After our route less traveled via Moon Pass, Marck and I finally arrived at our destination just before 4 PM on Thursday. The campground was full, but fortunately Morris and Jimmy had arrived days earlier and procured a spot large enough for the Man Van and another tent. Much to our disappointment, however, our Ranger compadres weren’t there to welcome us with high-fives, plates of hors d’oeuvres and cocktails (selfish bastards were out fishing).
We unloaded and set up Marck’s tent, and the kitchen canopy. We learned our lesson last year—that the camp galley should be sheltered from the possibility of inclement weather—and vowed to not get caught with our chef’s pants down ever again. Based on the scene we encountered, Morris and Jimmy hadn’t taken particular pride in their culinary center: it was a if they’d been in the woods so long that they had lost the ability to lead a civilized life. We tidied things up a bit and an hour or so later a couple of haggard anglers drug themselves into camp, looking like they hadn’t had a shower or human contact for weeks, which wasn’t far from the truth. Jimmy had arrived at camp on Sunday, joined by Morris on Monday. They had fished hard each day and clearly spent too much time together already, bickering like an old married couple. At least they had their own separate tents, although we had only their word to refute the suspicion that one tent was merely a decoy.
The conversation quickly turned to fishing, and we learned that many and large fish had been caught, and that the river had not been devoid of other anglers. On at least one of the previous days they had seen as many 15 anglers on the water—more than I can recall ever encountering. With a full campground it didn’t surprise me that others were fishing, despite that not everyone camped was also there to fish. As we swatted mosquitos we noted that the dust was down considerably from previous years. Morris and Jimmy proceeded to inform us that they’d been rained on the day before—an intermittent rain, hard at times. That didn’t dampen our spirits for the next day, as there was only a 40% chance of precipitation.
Being the sunny optimist that I always am, I took that to mean that there was a 60% chance that it would not rain. If I were a betting man, I’d take the 60% over the 40% every time. Good thing I’m not a betting man.
We gathered round a good fire that evening, solving world problems by discussing what flies would work the next day. As per usual, Morris declared the tan elk hair caddis to be the only fly necessary while Jimmy argued that a wide variety of flies would be needed. We were briefed on the details of their week: what fish were caught where, on what pattern, on which day. Jimmy and Morris confirmed what I had heard from other anglers who had been on this river this year: the fish were consistently larger than in recent years, with 18-20″ cutthroat being more the norm than the exception.
I attribute the increase in the size of the fish to at least two years in a row of lighter than normal snowpack, resulting in less runoff to scour the river. Admittedly, snowpack is ultimately a good thing for rivers and fish, but the more river scouring that occurs may increase less insect abundance. The more bugs, the better the eating for the fish. The better the eating, the bigger the fish (and we all know how big fish make us feel). My science could be wrong—there’s at least a 60% chance of that being 100% true.
The next morning, Morris—having some obligations that prevented him from staying to fish another day—packed up and left. Jimmy stayed on to fish another day, so the three of us donned our wet wading gear and set off up the trail for a 4 mile hike before dropping into the river to fish our way back. It was a pleasant day with ample sunshine—the stuff one would expect during the second week of July—albeit a good bit cooler than usual. The cooler weather was nice for hiking and the first step into the river felt good after the forced march up the
dusty trail. Despite rains from 2 days before, the river was running lower than normal, and clear as a gin and tonic without the tonic. It felt great to be back on what has become my most favorite river, armed with a 4 weight and a dry fly, and nothing but miles of river ahead of us and a 60% likelihood of no rain. The high clouds seemed only to be passing through—at least early in the day.
It quickly became apparent that fishing was not red hot, which I attributed to possibly two things: First, the river may have bumped up just a tad from the earlier rain; and/or secondly, Jimmy and Morris had pounded the river for 3 days already, not to mention other anglers. Fortunately we started catching a few fish before too long and saw no other fishermen on the water all day. Jimmy fished well ahead as Marck and I took our time, fishing at a more leisurely pace and enjoying our first day on the water.
We fished a variety of dries, catching fish on small mayfly patterns (in a range of colors from dark to light), large and small black ants, a spruce moth, and—just to make Morris happy—the tan caddis. I always fish a streamer at least part of the time and did so for a short spell, catching one nice fish out of a deep run known appropriately as the “Streamer Hole”. I certainly didn’t want to risk catching a bull trout like last year, so I soon switched back to a dry fly in pursuit of surface feeding trouts.
