A company of Firehole Rangers on the mighty Missouri.

I don’t have an offishial bucket list—to keep one would surely lead to disappointment. I do, however, have an idea of some rivers I’d like to fish before I kick the bucket. One of those rivers is the Missouri. I know lots of folks who’ve fished it, and I’ve read much about it. While it always sounded a bit too busy and populated for my tastes, I have always wanted to experience it firsthand and draw my own conclusions. The allure of 8,000 fish per mile (and nearly as many anglers); a river that fishes like a giant spring creek; wind that can literally blow boats off the water, etc. Yeah, I’ve wanted to visit the Missouri for some time, and if I kept a bucket list I could now scratch this river off the list.

Prior to our annual Firehole Rangers excursion we had made plans to fish Rock Creek on the last leg of our journey. We had cabins booked at the Rock Creek Mercantile and we’d lined up a guide: Scott Anderson, owner and outfitter at Montana Fishing Company. As the day drew nearer, reports indicated that the Creek was running extremely high and fast, and it was Scott’s assessment that it would not be a good idea to float it. The Blackfoot, Bitterroot and Clark Fork—all nearby rivers—were also out of shape. We were told the only viable option was the MO.  With that guidance we canceled our lodging at the Merc and, after fishing the Madison on Monday, drove to Helena.

The Firehole Rangers see the town of Craig for the first time.

As The Rangers headed north of I-90 we found ourselves in uncharted territory as none of us had been to Helena before. Nor were we there long enough to do more than grab a bite to eat and sleep before heading out the next morning toward the bustling troutopolis of Craig, MT. The countryside traveling from Helena to Craig made me wish I’d been there before. I imagined Lewis and Clark as they passed through this area over 200 years ago, and surmised that the countryside probably hadn’t changed all THAT much since then.  Ever since the bicentennial celebration of Lewis and Clark’s journey to the the Pacific coast I’ve fancied myself a bit of an armchair historian when it comes to the epic journey of the Corps of Discovery. As we proceeded on I began to feel all romantic about the unspoiled Montana countryside of the past. That said, I have to admit I was glad to be traveling at a high rate of speed on a paved highway, drinking coffee within the comforts of a minivan rather than walking overland and/or paddling dragging heavily-laden canoes upstream; worrying about my scalp and lamenting the fact that the whiskey had run out.

The sign about sums things up: Craig=fishing.

It was with great excitement that we pulled into Craig, a town that needed no introduction. Three fly shops and a restaurant and a bar, and not much else, comprise this angling destination which likely wouldn’t exist if not for fishing. We browsed through Headhunter’s Fly Shop to kill a little time before meeting our guides at the Craig boat ramp. It was there that I was surprised (and delighted) to see a certain set of books on the shelf (I hear that those books have since been purchased so it is my hope the folks at Headhunter’s have ordered more—gotta pay for my gas to go fishing, you know…).

Got Olive?

At 9 AM we met Scott Anderson and the other guides from Montana Fishing Company, loaded our gear into their trucks and drove a few miles upriver to Holter Dam, our launch point.  Holter Dam is a a massive, aging structure measuring 1364 feet long and 124 feet high that, as one might imagine, presented quite an obstacle for Lewis and Clark and their men as they pushed up the mighty Missouri River in the spring of 1805.  But I digress, back to present day…the current powers-that-be that manage the water coming over Holter Dam had been busily reducing the flows from 11,000 CFS the day before, to 5,000 CFS the day we fished. We anticipated that this would be a good thing, and the water was running clear and cold as we boarded our vessels for the day. We’d drawn numbers the night before to determine who would fish with whom, and the results were that Jimmy and Morris would share a boat, as would Marck and Nash.

Team Jimmy and Morris.

Team Nash and Marck.

Goose drew the unlucky number and was paired with yours truly. We carefully took note of the very important information clearly displayed on the sign at the launch and mentally prepared ourselves for a day of fishing. 8,000 fish per mile: surely a couple would offer themselves up for the catching. Undoubtedly Marck would catch at least 4,000 of them. We set off for the day under partly cloudy skies, pleasant temperatures, and no w#nd. Yet.

The sign.

That’s not the Great Falls of the MO in the background.

With Holter Dam still in view behind us, fish began to fall for the scuds that dangled beneath indicators and split shot. Goose was first on the board in our boat. He was also second on the board in our boat. I was down 2-0 before I knew what had happened. Then I reminded myself that Goose and I were on the same team. Now before you roll your eyes and proclaim that fly fishing is a leisurely activity intended for pure enjoyment and not meant to be a competition, keep in mind that we had three boats. It wasn’t important that any particular boat caught more fish than another, as long as you weren’t in the boat that caught the least.

Goose enjoys the first bent rod of the day…

…and pulls to an early lead.

Another beauty for Goose.

After an enjoyable morning we broke for a shoreside lunch and compared notes: none of the 3 boats were slaying fish, but all had caught some.

Lunch break.

Drifting with the lazy, often swirling current, we saw hundreds of large fish sunning themselves in the shallows as we floated overhead. The Missouri really was living up to its billing as large spring creek with an abundant insane trout population. Despite that it isn’t really a spring creek, it fished like one: in spring creeks the fish are not very often easy to catch.  We confirmed this later in the day when our boat anchored up on a large pod of rising fish, just about the time the w#nd started to pick up. We must have seen 30-40 noses sipping small mayflies at any given time, and many appeared to be rather large fish.  Goose was first to take a turn on the one boat rod that was pre-rigged for dries. As he wiped sweat from his brow he declared that he’d only ever caught one fish on a dry fly. After three casts—casts that may have lacked finesse and delicate presentation thanks to some annoying gusts— Goose could no longer say that he’d only ever caught one fish on a dry fly. The fish ran downstream like a freight train, taking line to the backing. These Missouri fish certainly proved strong…especially when ass-hooked.

