"That Was A Hell'uv A Breakfast..."

A couple of steaks downed, dishes washed in a tub of hot water poured from the old coffee pot and Mike’s things stowed in the tent. We walked through the path in the grass cut by a weed eater a few weeks back to the hole in the ground where firewood was stacked ready to burn. I guided a match around the bottom edge of the Tee Pee made of wood lighting crumpled issues of the Standard Journal and stood back as smoke billowed into the air. Flames ignited the tinder and then began to consume split logs of larger girth. In an instant the sandy pit was consumed in a blazing camp fire that cast an orange and yellow glow on our faces and the underside of low hanging branches of the Cottonwood trees.

We carried a couple of camp chairs to the site and settled in for an evening starring at leaping flames, discussing a wide range of thoughts and ideas; a scene that had played out over eons, ever since man discovered a means to ignite flammable things and stand next to it for heat and light.

For Mike, as with most visitors to the Ranch, there is a period of decompression from the rush to get there, but then there was that deeper well of stored energy we all carry as a reserve to meet the challenges of our lives from day to day. My advantage, at that moment, came from many days having reduced daily living to essentials by incrementally releasing the stresses and strains resulting from “making it happen”, as we are all required to do. For some of us, this process takes time, days, even, and starring into the calming dance of flames from the campfire was a great beginning of that process for my good friend. When the flames died down we called it a night.

The night sky gave way to morning light as my Circadian Rhythm kicked in; my eyes reacted to the first signs of light. As always, I tried to suppress the awakening, but the urge to get going was too great. I quietly slipped out of the bag, pulled on a pair of shorts, grabbed shirt, shoes and a fleece and parted the tent opening, stepping out onto the open deck.

Lit up one burner on the Colemen and placed the coffee pot full of water to heat up. Pulled out a frying pan and placed thick slabs of smoked bacon in parallel strips inside. Fully cooked and browned on both sides, they were moved to a plate, and then cracked three eggs into the crackling grease. Mike had come to life and was milling around organizing a few of his things. A few remaining taters left from the night before were warmed up. Taters piled on plates, three eggs, sunny side up, flopped from the pan onto the fried potatoes, a handful of thick strip bacon on the side and a slice of bread toasted on one of the burners with butter dripping, were all piled high on two plates. A couple of cups of Pero and a diet Coke to wash it all down and we both sat there forking it all in. The only sound was a slurp or two and the clank of metal utensils scrapping against metal camp plates. That was a hell’uv a breakfast, a far cry from my daily ration of porridge.

The morning warmed and the sky was partly overcast. I took Mike to the upper section of the Ranch where pods of Cutties nose the water surface as they feed on emerging bugs just below the surface film, concentric rings evolve as a result. One the way there we pass that place on the far bank where overhanging willows guard dark water infested with fish. I thought, we’ll save this place for later.

Mike steps into slower moving water upstream and begins to work out line in an effort to reach rising fish above him. It’s a beautiful scene. Standing above him on the dike road, I watch him wade into the middle of the river. He’s a solitary figure penetrating the horizontal plane of the river surface. The night before chatting around the camp fire, he mentioned it had been some time since he cast his rod and thought he may be a it rusty, but this morning the arch of his line was clean and his presentation was flawless as he placed the fly just above the rising fish letting it drift directly into their feeding lane. As would be expected, and this still happens to me, the timing of the set as a cutty rises for it’s subtle take tripped him up as a fish came to his fly. With a reminder of the “God Save the Queen” trick, he began to hook up here and there.

The sky was clearing; the sun bright and action on the upper section had cooled down. It was mid afternoon and that epic breakfast was a distant memory. I called to Mike to come; I had another spot for him to try.