The fishing that first day was exceptional, despite that the catching was considerably off the typical pace. I landed perhaps 8-10 nice fish, many in the 15″ range with one 18″ pig and only one fish under 12″. Marck, not surprisingly, fared better, as he always does. When we caught up with Jimmy in the early afternoon, he had been catching more than his fair share of fish as well.
By around 4 PM, the nice day we’d been enjoying yielded to less savory weather as the 40% chance of rain became 100% rain. With that we donned our rain jackets and continued to wet our lines as a steady drizzle fell. Marck and Jimmy posted up on a particular run that hadn’t been giving up any fish. I moved on slowly, not catching fish in areas I would normally expect to catch fish. Anticipating that the others would catch up fairly soon, I took my time. A half hour later, with no sign of the others and no fish showing me any love, I checked my watch: it was 6:15 PM so I decided to make my way back to camp. I had begun to get a bit chilled from standing in the cold river in the rain, and it was time for some grub and maybe a wee dram of whiskey. But just before deciding to call it quits I managed to pull a 15″ trout out of a fishy looking hole—a nice parting gift before slogging the mile or so back to camp on an increasingly muddier trail. Once back at camp I slipped into something more comfrtable and began slowly cooking dinner, expecting that Marck and Jimmy would be along at any time.
It was almost 7:30 PM when I finished the last bite of my supper. I covered the chicken and reduced the heat on the stove to keep the sauteed squash warm. The rain began to dissipate so I started a fire and was just getting comfortable when my compadres walked into camp, wet, but in high spirits. They had stayed on that one particular fishless run for a couple hours until finally figuring out which bug the fish wanted. Once they had cracked that code many fish were caught. By delaying they also arrived in camp to plates full of hot food served up under the shelter of the canopy. Good for them
the freeloading sonsabitches. That evening the skies cleared, offering a view of a gazillion stars overhead. The conversation around the fire was lively and lasted well into the night. I slept soundly that night. Life was good.
The next morning I awoke later than I would care to admit. Marck had been up for a few hours already, had built a campfire that was already reduced to embers, and had rearranged all of his fly boxes, twice. Jimmy had packed up and left by 7AM (I was in a dead slumber and didn’t even hear him do so—the beauty of a comfortable bed in the Man Van). Marck and I discussed the day’s plans: Despite the mostly blue sky overheard, there was a 100% chance of thunderstorms. We agreed that we would wader up and make a shorter hike up the trail than we had the previous day. I’ve never worn waders on this river but since the forecast called for cool temperatures, in addition to the 100% guarantee of thunderstorms, it seemed the prudent thing to do. Two miles up the trail we may have been cursing our decision to do so, but once we got to the river and the sweat dried, we took comfort in the knowledge that when—not if—the storms began, we would be well prepared. It didn’t appear, at least initially, that we were in for any sort of threatening weather, but we knew how fast that
would could change.
Fishing was slow again for the first couple of hours, which we attributed to a strong low pressure system moving in. Ominous clouds drifted overhead and we expected to hear thunder at any moment. But then the clouds parted and the skies grew less ominous. This would go on all day, with extended periods of mostly sunny skies. On more than a couple of occasions I wished I hadn’t been wearing waders.
We fished slowly—more slowly than we normally would do—taking our time to switch flies often, hoping to find out what the fish wanted. What had worked for Marck and Jimmy less than 24 hours earlier wasn’t getting it done now, but it provided us with an enjoyable and challenging day of fishing. We savored every moment that Mother Nature didn’t unleash her wrath upon us and treated each fish as it if were the last we’d catch that day before the lightning bolts crashed around us and locusts began swarming. That never happened.
We fished into the early evening until our stomachs growled for some of the Shephard’s Pie that Marck was planning for supper (which was delicious). The campfire that night was as good as the night before, under skies that once again revealed more stars than we could have imagined possible. We felt pretty damn good about having dodged the 100% guaranteed weather bullet that day, and slept comfortably knowing that the next day held only a 40% chance of rain, like Day One (and all things considered the rain that first day wasn’t too bad). Our last day of fishing would surely entail more wet wading.
