everest to the humble pup model we used as kids. Some tents featuring separate rooms containing massive footprints, while others were simple in design. And, some were brand spanking new, while others had seen better days.

At about the four hundredth image, an old fashioned, not technical, simple looking white canvas wall tent appeared. Set in a meadow, with a stove stack jutting out of a hole in the slanting roof with ropes extending to the sides staked to the ground to hold it up. “That’s kind of cool”, I mumble under my breath. The front canvas opened by a slit down the middle as each side was rolled diagonally and fastened with canvas ties, leaving a large pie shaped opening. Set up in a small clearing in a forested setting, it had simple nobility to it, much less than a cabin or permanent dwelling, and way cooler than an RV, by a mile. The lines were clean and straight, the apex of the ridgeline at the front elevation was tall, the wall rose above the ground vertically to what looked to be about five feet or so, roomy, to boot, rustic, masculine, sturdy, portraying a sense of permanence, yet expressing a certain freedom and independence. I really dig this.

My mind raced, heart rate increased as a flood of ideas swirled inside my head. This could work. She would dig it, I know her, as I recalled the many summer sojourns with the kids to dwell for a week at Colter Bay on the other side of the Tetons. She will get this and so will Lauren and Logan and the little ones. This is the real deal.

The purveyor of this tent was out of Denver. Mr. Davis answered the call, but it was sadly learned that his shop was back logged for months. If the idea was to squeeze out the remains of the summer and part of fall that schedule would never work. Impatient and with a certain zeal for this new found solution to the “gimme shelter” dilemma, the search was on. It was a shock to find the same lead time problem everywhere I turned to satisfy this urge to set up camp on the Ranch.

At this point the decision to go this way was now solidified in my psyche. Fixed permanently as the only “true” solution, to finding that nexus of perfection between the stoic’s life and the indulgence of comfort so many of us are drawn to.

In my experience, most of us, in our quest to break out of the routine of life, tend to not fully commit to the task of shedding, for a time, the creature comforts that we believe make our lives more complete. The acceptance and assimilation of these accoutrement's of living in affluence and comfort separate us from the natural world. This tends to nurture a certain complacency toward the way we live. If we never test ourselves against the relative crudeness of a stripped down life for a time we don’t allow ourselves to appreciate those comforts to which we have grown so accustomed. Without the backdrop of simplicity or austerity to compare against modern living, we tend to devalue our common existence by not fully comprehending the high level of comfort we all share. I'm probably making too much of this. In the end it’s just a tent, but it’s a very cool tent.

To hell with the internet. I’m off to find it locally. REI had nothing. Cabella’s was too far to go. But, Kirkham’s may just have it. Climbing the stairs to the second level, there it sat  in its entire white cotton duck splendor. Perfect. 10 X 12. One side-wall rolled up, bay window on the other side and a triangular zipped window on the end. Nice set up. The sales guy was a young kid possessing little knowledge of the ins and outs of this type of tent. I kindly asked him to find his manager so I could talk to the “Man”.

Mr. Big came up, he was knowledgeable, we discussed the relative merits of this model, then he disclosed that they were out of stock and a new one could be take six weeks to build. Damn. I asked, “what about this one”. He replied, “It’s the floor model”. “Well, how much do you want for it”? He scratched his hairless head for a minute, paced about a bit and said. “It’s the only one I have”. I replied, “I’m ready to buy, are you ready to sell?” He looked troubled. I could tell this was a big deal. He stood there as if the weight of the decision was nearly too much to bear, then he looked up and said, “sure, I’ve never been too keen on this model, anyway’, he disclosed. We haggled over the price and a deal was struck.

Oh, the possibilities.

"Get Up!"

We discovered the unintended consequence of getting a late start as we left mid morning heading up I-80 toward Evanston, Lyman, then on up to Dutch John for an afternoon float down the “A” Section on the Green River. We had discovered, to our amazement, an unforeseen opportunity, somehow. By launching later in the day, avoiding the crushing mass of boats stacked up at the ramp waiting turns to launch, the river was ours for the taking.

I think that distant sound I heard was from a rip in the fabric of the Cosmos that day. We had stumbled onto a slot of time where we were the only boat on this fabled river. I felt like I was in a dream sequence in a Kurosawa film. Half way expected Rod Serling to step from behind a Ponderosa Pine and begin one of his classic monologues, “Here, we have, alone in space and time, two unsuspecting mortals, separated from the mindless herd, set on a journey they had never intended to take…”

She’s a real sport, willing, most times, to indulge my obsessions and antics and to reorder her life to make numerous accommodations. It was difficult to tell if this was the case today. She is Danish, and, therefore, it wasn’t always obvious what was on her mind. With the boat launched and fully loaded, we pushed into the current as the bow turned downstream. This was a proud moment, she standing, for the first time at the bow, rod in hand awaiting my insightful instruction, wit and wisdom.

She began to work out line as the sun glistened off the waters surface. The river bottom was visible in the cold clear water flowing from the lake, held back behind the dam. Her casting rhythm was improving with each cast. But, then as the rod advanced forward the fly hooked the rod tip.  The line hurled into a mass of tangle around the knee lock and over the bow. Pulling back toward the riverbank, I let her know that it happens to the best of us, dropped anchor, straightened things out and rowed back into the current.

It was one of those classic days, sunny, warm and no wind. As the rod pulled back to initiate the next cast, she rushed it a bit by casting forward before the line had fully extended behind her resulting in the floating line draping over the gunnells, half in the water surface the rest scattered around her. I rowed back to the bank, dropped anchor to not waist the good water near that foamy eddy at the first bend in the river. She had that look, “what the, hell, this was supposed to be easy, you said” (she never swears), as I assured her things were about to get very good, shortly.