The time had come to introduce Mike to that spot that had over the past month or so become the “sure thing”, that is, since that day of triumph, when the big Cutthroat smashed my bug; this place has been my “go to” run. It never failed. It always produced nice fish. In fact, it became so prolific, that I became self conscious whenever I went there. I played a sort of game in my head. At first, just after I discovered its treasures, I went here first off and often. Then I developed the sense that too much of a good thing could potentially be harmful in some way. So an attitude of restraint was initiated where the place was only accessed after all other runs had been fished first. The idea was, let it rest and then go there and cast into its dark water beneath the willows and across the run to just beyond the steep shelf where fish hide deep and wait for the opportunity to take large terrestrials that blow into the current from the grassy bank next to the run. Somehow this head game worked. What joy came from this form of delayed gratification as Cutties and Bows and one Brown crashed the party rising to Tanner’s trusty pink Hopper pattern. This run rarely disappointed.

We stepped into the rushing water and waded across to that shelf that had caused such grief so long ago. We angled away from the tail end of the island and I positioned Mike at the bottom of the run. After a brief explanation of how the run worked, he worked out line then released a cast that land between the willow overhang and the steep shelf. A good cast, but needed to be a bit higher in the run and further to either side. He recast and the hopper came closer to the sweet spot. His next cast fouled leaving a tangle of tippet material. Mike kindly asked that I cast while he fixed things. I shot a cast high above the run with a variation of Tanner’s wonder bug on top and a small silvery bead head dropper Royce had recommended earlier. We both watched intently as the drift was about over. I lifted my rod tip gently to initiate the next cast when I felt a tug; we both watched a huge flash of silver explode from the depth of the run. At the last moment, a nice Bow took Royce’s bead head just as I was about to recast. It was a beauty, running for cover beneath the willows, as they invariably do in this run, then back across the run to sound in the deep water below the shelf. What a kick. Just wished it had been Mike holding the rod.

But, I knew there where more fish at the top of the runs where the current rushed against the far bank that feeds the deep dark water under the willows and behind the shelf that held the Bow’s brothers and sisters. We moved up further and Mike cast right on the seam of the faster current, perfect placement. At about the second or third cast he gets smacked. His rod bent in half, the fish taking line, he gets it on the reel. It tugs and runs as we watch it flash and turn and run and splash the surface. It’s a nice cutty. Mike begins to back away from the deeper water in an effort to find a better place to land it. It’s all looking great when the floating line pings back at him, limp, as the fish dives out of site. DAMN. This was a well played catch and Mike did everything precisely right. The vagaries of catching fish are many and this fish was the lucky one that day.

 

We fished below the run for a while and Mike hooked a couple of smaller cuts, then we waded across the river and went back to the camp and made plans for dinner. There was more fishing that evening and we hooked some nice fish, but each time we walked past that far bank with overhanging willows, I noticed Mike steal a glance toward its sometimes dark heart. I know the feeling. I’ve lost a few in there too.

I have to say, the few days spent with my good friend and his trusty mutt were some of the best I’ve spent at the Ranch. As Mike and Andy drove away the next day in his black Ford truck, I hoped they'd return again sometime and spend more time at the Ranch..

"So Saith, the Byrds"

The signs of fall are apparent. No subtle changes now. The harvest is in full swing leaving an almost inversion-like layer of dust to hang in the air most of the day and into the evening. Sunsets were epic. The oft used reference of the sun as a “big red ball” fading into the horizon fulfilled the measure of that description. Sunrises are nearly as intense. Air temps were dropping, as well. No more ninety degree plus at the heat of the day.

The sun’s angle had shifted somewhat, less direct overhead, tilting southward a bit. Evening came sooner and when the sun completed its fall from the sky the air temp cooled noticeably. Just before sunrise the low dropped to just below forty. The trusty North Face bag has served well all summer. Would need to consider pulling out the Marmot soon. It’s rated to minus twenty.