We awoke to another morning of hope and encouragement: a lightly clouded sky that threatened to turn blue. That threat never materialized, however, and over breakfast we noted that it was noticeably cooler than it had been on previous two mornings. In fact, there was a chill in the air reminiscent of early Fall rather than early Summer, so we decided to don the waders once again. We repeated the 4 mile hike from Day One, a decision which resulted in plenty of breathable-goretex-induced sweat by the time we hopped off the trail into the water. Even with waders on, the river felt colder this morning and it wasn’t long before we were glad for having decided not to wet wade. Fishing started out moderately slow, but we were catching fish in runs that hadn’t produced for us the previous day. I landed one nice 17″ fish that, when I extracted my fly from it’s mouth, had another artificial bug embedded in its lip: a tan elk hair caddis. I called Marck over to share my discovery. There was no tippet attached to the hook so he surmised that Morris’ knot must have failed.
Come noon the weather took a decisive turn for the worst as the clouds descended and began to release copious amounts of precipitation. We briefly pondered whether the 100% chance of thunderstorms was merely a day late, but it was too cold for thunderstorms. No, this was just rain. Plenty of it.
The liquid sunshine continued to fall as the afternoon wore on. Mostly it was a steady, hard rain, with sporadic and extended periods of steadier, harder rain. At one point it rained so hard that it distorted the surface of the water, making it impossible to see one’s fly, or rocks on the riverbed for that matter. Wading became a bit precarious at times, though neither Marck nor I took a swim (even in what is known as “The Swimming Hole”). We soldiered on, wondering how much more rain could possibly fall. We tried to stay positive, noting that it just had to stop. Or at least lighten up. It did neither. We fished on.
The fish were actually pretty cooperative for the better part of the afternoon. A couple fish fell to a foam ant pattern, but mostly they were in the mood for small bugs, PMDs in particular. Fortunately I had just the ticket, and caught one of my better fish on a size 20 fly. I fished smaller bugs than I typically ever do, partially because I can’t usually see to thread my tippet through diminutive hook eyes. Thanks to some incredible bugs tied by Aileen Lane of MKFlies and The Old Guys Flies, not only could I thread the oversized hook eyes, but these little bugs floated well and could be easily seen, most of the time, even in the rain. Honestly, these flies made all the difference on a wet day when the low light made it difficult to see much of anything. The fish certainly saw them.
After four hours with no reprieve from the rain, the hillsides had become saturated. Without the ability to absorb the rain, the steep slopes began shedding surface water into the river. Feeder streams were full, and by 4PM the river was starting to show signs of coloring up. The fish ceased playing nicely and we decided to make for the trail. As we negotiated the slippery riverbed we continued to hold out hope that the rain would taper and at least allow us a campfire on our final night. When we got to the trail it was a torrent of brown muck. We slogged on toward camp, hoping that the galley canopy had not succumbed to the deluge. The majority of the smart campers had packed up while their gear was still dry, and the campground was all but empty save for two sites occupied by new arrivals. It was not a good day to have arrived if fishing was the intended goal: based on the rain that had fallen, and continued to fall, the river was going to be out of shape for at least the next day, probably two.
Fortunately the canopy had held up, but it was so wet that even things that were sheltered from the weather were damp. Marck’s tent had also withstood the elements so I didn’t need to worry about renting him a bunk in the Man Van. But even that, coupled with an amazing dinner consisting of Marck’s BBQ ribs in the Dutch Oven, couldn’t lighten the dark cloud of despair that hung over camp. It was obvious that the rain wasn’t going to let up so that we could enjoy a fire on our last night. This troubled me greatly because to me a good fire is the heart and soul of camping—perhaps the best part of an entire day—and without a fire there was nothing to do but hit the sack early, which we did, at 7:45 PM. The pitter patter of steady rain persisted until I nodded off sometime later. At 4:15 AM, when I awoke briefly, it was still raining. When I crawled out of the sack at 6:15 AM it had finally stopped. Not confident that the rain wouldn’t return, I began stowing what gear I could, putting down tarps inside the van to keep things from getting too wet and muddy. Marck emerged from his tent shortly after that and mentioned that it had rained until 5 AM. Based on that I calculated that it had rained for 17 hours straight. We broke camp without so much as making coffee.
As we stowed the last of the wet gear, a gentleman—who bore an uncanny resemblance to a billy goat—walked over from his camp to chat about the prospects of fishing and to inquire as to how long it had been raining (he and his son had arrived the evening before and planned to fish for the next 4 days). When we told him the rain had started at noon and the river became unfishable by 4 PM, you could see the disappointment on his face. We suggested it would be a good day to sit by a fire (if it didn’t resume raining, that is). His shoulders slumped as he admitted that they only had a few bundles of firewood. He perked up a bit when we told him to help himself to the remainder of our dry firewood. This was the second year in a row that we had been unable to burn all the wood we’d brought.
