The drive is short enough to drop things and go for a day or two, yet far enough that there is a sense of actually going somewhere. Sure it could be a bit more convenient, but at the same time it’s about right for what it’s supposed to be. Pulling up to the gate she got a glimpse of the river. We proceeded on the road next to the steep bank toward the tent. When approaching the first bend in the river where the current creates an eddy where fish hold and feed, there is always the impulse to at least stop and watch the water for signs of rising fish.
Quite often a couple of rods are set up and they’re kept in the car most of the time. Never know when an opportunity may presents itself, not only on the Ranch, but on other waters in the area. It’d be tough to count the times, going to and from the Ranch that I stopped, grab a rod and cast from above to the seam of the eddy below.
A small island just below where Tanner hooked that feisty cut, above the overhanging bush on the inaugural float on the Ranch, creates converging currents that produce the eddy. As one would expect, the most productive part of the eddy is on either side of the seam where the main current continues downstream or at that place where the swirl of the current somehow parts and rolls toward the bank, then defying all logic, flows upstream.
Stopping there has become a guilty pleasure. That spot draws me in. I can’t resist its call to open the back hatch, select a rod and cast into the current. It’s like a casting platform, standing atop the flat shelf next to the road above the steep bank. With unobstructed open space behind, casts are effortless and often productive. The hook up rate is better than fifty-fifty. That’s why it’s so appealing. I hook fish more often than not. Either you hook up within five to eight minutes or you reel it all in, return the rod to the proper place and go on your way. It’s impulsive, and in a strange way, opportunistic and it’s a quick fix to my growing addiction
While I was scoping out the eddy, she was scanning the Ranch through the tall yellow grass, then on east to the Tetons. We pull up to the Wall Tent, she gets out, still looking eastward as I ask, “What do you think?” Without changing focus, she continues to stare, then states with a certain depth of concentration, “I’m processing”.
A lot was riding on her reply. At that moment it seemed the jury was still out. I just needed to be patient. Give her time to take it all in. She liked the tent and seemed to get a kick out of the deck. It was clean and tidy inside. She was familiar with sleeping on cots. We hauled a few things from the car, she still hadn’t said much, but continued to survey the vista, taking it all in.
To be on the safe side, I bought a shower tent with a separate compartment with a changing room, figured she wouldn’t take too well to the black five gallon bag hanging in the tree. I even took the weed eater and trimmed out paths in the tall yellow grass to the fire pit area that was set a way from the tent, then blazed a trail to the bottom of another large cottonwood tree where I knew she would enjoy sitting in its shade reading and relaxing. And best of all, I bought a toilet seat to attach to the top of five gallon bucket with a plastic bag lining the inside that contained chemical. When I introduced her to the bucket, she starred at it, placed her hand on one hip, shifted her weight slightly from one foot to the other and with an almost imperceptible smirk, turned silently away and walked to the deck and continued putting thing into the tent. I took all as a good sign.
Later, we walked the dike road along the river bank and watched cutties rise in the slow water above the small check. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows. Osprey nesting along the far bank above a long row of willows popped their heads above the top of their cluster of twigs. They’d launch out of their high perch and glide down building speed before they began to flap their large wings to again gain altitude as they circled over the Ranch and then upstream along the river.
There is nothing as cool as watching an Osprey hang on a current above the waters surface then drop it’s head, tilt the angle of it’s wings so the current releases it’s hold, as it drops out of the sky toward the exposed and unsuspecting trout . We stood there on the road next to the river watching as it made the final pass skimming over the slow moving water, talons at the ready extended fully to reach down and snatch its prey cleanly out and off the surface of the water. The Osprey, laden with an eight inch cut flapped hard to compensate for its added weight, angling downstream toward us as we viewed the perfect silhouette of a Yellowstone Cutthroat hanging from the grip of death beneath the big bird. It flew off out of sight and we both stood there in awe. The whole thing played out right before us. I think she was beginning to form an opinion of the place. Things were beginning to settle in.
The sun set like a big red ball. The dust of the day hung low on the western horizon. We sat on the deck, dined on fare cooked on the old Coleman as the shadows crawled up the Tetons. We washed dishes and talked, she read a while then retired into the warm glow of a lantern burning brightly inside the tent. We called it a day.
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