The Wall Tent continues to rule. One of my better ideas. All that has been said before, still holds. The camp now feels like home. Six days in, this trip, and the routine feels seamless. It’s been quiet. Up at sunrise, fry up a couple or three eggs on the Coleman over oatmeal, sip Pero (a poor substitute for Postum, which is a poor substitute for a cup of well brewed coffee...an old college indulgence long since given up) while viewing the sun rise behind the “Grand”. It take a while for me to fully “boot up”. The sound of trucks and tractors and all manner of farm implement and equipment hum in the background as these hard working men and women push on gathering the fruits of their labors. Then, as the routine dictates, I select the right rod and walk the dike road and head to the river.

The fun begins each and every day with the first cast. Some things just seem immutable and in this place each and every morning, since this all began, small bugs begin to hatch and take flight to the sky as the cycle of life unfolds, as various aquatic insects emerge from hidden depths to complete the process of metamorphosis. Hoppers continue to rule in the afternoon and streamers are beginning to become more attractive to both bows and cuts.

Earlier in the week, on a trip to Ashton, I stopped at the shop to gab with Royce. He’s always good for info on where the action is and has always been spot on when suggesting a particular pattern. Remember the “Red Body”. This time, his expert pick included a bushy light colored sparkly laced four inch streamer containing an olive strip on top of the white body. True to form, it later produced excellent results.

The water is cooler to the touch and fish respond aggressively as the instinct in them urges a more voracious appetite which compels them to stoke up for the long drag of winter in these parts. Flows remain steady, but up a bit due to the lack of draw from the farmers. When the harvest ends, they’ll water bare lifeless fields in an effort to saturate the soil as a means of preparing the undulating topography for the next season’s planting and subsequent bounty. Another cycle of life will shortly come to its intended conclusion as the countryside will eventually lie beneath a thick frigid cover of snow.

The continuum of continuum's cascade throughout life up there, it is the pattern and to most of us they are imperceptible. It takes the living within and along side of it all too even notice that there is such a thing, but know this, there is truly a time and a season for all things under heaven, so saith the Byrds.

A call comes, “You still up there”. “Indeed”, I reply. “Thinking about heading your way”, he said. “What’s your ETA”, I ask. :”Will leave in about an hour. I’ll call when I’m close”. “Excellent” and I pressed END CALL.

A few minutes later it rings again, “Forgot to ask, mind if I bring Andy, he’s a Shelty pup”, he inquires further. “You bet”, I say.

This will be great, I’m thinking. Mike is a real Pal., known him for a good while. Our respective kids grew up together and we, along with others fished with Gary Evans on the Madison further up north and on the Colorado River at Lee’s Ferry to the south, years ago. He’s a great skier and one who is always up for a little adventure and always game to go the distance in any endeavor. Mike’s a bit quite, enjoying solitude. No real need to be surrounded by the crowd nor be the center of attention, thoughtful and polite, hence the second call re bringing Andy. All attributes I’ve admired since I’ve known him.

His kids matched up nicely with ours and we all had great times traveling together to Sun Valley a few times in the mid nineties and then a few adventures to Colter Bay on the other side of the Tetons. Good symmetry all around.

I played out the morning on the river and in light of Mike’s call, drove in Broulin’s in St. Anthony for provisions in the afternoon. A well stocked cooler always makes my heart beat a bit faster. It was about time to diversify my simple fare.

The butcher was just taking off his apron as I rounded the end of the aisle that leads to the Meat Dept. I quickly scanned the cooler for a couple of steaks, but didn't find the right cut. He stuck his head out from behind the entrance to the butchery behind the counter and asked if he could help. I asked if he had a couple of New York strips back there, to which he said that he did not, but offered to grab a section from the locker and cut a couple of steaks to my liking. "Only if it was no trouble", I replied. He waved me back as he took off his jacket then slipped into his long white butcher coat as he took a firm grip on the long verticle staniless steel handle of the locker and with his full weight pulled down and back as the big metal insulated door swung open revealing sides of beef hanging on hooks all in a row.

