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.