Pushing, again, back into the current, there was the sense that frustration was building as she tried to work out more line for that first gorgeous cast into the foam line against the steep bank across the river. Things were looking great when a small gust redirected the line with a Cicadas pattern wrapping a #12 Mustad hook toward my forehead. The gust had sucked the line from her first clean arc and dumped it upstream. Line was everywhere, finally resting acrosss my shoulder. 

Beginning to row, again, toward the bank, and before I could open my mouth, she turned in my direction, took a big step toward me and shoved the rod in my hand and said emphatically, “Get Up”. I had no choice in the matter, rotating up and out of the seat as she took control of the oars, saying, “you fish, I’ll row”. Stunned, I did exactly as commanded. In an instant, everything changed. She was rowing and I was standing at the bow, rod in hand and a stupid look on my face wondering how my long held fantasy had vanished before my eyes, never to return.

Here, was I, a lone man, vanquished from the seat of power, rod in hand, line all over the place, with one irked Dane trying to figure out how to steer the boat around the first bend in the river. Looking upstream toward the ramp, a relatively short distance behind, yet light years ago in time, wondering what had just occurred. 

This is not exactly the way things should have played out. What had just happened was nothing like I had imagined. I could see it all in my mind. A beautiful blonde presenting a pattern with ease and grace into run as a hearty bow surfaces for the take. She quickly, but gently, sets the hook and plays the fish beautifully into the net as she looks adoringly toward me with gratitude for providing this most excellent experience. All the while other fly fishers looking up in our direction with envy and lust as I released her catch and pushed on to the next run

It's been said that with each and every disappointment, there often is a silver lining. To both our surprise, she actually was good at rowing. With a few prompts and a quick play of musical chairs in the more technical stuff, she rowed the entire reach with a certain exactness as she guided the boat in and out of runs that held great fish. It was a productive day after all.

All this is to illustrate that she is no shrinking violet. She has game.

So, while she was willing to camp and go rustic from time to time, in order to get full buy-in at the Ranch, I’d need to come up with a set up that didn’t include her sleeping in a tent on a thin pad on the ground, showering beneath a black bag hanging from a tree or peeing in a five gallon bucket with a toilet seat attached.

Since the belching motorized time capsule was a bust and I had ruled out the idea of buying a Yurt, due to the cost, the problem of “what” remained. We’re heading into September soon. There had to be an answer. 

Gim' Me Shelter

At the Rigby exit, at least a hundred or more RV’s and trailers are parked in a huge lot next to Highway 20. That’s it, I thought. I’ll pick up a used trailer, haul it to the Ranch, buy a generator and bingo, problem solved.

After describing the plan to the sales guy, we hopped into a golf cart and dashed out into a sea of recreational vehicles parked parallel in rows that taper off in the distance. The price point had to be low, say south of three grand, but it had to be clean and serviceable.

As it turned out the low end trailer he had in mind could not be found, yet there was a better model next to the empty space that he was certain would be the one. We walked around it while a number of fine features were identified by my guide. “The price?” I asked. He replied, “I think I can get it for you for about $5,000”. “What else do you have”, I asked. We hopped back on to the golf cart and sped across the lot. On the way over he asked. “Do you care if it’s an RV”, I thought a trailer was an RV.  

The cart pulled up to a fifty foot behemoth with faded paint and a massive windshield, a steering wheel and big velvet like captains chairs with threadbare retractable arm rests. He opened the door as a musty smell signifying better days and many miles filled my head as I entered this time capsule of early seventies motel upholstery and fake wood cabinetry hung over matted shag carpeting. Must have been the real deal in its day, I thought. At his point, my guy, sensing this was his last best chance to reel me in, became rather animated as he began describing the real benefits of this beauty. He jumped into the driver’s seat then turned the ignition key as the engine rumbled to a start. At least it ran. Must admit, for a split second the image of driving this beast onto the Ranch and parking it under the big Cottonwood tree did cross my mind, only to brush it aside as I imagined Her innate sense of cleanliness as it may relate to the condition of this most interesting specimen. She would never go for it and therefore the plan was doomed.

We shook hands and a promise to give it some thought was uttered as I drove off toward the Ranch thinking things over. Somehow, the old girl may have met the intent of providing shelter and a reasonable level of comfort, but it didn’t seen right. I’d spent a number of pristine days and nights sleeping in a one man tent, eating out of the bottom of a cooler and bathing in the river. This was a solitary, fairly natural way to live. A way that suited me in a somewhat primitive way. I felt a part of the scheme of things, in harmony with the elements, a part of a total system where most all of its part fit together. Driving this lumbering belching behemoth on to a place that had grown a part of me seemed an intrusion onto the landscape. I would wake in the morning to the sounds of rushing water, birds greeting the day, sun rising over the "Grand" and the occasional farmer beginning the day’s work as he fires up the John Deere to plow his fields or irrigate his crops. During the darkness of night all that separated me from  this was a thin sheet of nylon and some mesh. I could feel the cool air. Smell the sandy soil and the dusty leaves rustling in the arid breeze, and it could hear me breathe its clean clear atmosphere as I lay on a thin mat inside a tent beneath the old Cottonwood tree.

How could one separate one’s self from the elements by stepping into a barrier of glass and metal? A capsule insulating one from the sensory inputs that heightened the senses and brought simple pleasures to the soul. A turn of a key, the rumble of the generator, all seemed out of synch with the vibe of the place. The RV was not the solution. The riddle needed to be resolved. What was learned by stopping in Rigby that day was that a fifty foot RV was not the answer.

Four Days and Nights

Gonk. Gonk Gonk.  Gonk Gonk Gonk. Gonks overlapping gonks until the sounds where a mishmash of  confusion, the loudness of which, made me stick my head out through the constricted opening of my bag, leaning upward on my elbows.  The noise hung there for some time, till the crescendo directly overhead devolved back to a few distant gonks fading into the morning sky. I laid back down rubbing my face and eyes with the full palm of both hands and fingers, then staring at thin light beginning to pass through the rain fly and mesh of the tent opening.