He stepped into the cooler and disappeared into the frozen darkness then reappeared with a large hunk of meat and dropped it on to the counter surface. He reached up and brought down a canvas like thing that was tied in the middle by two strings. With his fingers he pulled at the loose end of a tied bow of string as it rolled out on to the table revealing half a dozen knives neatly slid into individual pockets sewn into the cloth. He reached for the long blade with an acutely rounded edge that met the thickness of the blade top exposing a sharp point where they met. After a few thrusts against the honing stick, he placed the sharp edge of the blade against the crimson hunk of meat and asked, “How thick would you like your steak”? I said, “inch and half should do it”. “How many”? He queried. “Two”, I muttered. With one long stroke, the fine edge of the well honed tool of his trade separated this gorgeous thick cut of prime meat from the massive hunk sitting on the cutting bench. He repeated the process then placed the two steaks on white paper and weighted them, wrapped then placed the sticker containing the weight and the price of about ten bucks over the taped edge and, with a pleased expression, handed the wrapping to me and asked, “Will there be anything else”? I offered, “You are a gentleman and a scholar and your efforts are very much appreciated”.  He offered a simple thank you and we parted.

 

Just about sundown, a gnarly black ford truck pulled through the gate and crawled toward the camp site along the dike road and stopped at the camp site.  Fresh Idaho Red Potatoes warmed in one frying pan, while two well seared New York Steaks were about done in another. I waved Mike down from the dike and told him to wash up, dinner was ready. I met Andy and the three of us settled in for hearty plates of NY Strip, fresh fried Idaho Red Potatoes and a couple of bottles of icy O’Doul’s.

Man, this is living…..

The Time Of Their Lives

The iPhone lights up and twitches, reading, “Let’s float”. I reply, “Thought you’d never ask”. He texted, “See you shortly”.

A little over an hour later, the F250 crawls along the dike road toward us, as Taylor and Addy make their way to the tent site. It’s been awhile since we took the inaugural float from the Ranch and now it was high time to give it another go.

Lounging on the deck, while I picked Taylor’s brain for South Fork info, we noticed another white Ford 4X4 slowly rolling our way. I continued to mine his fertile mind for more G2, logging it for future reference, when two loud blasts sounded from the direction of the second truck. I thought, “What the hell”? Taylor mumbled, “Sounds like Tanner and Henry are having a little fun”.

The truck pulled up behind Taylors rig and Tanner climbs down from the bed of the truck toting a 20 gauge shot gun in one hand and the object of the two blasts in the other. Positioned across his open palm, lay a rather dead Mourning Dove. The season opened that day.

Addy and Lola scampered about in a frenzy at the scent of the lifeless specimen. Tanner beamed with pride and Henry scanned the Ranch for more birds. I told Tanner, “You look like a real Redneck packing that bird killer around”. He just grinned back with a faux deranged crossed eyed expression reminiscent of one of those characters in the “Deliverance” flick.

While Tanner continued to goon the Ozark look, Henry stepped forward and enjoined me with. “Hope you don’t mind if we hunt on your Ranch”? In reality he was asking for forgiveness, since they failed to ask permission. It’s tough to come down too hard on these boys. I recall something about, “He who is without sin…”

Henry backed his truck with boat and trailer into the launch site as Taylor flipped the lock latch on the winch, releasing the boat into the river. His Clacka was a beauty as the four of us, along with Lola and Addy, piled in for an afternoon float down the lower half of the ranch and beyond.

A few fish here and there, a couple of nice ones, too. Tanner continued to dominate, but this afternoon was laid back. It had more to do with just being there. It couldn’t have been a more perfect day. The banter was focused on subtle insults and jibes at first until Henry started in on Taylor’s first born. Taylor then volleyed back something about Henry’s cute wife, and then Tanner piled on about Henry’s girth. At each thrust we’d all let out snickers, at first, until things amped with all four of us howling as the jibes came near to drawing crimson. But just at the edge of no return, and like, young stags testing one another, they withdrew as the boat was engulfed in good natured brotherly laughter, knowing that their camaraderie and friendship was deep and abiding and enough was enough.