We departed camp at 7:30 AM and headed toward St. Regis, MT, for coffee and a hot breakfast. Despite the dreary end to our trip, at least we weren’t going home 3 days earlier than planned, as we were forced to do the year before. When we got into cell range Marck pulled up the graphs to see just how much the river had spiked with the previous day’s 40% chance of rain. We were both a bit shocked, and grateful that we’d managed to catch some nice fish the day before.
I’m already looking forward to going back next year. And when we do I’m at least 40% sure we’ll bring more firewood than we’ll need, although there’s always a chance I could be at least 60%, or even 100%, wrong.
This is a little experiment to see if any of you read the first post about the route we took en route to our Idaho fishing destination, The Road Less Travelled in Search of Summer. I know of at least 2 people that did read that entry (thanks, Howard and Bob).
When I returned from the trip I noticed I had taken a photo from nearly the same vantage point on two consecutive days. It made for a nice comparison/contrast. Here’s a little eye candy teaser to hopefully entice you to stick around for the second part, which will be titled, “The Forecast Called for 100% Chance of Fishing”.
In the last installment of the Weekly Drivel® I pondered the likelihood that the weather predictors would be right, or wrong, with regard to the forecast for a trip to fish a particular river in the Idaho Panhandle. Well, I’ve been back now for two days and my gear has finally dried out. FYI, that’s a bit of
clever foreshadowing as pertaining to the weather we encountered.
I arrived at Marck’s home in North Bend at 7AM on Thursday, under cloudy skies. Summer hadn’t yet arrived in the Pacific Northwest, and despite that it was the second week in July it felt more like an early Fall morning. After loading all his
shit gear (and there was a lot of it) into the Man Van, and adding to the wood pile on the hitch carrier, we hit the road for an 8 hour drive east, during which it remained cloudy and 20 degrees cooler than what one might expect for this time of year. We could have made the drive in less time but the Man Van is much more road-friendly at speeds under the speed limit of 70mph, which is the posted limit most of the way.
Once we hit the dirt road from Wallace to Avery, ID, the van was right at home. I’d never taken this route before but wanted to see what Moon Pass (AKA Forest Service Road 456) was all about. It was worth the jaunt, despite that it’s much faster to stay on I-90 all the way to St. Regis, MT, and then double back into Idaho via Gold Pass.
A couple miles outside of Wallace, Moon Pass road gets down to business. It’s an often steep and more often winding route where our speed rarely exceeded 20 mph. Much of the time we drove considerably slower, which was necessary to negotiate some very tight hairpin turns. The road is in very good shape overall and wide enough in most places for vehicles to easily pass without kissing mirrors. Where it is a bit narrower there are generally pullouts to allow passage by another rig, but the road was never terribly skinny. It’s not a harrowing drive by any means, nor is it a road where one would want to venture off of the shoulder: it’s a long way down to the North Fork of the St. Joe River, which flows from deep within the western reach of the Bitterroot Mountains. The views are impressive from the top of the pass and the scenery is beautiful the entire way, standard fare in Idaho’s Panhandle.
The last several miles of the 28 mile route take travelers through a series of old rail tunnels. I believe there are six tunnels (maybe 7, but who’s counting?). The tunnels are wide enough for only one vehicle and it’s a very good idea to turn on the headlights prior to entering the tunnels; if one were to encounter an oncoming vehicle, one or the other would need to back up whence they came. Despite that none of the tunnels are more than a couple hundred yards long, I wasn’t looking forward to convincing another driver that it was they who would be yielding. Fortunately we didn’t meet any vehicles in the tunnels, and very few vehicles anywhere else along the way for that matter.
Being a lightly traveled route we saw only 3 other vehicles and a small handful of dual sport bikes on the upper stretches of the pass. And a couple of 4 wheelers, one of which piloted by a crotchety old redneck who apparently wasn’t pleased with our slow rate of travel. I pulled over to let him pass us by—which he did—in a big hurry. As he sped past he yelled something (an expression of gratitude for letting him pass, I assume). How I wish it had been hot and dusty so that he could’ve enjoyed our powdery wake, but surprisingly there was very little dust. In fact there were indications that precipitation had been a recent occurrence.
As we neared Avery, at the southern end of the route, we encountered a few more rigs headed up the road, loaded for camping and mountain biking. The Hiawatha Trail ends near the road over Moon Pass and is apparently a pretty popular trail for riding mountain bikes. That’s all fine and dandy, but where we were headed is way more fun.