The bag unzipped, then rolling over and opening the tent, pulled on shorts, slipped into a pair of Keen’s kept between the rain fly and the tent, then crawled out of the opening with a T-shirt in one hand, while the other hand pushed this stiff body from the ground to stand unsteadily in the cool morning air.

Big, round leaves hung from the old Cottonwood tree as the Tetons traced a dark silhouette  on the morning horizon. The cloudless sky had yet to take on the deep blue to come later in the day, but the rays of sunlight became intense as the sun began to crest over the snaggle toothed peaks. Stretching to work out the effects of sleeping night after night on a thin pad on the ground, I felt rested, surprisingly, must be getting used to this.  

The air was cool enough to need another layer until things warmed a bit. Walked several steps into the tall yellow grass to take care of business, then just stood there surveying my kingdom. Damn, I thought, this is cool. How much longer could I do this. Indefinitely, was the reply inside my head. Why not spend the Summer or Fall or perhaps hang here till the snow flies. All thoughts to be entertained and considered in the days to come.

Trekking to the car  perched on the dike road, the Keens filled with sand and stickers from clusters of tumbleweeds. Not sure what the half-life of those prickly things are, but they seemed indestructible and a permanent fixture on the Ranch.

Popped open the back hatch to find all worldly possessions piled together in an incredible heap of waders, opened and zipped bags of gear and clothing, water bottles, tool box, trailer hitch,  back pack, one glove, two hats, a blue cooler, garbage bags, fly boxes, loose monofilament, empty Balance Bar wrappers, battery cables, flashlight, engine coolant and a couple of fly rods extending from the hatch floor, with rod tips pushing against the windshield.

Dropped the short tail gate and began the daily effort of rifling through the pile to grab the cooler and water jug. Slid off the cooler top and foraged deep for the last remaining morsels of cooked oatmeal, chicken, an apple and a finger full of All Natural Peanut Butter, and  thankfully, a half full 20 oz. Diet Coke . The ice was gone, leaving a couple of inches of water sloshing around soaking the last remaining items in the bottom of the cooler. Surprised, a bit, at how long it all lasted.

Four days and nights and food is just running out. Wonder if it’s possible to live off the land. Better think about making a trip to St. Anthony later. The thing is, I have next to no appetite up here. Never think about food, except in the morning and sometimes in the evening. There is always something to do, whether it’s constantly reorganizing the back of the vehicle, retying a new pattern, searching for firewood, fishing, pruning the river bank of noxious plants obscuring entry to the riverbank, walking the ranch to understand it’s character during various times of the day, fishing, entertaining visitors, meeting with farmers, wheel line repairman, real estate agents, fishing, you name it, there is always something to do.  I love it. It’s different than the life I live away from the Ranch. It’s more physical and , for lack of a better word, organic. All processes are directed to meeting the essentials of getting through the day. Simple, yet demanding one’s full attention.

With the cooler in hand, I walked down the road to the camp chair facing the dark water protected by the willow overhang on the far bank and sat there reading a chapter or  two and occasionally looking up to contemplate the big fish holding beneath the overhanging willows, with a certain knowledge that they are definitely in there, just have to find a way to get there. Air temp was rising. Trico’s will be coming off soon, hoppers later. It’s time to fish…

"Alaska Style"

Tim "Henry" Woodard Photo - West Corner Studio

The boats leap frog one another along the bank or one will occasionally cross over to the opposite side as two boats holding five guys and two mutts push on down the South Fork. Both Taylor and Henry guide this reach regularly, and as a result know most if it’s intimate parts. The banks are, by far, the most productive, but there are those sections that fashion a “barb” where quitter water holds on the inside of the shank, extending to the gravelly bank that often holds nice fish. The seam between this water and the faster flowing part at the top of the run tails out as it settles down a bit, this is where many a fly fisher experience the  fruits of a good cast, the appropriate imitation and a timely set of the hook.

While camaraderie and friendship abound, all the same, that does not preclude certain competition between pals. Fly fishing prowess aside, the advantage goes to the X-13, with Taylor at the helm. The smaller profile skiff, with only Taylor and me, a cooler and gear was agile and lithe against Henry’s full load consisting of three bodies, two dogs, a couple of coolers and his fully pimped out Clacka beauty, full to the hilt with all the options. Having made that comparison, Henry was blessed with large stature, guns like Arnold and a certain finesse that belies his prominent silhouette.

It’s later in the morning and traffic on this fabled river is noticeable as we progress further down stream. There are several launch sites along the way. Boats streamed into the river like cars merging onto I-15 from the Spaghetti Bowl at I-80. A bit of an overstatement, perhaps, but suffice it to say, there were a lot of boats. All thoughts of casually drifting down river to fish multiple runs later in the day at the lower section, where the most productive runs are, were dashed. Every experienced fly fisher knows that evening is prime time down there, as various hatches came off during the season in these prized runs that braid through the channels just above the take-out at the bridge.

Looking across river, Tanner's rod shot high into the air, rod tip arching toward the bank, left hand also reaching high to strip line in a down and back motion, in an effort to control the pissed off splashing tireless trout. As Taylor rowed us closer, they had just netted the thing and by the time we came along side Tanner thumped the fish in the head with an object that did the trick. In his typical fashion he stood there with a 22” + Rainbow hanging from two fingers inserted behind the gill slits, “Alaska Style”.

An Awesome Photo by Tim Woodard

Impressive as the fish was, I have to say, I don’t generally hang with those who kill fish. Not to be too high fallutin, but the catch and release ethic goes way back with me. For better or worse, Fish and Game are attempting a heroic effort to manage the South Fork for the benefit of native Yellowstone Cutthroat, therefore, Bows and Hybrids are to be taken.