At that point things quickly took a turn toward probing the minds of their respective mates. The deep mysteries of women, the things they do and say and the ways in which they behave. All young and married for relatively short time, they had yet to even know what questions to ask, let alone how to ascertain the answers. Their whole life lay before them. They, still basking in that glow of young love, a couple of babies between them and young pretty wives beginning new lives full and expectant with hope and bright futures.

We rounded the bend and in the distance spied that structure which earlier held so much trepidation, as we approach the large check where the river split. On the maiden voyage, a month or so back, we nervously lined our way down the drop filling the X-13 partially full as it’s bow buried itself deep into the boiling water on the other side. What a rush as Tanner held the bowline taught while the skiff swung around at the tail end of the run. We cheered and pumped our fists into the air as it came to a rest against the boulders placed to hold the river bank from eroding during high water.

This time, Henry and I disembarked, scrambled up the steep river bank and hauled rods and a couple of bags to the other side, as Tanner rowed back into the current with Taylor at the bow. He pushed hard and fast toward the check with the idea that they could run it. Pushing against the oars, Tanner gained as much speed as his stout guns could muster. The bow crossed the drop and drove deep as water rushed in as Tanner simultaneously pulled in the oars through the locks so they didn’t catch the blades against the concrete and steel supports of the check. Henry’s Clacka beauty glided over and dropped into the foamy water below. They did it, safe and sound on the other side, no worse for wear, grinning all the way.

Below the check, the river narrows, trees overhang forming excellent habitat for skittish fish. A well placed cast deep beneath overhanging brush can produce numerous strikes and big fish. It’s becoming my experience that the larger fish inhabit the lower half of this section. Due to inaccessibility, this section is rarely fished. The fish are not well schooled in the ways of the fly fisher and therefore will strike patterns that have fallen out of favor on other waters within the region. While they remain mostly Yellowstone Cutthroat, and maintain the distinct characteristic of a leisurely take, once hooked, they act like a bow or a brown. In fact, as has been commented on previously, they are truly psychotic when being handled by humans. Just try holding eighteen inch cutty boated in this river for a photo op and see if you can get a clean shot. You’ll either be a better man than most or just lucky. These fish are insane.

The cutty released, Henry at the oars, things settled as we drifted through the cool shadows of taller trees and brush on the west bank. Rods lay against the inside of the gunnels. No one attempted to cast. I sat on the shelf on the bow with legs dangling through the knee locks looking through the three and on up stream. It was calm and cool, the talk was more subdued as they opened up to each other about guys stuff, occasionally revealing their concerns and I could sense a bit of undefined fear. It was as if for a brief moment in that quite water, they began to reveal concerns of  men who have recently taken on the tasks as providers for young wives and the innocents they helped bring into this world. The weight of it all resting heavy for that brief moment as these thoughts pierced the veil of boyish fun and adventure.

The take out was in site and the dance of the retrieval was about to begin as Henry began to work out the process of putting things away. I watched as he began to shift into his own unique process. It was his boat.

I thought a lot about that day. They came to be friends based upon mutual interest. Students first, ski buddies, then sealed together by that communal affection for rivers and the creatures that inhabit them. They bonded out of common passion for the bounty the area provided and they grew as men, young and coming to the end of one thing and the beginning of another. Their women, too, had forged friendships and a common bond like young women and mothers do. What they lacked or little understood was that they were about to see this time of their lives, living in this place full of adventure, discovery, accomplishment, brotherhood and friendship was about to reach its zenith. The winds of change were about to blow in their direction. Sure they'll keep in touch and always be pals, but they will look back at some distant time and realize that this was the time of their lives.

It was my distinct pleasure to be there that day.

     

The Perfect Silhouette

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.

"Do You Have Fifty Bucks..."

August is past and now it's a week or so into September and there are a few early signs of the coming Fall. It’s the small changes that you notice when you’re out in it day after day. Every day or so the high is not so hot, the low just a bit cooler than the day before. The sun sets late still, but just a hair sooner. It’s angle in the sky not quite so straight up, a few more geese are seen in formation than a month ago. And the river is up some and cooler, too.