Just about exactly 28 miles after leaving Wallace we entered the outskirts of Avery and turned east. The weather remained cooler than normal, but pleasant. There was a 0% chance of rain on this day and the sun even began trying to poke through the clouds as we followed the St. Joe River up the road. In another 40 miles we would arrive at our destination, where Jimmy and Morris had arrived several days earlier. We were eager to stretch our legs and wet our whistles after the long drive. And we were also jonesin’ to get our wet wade on for 3 days of fine, Idaho cutthroat catching.
Last year when we set out on an annual trip to fish Idaho’s St. Joe, the weather was typical for early July: sunny, and hot. There was a chance of thunderstorms one day, but nothing that even the rangers stationed at Red Ives seemed too concerned about when they stopped by our campsite. They only mentioned it as a “chance”. They were far more concerned about wildfires and issued a friendly warning to watch our campfire closely.
Well, we all now how THAT turned out. If you don’t know how that turned out, and you would like to find out, you might consider reading “Dust to mud: a fishing trip’s early demise“).
As I prepare to depart for the Joe this year, it looks nothing like last, when it had been hot and dry for quite some time prior to our arrival. Then it very surprisingly turned very wet. What was listed as a “chance” of thunderstorms turned out to be a violent storm that dropped more than 4 inches of rain, and much of that within an hour. Very, very, very wet.
This year it’s not going to be hot when we arrive, nor has it been particularly hot or dry up to this point. As a matter of fact, there has been a fair amount of rain in Idaho’s panhandle recently. This year it’s going to be wet; the powers-that-predict are pretty much offering a guarantee on that.
But I’m a glass half full kinda guy. I hate fishing in the rain. Particularly in the summer when it should be warm and sunny. I’ll admit that the cool, damp weather will be good for keeping fire danger low (or non-existent). And the cloud cover should bode well for fishing, with one fairly important caveat: thunderstorms, predicted with 100% certainty for Saturday, may not bode well for standing in a river waving a graphite stick, or standing huddled under tall trees.
But could the meteorologists be wrong? Might we actually not have rain and thunderstorms? Could the temps be comfortably in the upper 70’s instead of the mid to lower 60’s (and even cooler)? There’s always a chance that the weather predictors could be wrong.
After all, they were wrong last year.
We left off Part 2 with our final night in West Yellowstone, where some of the Rangers may have had a bit too much fun, if there is such a thing. Actually, there is such a thing, and if you’re feeling not very good in the morning, even fishing can leave a lot to be desired. Fortunately I happened to feel just dandy the next day as we headed off to meet my personal nemesis, The Cornhole River (also known as the Madison at Three Dollar Bridge). This river in this location has never welcomed me with open arms, with the exception of last year’s personal best day on the Madison (6 fish landed). Most years I tend to scratch out one or two fish if I’m lucky, often one or two fewer than that. The only good thing about the Madison, in my opinion, is the setting: it’s absolutely beautiful. With the Madison Range of the Rockies right in your face it can take one’s mind off the angling misery.
The weather continued to be delightful as it had been on the previous two days of fishing. And that delightful weather had also responsible for slower catching than had the weather been less delightful. In other words, things didn’t look good for a day on a river that typically kicks my ass even when the weather sucks.
We geared up for a day of wet wading (a first here), took the requisite team photo, and dispersed to various sections of the river to
waste a perfectly nice day do some angling. Jimmy and I headed downstream while Marck (with Morris on his heels) paid the toll to cross the bridge and headed upstream. Nash headed upstream on the near bank, as did Goose.
I crossed paths with one other angler who was headed back to his truck after having a tough morning on the river. He said the weather had been crappy until just recently, and the fishing had been great, until just recently. I hadn’t had a bump yet, so I agreed with him that the weather was beautiful and the fishing was slow.
The river was running a bit lower, and quite a bit clearer, than what we normally encounter this time of year. Still, there was a lot of water moving downhill so wading very far from the bank wasn’t an option. I was about to step off the bank into a shallow channel when I saw a nice fish dart from beneath bank. If I didn’t catch anything all day at least I’d seen a fish.