As expected, the mad dash to the channels was on and it was evident that we were not part of the vanguard, although there was a nice rifflely run close to the falls where Taylor hooked a couple of nice fish and, in the end, was broken off by another South Fork Rainbow.

A Crime Against Humanity...

With a sandwich in the cooler, we dashed over the pass and dropped into Swan Valley, past the old Commissary, then on to Irwin, zipping past the Husky put-in, as we bolted to Palisades Dam. Turning right off the highway that runs along the majestic South Fork of the Snake River into the parking area at the top of the ramp, just below the Palisades dam. Taylor unstrapped the skiff then transferred the contents of the back seat of the truck into the boat and we began to set up three rods. The sun had yet to crest the steep hillside to the east as a cold morning wind came pouring down over the steep concrete face of the dam. With fleece zipped to the chin and ski hat pulled firmly over ears, we spied another imposing Ford Pickup with a drift boat in tow rolled up to us as we were just about to back the scow down the ramp.

Truck doors flew open as Lola made her entrance, tail wagging, and nose sniffing everything in site. Three late twenty something manly specimen’s piled out stretching and yawning, then feeling the penetrating chill of that cold blast of wind from the dam, each quickly reached back into the truck for another layer to fend off the elements.

The dress code was simple; they all got the memo…T-shirt, flip-flops and shorts, in one configuration or another. The three amigos included Tanner, the possessed cutthroat slayer, and two guys I had yet to have the pleasure of meeting, Tim or, as he is affectionately referred to from time to time as “Henry” and Spence, a buddy from Colorado, who popped into town to commune with mother earth and reconnect with his mates.

After the usual exchange of insults, Taylor backed the skiff down the ramp and I stood there watching.

In an effort to be useful, most uninitiated non-drift boat fishermen make the rookie mistake, when launching or retrieving a pal’s boat into or from the launch, of trying to assist in the process. From years of observation and owning and operating drift boats, the lesson has been learned, it’s just better to stand back and watch. There seems to be an irrevocable law written somewhere that dictates, with exacting precision, the order, sequence and process that each and every boat owner goes through to prepare for and place or remove their respective boats to and from the river. The ultimate test of any friendship and a sign of total acceptance into the trust of your boat owning buddy is for him to allow you to assist in the process.

It will truly mess things up if you place the boat straps that secure the boat to the trailer on the right side of the bed of the truck when the ritual dictates they belong in the yellow bucket behind the drivers seat. Or it may be common knowledge to anyone that the oar blades are to be placed inside the boat facing toward the stern outside and against the rear knee locks. And poor pity the guy who fails to secure the anchor to the carabiner after the boat is launched.

Just watch the owner unclip a strap, reposition a bucket, stow a pack or jacket beneath the main compartment to the right or left of the oarsman’s seat or position the cooler to the right or the left of the foot rest on the bottom deck of the boat. It’s often elegant and graceful as he moves seamlessly from one task to the other without a thought to the process, quick as a cat and with little effort. 

Many a crime against humanity has been committed by overeager boat mates who, while standing like a doofus at the ramp, helplessly holding a bunch of rods in one hand and a jacket or three in the other that your buddy threw at you to hold, while he runs through this intricate choreography embedded in his psyche from countless iterations of the dance over hundreds of launches and retrieves performed through the years. Just stand there shamelessly and wait to be invited to the party, if it comes lend a hand, if not, so what. It’s his boat.

Homesteaders...a Love Story

Taking the first right across from the Frostop on Highway 20 is a road that bisects a commercial district containing turn of the century buildings that include a hardware store, insurance company, flea market, Ott's Place, Mexican & pizza joints, auto repair and a senior center, that make up the central business district of Ashton.

An eclectic cluster of smallish log cabins painted yellow, reminiscent of the 1940’s auto courts that provided accommodations for travelers on their way to Yellowstone National Park, is situated on the left passing out of town.

The road beelines past the cemetery, where a tombstone rests with the full image of a 1957 Chevy etched into granite. A man in love with his car. But just up the road a bit, hidden in a tall stand of trees, rests the small white frame house built on a small homestead granted in the mid 1800’s to Miguel’s family. Miguel, a mortgage exec, is tall guy of Danish extraction, possessing high energy and always good for a bit of mischief. This small white frame house was the epicenter of our fly fishing world for nigh on to a couple of decades.

His grandfather came to the area to work in the saw mill on the Warm River section of the Henry’s Fork. Grandma cooked for the men working on crews laboring to provide lumber for the area during a time of robust settlement. Imagine a cute little thing reaching over the shoulder of these working men to place a bowl of potatoes in the middle of a table stretching the length of a long dining hall. She brushes the shoulder of young gramps as he turns to look up at this vision of loveliness, and at that moment, BOOM, lightning strikes. You can just imagine the look in grandfather’s eyes as he senses the light touch of this beautiful young girl. Soon after, they, along with their families, loaded on horseback and wagons, make their way on a week’s journey about 200 miles south to be married in the Logan Mormon Temple. Miguel’s mother was a product of that union and she, in turn brought four daughters and Miguel into the world.

The house, sitting on a couple of acres, is the only remnant of old sixty-acre homestead standing pretty much intact as originally constructed, served as the center of the universe, focal point and point of beginning from which all adventures and activities were launched. Can’t count the number of afternoons or evenings we’d pull in between pines towering on each side of the driveway to enter the portal to the Ashton house after a day’s fly fishing. It was warm, unpretentious, most comfortable and always a symbol of a simpler time.

Wet waders hung over wire clothes lines, boots lined up on the small concrete pad on the side of the screen door at the back of the house. Miguel would flip on the lights and the place lit up with a warm glow that always touched the heart in a different deeper place that evoked a sense of comfort and care. This place had seen much love in its storied history. One could guess that our times, there, added to that, a bit.