The Wall Tent set on the deck has proven to be quite deluxe. It’s set up perfectly. Two cots keep things up off the ground and when the morning comes the body is rested. A long bench lines the back wall. A square nose shovel and broom stand tall in the corner. But the best object of all is a blue camp table with a small green folding chair in front that’s situated just to the right of the tent opening. Various papers, a laptop, business cards, toothbrush and Coke bottle half full of water are atop the flat surface of the table. Stacked in a row at the back is a container of Pero, a box of sweetener, three day old newspaper, a blue speckled  coffee mug from a camp cooking set, a couple of books standing on end with a tooth brush and spoon shoved up against it all and occasionally the Coleman Stove, if things get dicey outside. A fly box of discarded flies lay open on the corner, with a few wooly buggers in various sizes and colors sitting in a pile.

When the outside world enters into life at the Ranch, this is the locus from which all things transpire. I’m able to contain it all at that spot. It’s a place to focus and to correspond with those who need some thing or when I need to reach out to complete a task to enable all of this to keep going. If only the caller on the other end could see this, a guy in wet waders sitting on a green camp chair, in front of a blue roll up table inside a Wall Tent, near the bank of a river on a small ranch in southeastern Idaho, who just a few short minutes before was casting to rising fish, he’d immediately hate his life. The thing is I seldom let on that I’m not sitting in my office behind a desk, not that there is anything inherently not right with that.

In the evening, after it’s too dark to do much, I sit in that chair at the table and work on things. By the light of the lantern, inside the Wall Tent, I’ve been able to empty a dozen fly boxes and sort and group various patterns collected over many years. The surprising thing is, I came across patterns that hadn’t seen the light of day in a decade or more. In the quite of night with Miles playing "Blue in Green" sweetly in the background, opening small boxes hidden away deep in the compartments of the bag, there held memories that unexpectedly gave rise to certain thoughts and recollections that had been lost. It caught me off guard.

Tucked inside an interior pocket of the bag were small boxes of glo bugs used on the Colorado River below Lee’s Ferry in the hay day, before the “Flush” that change everything for so long. There was the box of flies bought from Lynn Sessions in Twin Bridges where Miguel and I fished the Big Hole. The Chronimids and Annelids we used on the Madison below Quake with Gary Evans. This is the place and the time where Miguel and I spent “that” fall “that” year obsessed with catching fish. Then there was a singular Green Drake used on the back waters of Chester to cast to the rising rainbows one summer afternoon with a young Larry Tullis guiding out of Will Godfrey's shop in Island Park. Man, that one did me in. 

She and I dropped in Will’s shop and asked about the cost of a float. We were poor and just married, and I had fished the Henry’s Fork since I was sixteen. As a kid, I’d wade into the river in the Box Canyon and watch gentlemen of a certain age smoking thick stogies sitting in the front of the boat casting as the guide navigated the boat in and out of runs that held Box Canyon Rainbows.  Wading and working the pocket water in the canyon I watched as they drifted by. I thought, some day I'll be the guy casting effortlessly from the bow of a guided drift boat.

That day Will took pity on us. He called over to Larry Tullis, a quite shy kid and said, “Larry, you have client today?”. Larry shook his head, “No”. Will said, “These two need you to take them down to Chester this afternoon.” Larry said, “OK”. Will, then looked at us up and down and said, ‘Do you have Fifty bucks”. I looked at her, then back to Will and said, “I do”. “Larry’s got nothing to do, he’ll take you down”. And that he did.This was our first guided experience. She sat in the back of the boat, a wide brim hat secured by a scarf she tied under her chin and up and over the top to keep it in place. She had the look of the old actress in that Humphrey Bogart film about a boat floating down a river in Africa. It was classic.

Larry and I kept in touch and fished together a number of times on the Green.  I learned a lot from Larry that day.

That night I lay on the cot in the dark wondering where the time had gone.

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.