Downstream a short ways my indicator dipped and despite that I assumed I’d merely bumped a stick, I set the hook. The stick didn’t fight particularly hard, but it was a heavy stick and took some finesse to land it. Turns out it wasn’t a stick at all, but a nice brown in the 20″ range that took the small dropper in the upper lip. Without a net (left unintentionally, again, back at the truck), it was tough to land the fish. I did manage to bring it into shallow water for a hook extraction without snapping my 5x. Off the fish swam to eat more and hopefully gain a bit more enthusiasm—the fish was healthy, just semi-catatonic in the cold runoff. I couldn’t really blame the fish, after all, when I’m cold I don’t feel much like fighting either. I would like to have hooked up with him later in the year when the water temp was a bit warmer and he wasn’t feeling quite so lethargic. However, I probably wouldn’t have landed it had if that were the case.
Over the next few hours I scratched out 5 more fish, including one 16 inch rainbow that seemed hell bent on making it downstream to Ennis (the fish was a grand scrapper that showed no signs of brown trout lethargy). Every fish I hooked fought harder than the big brown; even a couple small browns in the 10-12 inch range showed more gumption than their 20 inch brethren.
I gradually fished back upstream and made my way back to the truck for lunch, feeling pretty damn good about the success of the morning, and less confident that I would fair as well in the afternoon. I was right about that. After a cold piece of pizza from the night before I headed upstream on the near bank and fished for another hour and a half without so much as a wiggle in my indicator.
I did have the pleasure of being low-holed by some yahoo carrying two rods who decided to set up 100 feet below me and thrash some nice water. I patiently waited for him to move along but he had apparently snagged his hook and was standing on a rock flailing in vain to get unstuck. I shook my fist in his general direction, whispered under my breath, “Get off my damn lawn you punk kid!” and proceeded to walk around, and below him. As I fished down I glanced over my shoulder and he was still standing on that rock, shaking his stick. I didn’t catch another fish the rest of the afternoon and headed back to the truck, still pleased with my morning catch which equalled my personal best day on this river.
Some of the Rangers were already assembled at the vehicles while the others meandered in shortly thereafter. The consensus was that fishing had been slower than normal for everyone except me, which made no sense—if everyone else had a slower day than normal, I should have been skunked. Marck only caught around 15 fish. Morris recalled catching, “NFC. Maybe 5 or 6″ while Nash had 4 fish (the real victory being that he felt much better than he had earlier in the day). Jimmy caught,”Less than UA, so what does that make me?” Goose caught goose eggs. He hates that damn river more than anyone else, even me.
Down the road we headed, ultimately toward Rock Creek some 4 hours away, where we would spend the night before fishing one more river the next day. But first we stopped for some grub at the Grizzly Bar & Grill (located in Cameron MT, although I didn’t see much to suggest anything other than a wide spot in the road, save for a cell tower (or maybe a ham radio antenna?) cleverly disguised as a tall pine tree.
And fine grub it was—as good as it gets. Our waitress was a comely youngish fly angling person who works at the Grizzly Bar seasonably so she can fish. The chef was also a youngish fly fisherman who cooks food so he can fish. A brief conversation with him revealed that he fishes a LOT, and has his own small business selling hand-tied streamers. I can’t imagine anyone living in that area that doesn’t fish, and if you’re in that area to fish I recommend you make a stop at the Grizzly Bar & Grill to eat. And I recommend the ribeye. Just remember to chew each bite 30 times before swallowing.
The final part in this 4 part series isn’t really worth a post all its own: we fished Rock Creek. It was sunny and even hotter than any of the previous 4 days on the waters of Montana and Yellowstone. The creek was running typically high, though not terribly off color. We started low on the creek and despite seeing a few golden stones, no fish were interested.
We figured our best chances were to chase the salmonflies so we drove 20+ miles up Rock Creek Road, collecting dust and hoping to encounter the really big bugs, which we did: there were salmonflies everywhere, like flocks of smallish birds. Never seen them thicker.
What we did not see was a single fish rise to a salmonfly all day, neither an imitation nor the real deal. We experimented by tossing live bugs into the water and watching them drift downstream through likely current seams. Nothing. I managed one 10 inch cutthroat on a Purple Haze (despite that there was no Purple Haze hatch coming off) and Jimmy threw everything in his fly box at a 15″ cuttie before finally enticing the fish to take his offering (which was not a salmonfly pattern). Goose hooked one small fish that may well have been the same 10 incher I’d caught. There aren’t many places where access to wadable water can be found, and the one spot we found is where all the action (if you can call it that) was to be found.
I don’t know why we even bothered to stop and fish that damn creek. It may be better later in the year when you can actually wade into the water to fish, but this time of year it’s not worth your time unless you’re in a raft.
But I’m not bitter. It is a pretty place, I’ll give it that.