Sleeping in one of the two upstairs bedrooms, I’d hear the toilet flush, water from the shower head raining down against the bathroom wall above the bath and the clank and bong of clatter coming from the kitchen as Miguel did his morning thing. I, on the other hand, always considered fly fishing to be a gentlemen’s sport, and therefore a more leisurely pace was in order.

While overriding his innate need to get on with things, Miguel was typically patient and cheerful these mornings. True to form, he made a trip to the store for provisions, made his bed, cleaned the place, organized the pots and pans in the cupboards, chopped a cord of wood, hoed a few rows of beets in the garden, showered and blow dried his full head of hair before I came downstairs in my underwear squinting and scratching as I looked at this perfectly coiffed and dressed tall Danish lad who was more than ready get on with things. I later learned that my pace was less than OK with my good friend. I will always be grateful for his patience and forbearance.

Miguel and I had spent many a mile dashing from home to distant places in search for the perfect day of fly fishing, and we had many. Obsession, manic, possessed, deranged, single-minded, insatiable were a few adjectives used when describing the impulse to cast and fish and try to make peace with our respective worlds.

To illustrate, there was "that" fall beginning in late September “that” year.  We made the sojourn 300 miles each way to fish the Madison, Falls, Henry’s Fork or head up to the Park for a day and a half of fly fishing mania. One could say, a lot of guys do that. Well, we lapped the route 12 of 13 consecutive weekends, taking a break to be with our families for Christmas, then spent New Year’s day snowshoeing from the Raynolds Pass Bridge up the Madison past Slide Inn.

From time to time, an image of one of the thousands of impressions experienced then, nudges out the many thoughts of any given day, to rest for a small moment in my consciousness, leaving a profound sense of well being and satisfaction, and perhaps a bit of nostalgia. I think, at least for me, those experiences will always serve as a reminder of how one ought to embrace this mortality, full on, insatiable and with a bit of healthy obsession, as a buffer against complacency, disinterest, decay and the loss of le joie de vie.

Miguel, we'll always have Ashton...

He Kept It To Himself

The iPhone lights up again with “want to do the South Fork tomorrow”,. I reply, “yep. When and where”. “Come to my place at 7:00”. “Awesome”, was the final reply.

The day would came early if I was to be timely in the morning. Set the alarm for 5:30, but woke before it went off, was looking forward to meeting up with Taylor and friends for a day’s float the South Fork.

Pulling into Victor, looking for a place to grab a bite now and something for lunch later, the place was still asleep, except for the gas station, and it was packed with the usual crowd waiting in line to pay for cups of coffee for the drive over the pass and lunch for later.. I drove to the end of town, did a u-turn, then back again. noticed lights on in a bakery and deli on the north end of town, must have opened after I passed a few minutes before.

Entering the place, the aroma of freshly baked goods filled the place. The door was wide open, lights on, but no one in sight. Walked around the counter and peered in the back as a guy in apron muscling large trays with hot golden rolls into slots on a tall rack shouted, “I’ll be right with you, I have a delivery I need to make this morning. Be right with you”.

Wiping his hands on the end of the apron, he peered over the meat counter and asked, “where you fishing today”.  “South Fork”, I offered. From his accent it was obvious he was not indigenous to the Valley. Big smile on his face, eager to tell of his big one that took him to the backing last week, he asked from where did I come, we exchanged more info, from which I learned he was a Jersey boy and I shared I just acquired a small place not too far from there.

There are several types of fly fishermen. One is secretive and holds things close to the vest, then there are those who get so amped that they are all too willing to effuse about every experience they ever had fly fishing. The Jersey guy was the later. While he was slicing and spreading he occasionally looked up asking if I wanted peppers or horseradish with swiss or provolone, but went right back to describing in detail everything that occurred while hooking and playing the big on he hooked last week. Hearing him go on, I sensed an opportunity and delicately asked, “what part of the river did you hook up”, I held in anticipation as he began to form the words when he caught himself. a bit self consciously, and said, “Oh, Ah, just below the Husky put in”. He saved himself. True to the code, he pulled himself back from the brink, he came so close to disclosing the most sacred of information to a fellow brother. He kept the secret secure. He kept it to himself.

After nearly spilling the beans, he reached over the counter to place in my outstretched hand a sandwich the size of a large grapefruit wrapped in white butcher paper with the end of the paper secured by white tape. Nice touch, I thought. The weight of all of it was noticeable as I took back two bucks from a ten dollar bill. Thanks was offered and he shouted in that eastern accent, as he turned back to slide more trays of warm rolls into another slot on a tall rack, “tight lines, buddy”.

The Drop...

The drift toward the third island below the locus of Tanner’s last immaculate presentation, that yielded a rather robust specimen, continued the inaugural float to the lower end of the Ranch. Coming around the gravel island with a few trees and shrubs jutting in a long row that obscured the view to the other bank, there was a sense of anticipation and discovery as we pushed downstream.  This was all new territory as we swung around the last bend away from the Ranch heading toward uncharted waters.

Somewhere on the section below the Ranch we knew the river split and since none if us knew where this would occur or what it might look like, we were all a bit apprehensive. This section of river flowed well below the elevation of the surrounding farm land, limiting sight distance to the reaches below. There was a long section with a high bank on the left, with massive overhanging willows on the right. Tanner would cast to the willows, I toward the rocky high bank, the perfect set up, and a way to cover it all. He hooked up and, occasionally, I’d do the same. We worked in harmony having a blast catching a few here and there, but mostly soaking in the afternoon sun and the glistening water. 

Taylor, was in full tilt “Guide Mode”, looking for rising fish, studying the surface for insect activity and, above all, keeping one eye looking downstream to catching a peek at the split before we came too close to pull back.

Without an understanding of the nature of the structure of the check, we were nervous. Was it high like the Chester backwater or a pile of rocks, like a coffer dam, how wide was the chute, will it kill us, will we need to portage or can it be run. 

