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.