Suddenly, Taylor stood tall with an oar end in each hand, then stretched his neck high above his shoulders, chin protruding forward and downstream, as he knowingly mumbled, “there it is”.


A rather sophisticated structure appeared ahead. Two massive concrete boxes anchored each side of the split with concrete supports rising from beneath the surface of the water, supporting a metal mesh pathway and railing for access across the top. It was impressive. A concrete dam several feet high backed up the water flowing into and over it, raising the surface level to allow it to divert water to the right fork. We, at least knew river left was our route, but we definitely needed to know how far it dropped on the other side.

Taylor rowed to the left bank, secured the boat with a line around a rock, as we all grabbed our rods and other stuff to climb up the bank to stand on the concrete bunkers to take a look. It became obvious that the drop was about four feet or so deep with good flows below. Uncertain how well the low profile X-13 Skiff would handle the drop Taylor began re-rigging the anchor rope to line the boat down the drop.

Tanner stood atop the bunker while Taylor hucked the line in such a way that it flew beneath the catwalk with the end of the line catching Tanner’s outstretched hand, as he lay on his belly atop the bunker. Taylor then waded out into the river and guided the boat exactly to the middle of the run which stretched between the concrete bunker on the left bank and the first concrete support further across.

Tanner held the line as Taylor, standing waist deep, gave the skiff a mighty shove as it glided toward the drop. Suddenly, the back end launched high in the air as the bow plunged into the white churning water at the bottom of the drop. Water came rushing over the bow of the skiff and Tanner pulled hard on the anchor line to steady it as the stern swung quickly down stream in the rushing current. Once over the drop, both of Taylor’s arms shot straight up to the sky like a ref signaling the “point after” made it through the uprights.

The boat swung around downstream to about where I was standing. I caught the stern and secured the line Tanner had just tossed down to me.

The whole scene was pretty cool, had all the elements, anticipation, uncertainty, adventure, necessity and, in the end, resolution, we where jubilant. It was great watching Taylor's boat come crashing bow first into the boiling water below the dam, filling with water rushing in from all sides and wondering for that second or two, if we would need to hike it back to the Ranch or hitch a ride on the highway downstream..

True to form, it didn't take Tanner long to grab the bilge pump and suck river water sloshing around in the bottom Taylor's boat.

With everything loaded, I jumped between the oars and dropped into the seat and rotated the bow downstream, as T & T worked out line casting toward opposite banks.

What a kick…

Refused...

While the red bodied wispy white winged fly got me into fish in early August, and the fishing on the Ranch is always great, lately, the catching was something else, a few here and there, none of any size. Perplexed, a bit frustrated, but I kept at it for a couple of days. But the reoccurring thought, what’s the deal? Locals whispered about the big cuts in the lower section. Was the water too warm, did the fish move up to the canyon, and was I just lame at this, thoughts that kept me up that night.

The iPhone twitched as the screen lit up. “u round fish ranch”. I shot back, “bring boat”.

Taylor guides for one of the big outfits. He’s a long lanky kid, dark hair, good features. I’ve known him for a good while, friend of his father. Good folks. His dad’s been buying land in the shadow of the Tetons for a decade or so, on the Idaho side. Spent time on the Colorado River at Lee’s ferry with Dad in the early – mid ‘90’s.

Over the years I’d call Taylor for a day or two float on the South Fork. I told Dad after one our first floats, “this kid has it bad”, like many of us, the attraction of rivers and the prospect of hooking up big fish can border on obsession. For some, the draw of the rod and reel in hand, the searching eye over the water to spy that nose piercing the film or fin rolling through the surface is irresistible.  The urge to flex a rod to power the line enabling the pattern to land above a rising fish has a way of reordering the pattern of ones life. Taylor had it bad, I know, I get it.

Looking up from under the overhang of shady branches beneath the big Cottonwood tree, I was sitting in a camp chair next to the green one-man tent taking a break from casting to rising fish on the slack water section of the river, bright shards of light from the sun reflecting off the massive grill of a jacked up Ford F 250 pick up towing a seemingly tiny trailer containing boat behind. A trail of dust curled behind as this beast of a rig came to a halt on the sandy dike road. A black lab stood with front legs rested high up on the top of the tail gate as Taylor shouted, “down, Addy”. He dropped the gate and she sprung into the air, taking off into the tall yellow grass with abandon. What joy, a dog in full flight, freed from any and all confines, tail wagging and full of life and happy to be alive.

In the same way, that image expressed what I was feeling, but had yet to neither realize nor fully understand. Several decades of grinding deals through the wheels of commerce, building portfolios and managing assets under the sometimes harsh vagaries of the market place, had taken its toll. While the work was the chosen path, and much fulfillment and reward was contained therein, it was time, compelled by the times or otherwise, to seek my “Angle of Repose”, to borrow from my old and dear friend.

Wading and exploring this tiny reach of the river in the day, sitting alone next to a burning fire in the evening, then retreating to simple cover, as I zipped the mesh opening of the green one-man tent, was my way of exhaling that long full breath held for so long. A metaphorical sigh of relief that it was time to reorder things, while not fully stepping away from the life she and I had built together over so many years. The skies, quite days and nights, the haunting sound of geese at daybreak, the sunrise over the Tetons each morning became part of the rhythm of daily life here.  

A few minutes later, Tanner pulled up in his black Tacoma, the silhouette of another lab bounced around in the bed. Lola was young and curious and full of adolescent mischief. Unlike Addy’s sprint to the horizon, Lola held close to Tanner sniffing everything in site, Tail wagging at a frenzied pace.

The F250 was too big to turn around. Taylor unhooked the scow from his rig and yelled to Tanner to pull around to hook the boat to the Tacoma and drive it up the road a bit. I walked to the launch site and waved them over. The trailer wheels dropped off the back a couple of feet as Taylor released the crank connected to the bow strap and the low slung scow glided into the quite water above the small check.

This was way cool. The first float on this river from a put-in on the Ranch. The inaugural launch. None of us had floated this reach of the river and therefore didn’t know exactly what to expect. Taylor took the oars, Tanner in back, and I joyfully stood at the prow, rod ready with great expectation and a sense of pride that we could launch from the Ranch. Somehow, that was, unexpectedly, important.

Tanner’s a stocky kid possessing a bit of an attitude without a hint of arrogance, but seemingly a young man comfortable with himself and happy with this young life thus far.  Where Taylor was naturally at ease with most situations, smooth and capable, Tanner’s strength came from a different place, mainly by doing things and becoming good at them. A good student, he wastes no time getting on with the adventure of the moment.

I pushed us off the bank as Taylor rowed back and swung the bow downstream toward the twenty foot gap in the check about two hundred feet down stream. Tanner cast a Chernobyl Ant with a Hare’s Ear dropper, hooked up a ten inch cut immediately. Released and, on it’s way, he cast again, The top fly dipped beneath the surface and he raised his rod tip to feel the tug of a twelve inch hybrid. Then, a longer cast to the distant bank scored a direct hit immediately on impact with  the surface, smashing the Chernobyl, as another cut came up to succumb to Tanner’s  prowess. And finally, about to reach the check and drive through the tongue of rushing water, he hooks a rainbow.  This kid was possessed and as things unfolded that afternoon, he continued to take no prisoners.

We get through the check and approached that  one place that has consumed my imagination since the first walk on the Ranch, the deep dark water covered by the willow overhang on the far bank, the approach of which from the near bank protected by the deep rushing water and the high shelf just past mid stream. I’d been defeated and turned away before, now was the time to come at it another way. Stripping out line by casting parallel to the river, the big hopper landed perfectly at the edge of the willow overhang. The anticipation was building as the gray parachute hopper floated perfectly inside the foam line. A third the distance of the run a streak of light came up from the bottom of the dark water. Moving like a flash, and in an instant this awesome fish came to within what seemed a centimeter of the floating morsel of terrestrial delight, then, as quickly, turned  and disappeared into the depths of the dark water beneath the willow overhang. 

Damn. Man, it had to be at least 18 or 19 inches. The first big fish to cross my path. What I had imagined, each and every morning as I looked up from the pages of Gutherie’s novel,  while consuming breakfast and peering into that spot, was confirmed. It held big fish.

The boat, full with three guys and two dogs, struck too large a pose in this narrow channel. So close, yet refused at that last moment. Drifting through and past the run, there was a sense of disappointment, yet a deeper measure of satisfaction that what I suspected to be was, in fact, the truth. Somehow, I need to get to that far bank on foot.

Catching the current at the tail end of the run, pushing the boat downstream toward a solitary overhanging bush I yelled to Tanner to cast just above it. I stepped on a nice cut just below the bush the day before wading across the lower section of the Ranch. Taylor rowed backward to slow the speed of the boat as Tanner worked out line. His final cast shot perfectly above the run as the big Chernobyl splashed on the water’s surface. The drift lasted about two seconds when from under the overhang a torpedo shaped image rushing at mach speed crushed the foam fly. Instantly an explosive flash from the pale underbelly of the cutty erupted as it felt the sharp point of Tanner’s wonder bug. This fish hit it hard like a bow or a brown, not the characteristic casual cutthroat approach to taking edible objects from the surface of the water, but a hard charge, with full intent, to devour the foam imitation.

After the cutty had been released and we were all settling down, I cast back out onto the water and turned to the back of the boat and said, “Tanner, you can thank me now or you can thank me later, did I call that”, he smiled and mumbled, “yes, you did”.

Red Body

In the afternoon, I had to make a run to St. Anthony to meet with Stephen at Planning. After, I decided to head north a few miles to Ashton, just to look around. Drove passed Miguel’s place in Marysville and on up to Three Rivers, just for the fun of it. On the way back decided to stop by the shop on Hwy 20 to pick up a few hopper patterns. The shop guy was great. We seemed to develop a rapport which lead to the disclosure that I had a place on the River. Immediately, the conversation amped a bit and it quickly became evident that he possessed certain knowledge that the river did, in fact, hold big fish. 

He slid around the counter containing tiny fly patterns and began placing them in the palm of his outstretched hand. Spreading them apart with his finger, he began describing the times of the day, conditions, presentations and rankings of relative effectiveness. I felt like I was drinking from a fire hose. Great info, necessary stuff, but way more than my fisherman’s brain could process in his rapid fire enthusiasm. Finally, I said, “OK, which pattern should I use tomorrow morning”? He looked up from pointing and staring at the palm of his hand, with a brief moment of processing the question and said, pointing to the tiniest pattern of them all, “this one”. Cool. While the pattern had the same shape and look of those in the swarm, it had a red body, as opposed to the black natural. I pointed this out, expecting a blistering rant. All he offered was, “it just works”. 

And that it did. That little bug with a cinnamon body and wispy white wings “killed”. My new pal gave up the secret handshake, unlocked the gate, coughed up the password, and solved the mystery. Thank you, my friend. Thank you.

Tricos

The August sun was radiant, skies clear, hit 90 degrees in the heat of the day, and I had the place all to myself. With about a third of a mile of river on the Ranch, about the same on the neighbors place and a mile or so above to the first check, I thought, that’s a lot of water for one guy. 

As is the practice out in the bush, it pays to set things up right from the git go. It was a breeze. Just slide the tiny green rolled tent from the yellow sack, shake it out over the spot and stake it down. Bend one aluminum pole from side to side in metal grommets at the head and voile. Done in about three or four minutes. Slick. This was home for a while. 

The routine unfolded as the days passed. Awake at sunrise, dress, walk to the car sitting above on the dike road, opened the back hatch to find two fly rods reaching from the bottom of the hatch extending past the back seat ending with the tips bending against the windshield. Put on and zipped to keep the morning chill at bay as I slowly twirled 360 degrees to take it all in. Shorts, sandals & a soft shell was all I needed to greet the day. Grabbed the cooler, my copy of The Way West, then walked down the road a piece where the blue folding camp chair sat facing the Willowy bank. Each and every morning, I’d sit there eating a breakfast of cold oatmeal, left over chicken,  a finger full of peanut butter, washed down with what was left of yesterday’s Coke. 

I’d read a chapter and every once in a while I’d raise my head from the pages of A.B. Guthrie, Jr.’s epic tale of the Oregon Trail to stare directly into the heart of that deep run protected by a stand of overhanging willows on the far bank, with a sense of determination to “storm the fort”, “breach the mote”, “ford the stream”. Knowing that the depth of the channel guarding the approach to the dark water, at its flow rate, would keep me from reaching that place for another day. Just had to wait it out till things settled down. 

By eight-thirty or nine, Trico’s began to swarm around the slow water above the small check. It was a crude means to hold the river back so the farmer on the other side of the river could divert water into his fields. The check was built by piling black igneous rock from both banks, leaving a twenty-foot gap for the river to flow through. Trico swarms hung in the air above an eddy below the check on river right. Looking upstream, to the slow water above the check, similar swarms were in full flight along the river bank. In this slow water ripples began to appear on the surface. At first one or two, then minutes later, the water surface broke in a series of concentric rings throughout this reach of the river. Things where certainly developing, as much of the river came alive. It was fun to watch, more fun to cast into. At first the catching was slow and frustrating. So much activity, so few hook ups. This was the classic “many raising fish, but few takes”. I tied on every small dry pattern in my considerable collection, but success was fleeting. I had to figure this out. This is my river. It had to be mastered.

Patience, my boy...

 It’s a week after we bought the place and all I can think about is that dark water beneath the willowy far bank. It just has to be infested with big fish, I kept thinking. 

So I told her I had business up there, packed a cooler, bought a one-man tent, dashed three and a half hours north. It was cool to drive up, unwrap the rusted old chain that looped through a crooked metal gate. It swung on an odd angle as the bottom caught the hard dirt of the dike road stopping abruptly mid swing. Not exactly a well oiled operation, had to lift the gate and carry it beyond the edge of the road to pass through the opening. 

Immediately the River flows toward you as you look upstream through the first bend. That same grayed out island in the online photo was now reflecting the blue of the sky, river banks where green and full and the forlorn island was surrounded by lower flows where eddies and riffles and foam lines now held the prospect of many days ahead full of casts and tight lines and short takes and pissed off cuts that tasted the cold steel of the perfectly presented PMD and Hoppers. 

Heh, who am I kidding, these are cuts, the clowns of the trout world. Silly fish that rise to anything that’s close and within reasonable reach. Slow at the take and compliant to the point of throwing in the towel midway through the fight. “Take me, please, I’m done”. It’s been offered that when setting the hook on a Cutthroat, you need on mumble under your breath, “God Save The Queen”, to give it a chance to complete the take, and then lift the rod tip for the set. Patience, my boy.  

All the same, the scene drew me in. 

Online Ad

It’s been said, “a thousand mile journey begins with a single step”. As it seems in this life, we often never know where and how the journey will end. 

Such is the case in my own experience. At the tail end of a long winter, an online ad offering a 55-acre parcel of land on the river in southeastern Idaho languished on a long list of indistinct properties as I scrolled down the page. The photo was less than inspiring, a grayish river with snow covered treeless banks surrounding a small barren island. The sky was dull and the whole image was a bit depressing. However, two words rang out louder than a 60 mm mortar blast…RIVER FRONTAGE. Damn, this place had 1,670 lineal feet on a river little understood in southeastern Idaho, but carried the local lore of containing rattle snakes and, more importantly, big fish.

The southeast Idaho landscape is mostly a patch work of grain and potato farms that literally create a mosaic, as endless fields undulate with the land form, as every speck of arable land is put up for cultivation. These guys know how to squeeze out the last square foot of land and they do it with exacting precision. The hard line between the wild uncultivated perimeters stands in stark contrast to the neat tidy monochromatic fields, newly plowed, ready for planting. As variations on a theme go, fall replaces endless green fields with golden grain as harvest nears. This was a simple landscape with a handful of hues, the fields, wild deciduous uncultivated foothills of the Big Hole Mountains, with the Tetons in the distance, and the blue of the sky. With one finger to spare, you can stand there looking into the horizon in any direction and count the dominant colors on one hand. This place is simple, beautiful, uncomplicated.

Miguel’s family homesteaded a small farmstead in Ashton, about 30 miles north. Many days where spent fly fishing together on the Fall, Madison, South Fork, Bechler, Fire Hole, Warm and Henry’s Fork Rivers. Many Brown, Cutthroat and Rainbow’s fell victim to our developing prowess as we cast thousands of casts over these many rivers in the “Holy Land” of fly fishing. With a good working knowledge of the many reaches of these sacred waters, it was obvious that further inquiry into this sad looking ad would be necessary.

Gail answered the call and we began the process of due diligence and ultimately crafting a deal which resulted in the acquisition of a much neglected ranch on the banks of the river.

Within minutes of signing the docs at the title company, we throw up a tent next to the big cottonwood tree, the three of us, and began to take it all in. Logan and Lauren, both city kids, and gramps, me, inspected the neglected wheel lines, walked the dike road, hit the “beach” peering across river to a fishy far bank where deep dark waters protected by overhanging willows held the promise of  large cutthroats. The Tetons in view to the east catching the evening sun impressed all.

With the setting sun, the last remains of the day were upon us. The fire lit, stars bright, we sat close together that night starring into flames leaping from old fence posts found scattered around the place. It was warm that night and the sandy soil cushioned us beneath our bags as we fell in to deep sleep.