Goose’s second ever fish on a dry fly!

After Goose made it look so easy, it was my turn. Now bear in mind I’ve caught a few more fish on a dry fly than my teammate, so I fully expected that it wouldn’t take 3 casts before I got a fish to take my expertly presented fly. “When you see the fish take the fly, count to 3 before you set the hook,” was the advice of our guide, Scott Anderson. That’s easier said than done, particularly when your nerves are shot from 20-30 casts, made between strong gusts of w#nd, to large rising fish that want it placed right on their nose with no drag. I finally got it right and the result was a beautiful Missouri hen, a fish I felt I had really earned. My nerves were shot, my casting arm spent.

My 1st fish on a dry fly on the Missouri, with Scott Anderson

We were about to pull anchor when it happened again. I may have been hard to live with for the next few minutes.

The insufferable UA with another fish on the dry.

Distracted by the rising fish, we’d lost over an hour and it was decided that we needed to make some fast time in order to catch up with the other two boats. By now the w#nd was really started to rear its ugly head, and we pushed through a lot of slow water without really fishing much. No worries, we’d caught some fish nice already.

Another for Goose.

First caught, then released.

And another…

We did finally catch up with the other boats, and while they hadn’t enjoyed the dry fly fishing we had, they’d been catching a few fish and hopefully having a good time. There was an uneasy tension in the air as we approached and asked how everyone had been doing. Answers were vague.

Are Jimmy and Trevor having fun yet?

Morris relaxes with a nice Missouri rainbow.

Goose and I had been a well-oiled machine for most of the day and had even enjoyed a double on nice rainbows. That’s teamwork, folks. We were in it to win it.

Double rainbows…what does it mean?

Craig, MT

By the time we got off the water that evening at Craig, the Missouri had partially flexed its muscles by offering up some pretty serious w#nd—not the stuff that legends are made of, mind you, but enough to make a person realize what it’s capable of. I’m fairly sure I’d rather not experience the Missouri’s full potential if given a choice. We were also not heart-broken to have dodged a thunderstorm which had been threatening for the last hour of the day.

Storm brewing.

All in all it was a fine day on the water, and everything I’d hoped it would be—and less. The river was not crowded. I imagine that in another month we wouldn’t be able to say that. We drove off into the setting sun en route to Missoula where we spent our last night. The next morning The Firehole Rangers headed west, taking a more direct route than the Corps of Discovery had done 209 years before us. I still don’t understand why Lewis and Clark continued south, then west over Lolo Pass. I-90 is so much faster.

Oh, and lest one should forget about the score at the end of the day, the tally went something like this:

Morris: “A little less than 10, but I don’t count fish. A couple whites. Are there browns in that water? I think I may have caught one.” (His words, not mine)
Jimmy: 5 rainbows

Nash: 3 rainbows and one 20″ whitey
Marck: 3 rainbows, one golden bone and one whitey

Goose: 5 rainbows
UA: 4 rainbows

By my reckoning, Team Goose/UA won, because Morris doesn’t count fish and cannot be relied on for the truth. And we didn’t catch any trash fish caught only trouts.

As we’ve done since 2009, part of the annual Firehole Ranger pilgrimage is a stop along the way back west to visit the fish of the Madison River near Three Dollar Bridge. Prior to arriving this year, if I had a dollar for every fish I’d caught on the Madison at Three Dollar Bridge, I’d have $4. That’s right: 5 years, 4 fish. Which means exactly what it looks like it means: The Madison is not kind to me. My best year was in 2011 when I managed to scratch out 2 fish. Marck is the only one who truly thrives on this river this time of year and quite frankly I feel a mutiny is in order. In two short years Morris seems to be have quickly found some love in the Madison, but he just does what Marck does, so Morris doesn’t count. We could drive a short distance south to Island Park, Idaho, and fish the salmonfly hatch on the the Henry’s Fork.  I’m pretty sure we’d all enjoy increased catching if we went just about anywhere other than the Madison.

Gearing up under the promise of a fair weather day.

At least this year, even if the fishing turned out to be poor, the weather was unseasonably good. Or, maybe it was seasonably good. We’re usually there as week earlier and the weather tends be rather hit-and-miss. The mountains had less snow than they normally do, which is not to suggest that the snowpack had been light: it hadn’t. But the melt came early and fast, as evidenced by the all the rivers in the vicinity and the Madison itself. It was running as high as we’d seen it before, and it was off-color. That being said, it had come down and cleared a bit in the 3 days since we’d driven past on our way to West Yellowstone. Despite unsavory appearances we knew there were fish in the river that needed to eat. Convincing them to take our offerings would be the challenge.

The Firehole Rangers at Three Dollar Bridge.

Despite my past issues with the Madison, I approached the day with a ‘can-do’ attitude: whatever had happened in the past was water under the bridge. With an outlook as sunny as the day, Jimmy and I headed upstream about 3/4 of a mile and began fishing down. Marck, Morris and Nash crossed the bridge and headed upriver on the opposite bank. Goose set up operations downstream a ways nearest the bridge. With the river flows being what they were, the fish would likely be tucked in tight to the bank, which meant fishing right in front of our toes—no casting, per se. Just flipping out some line, mending, mending, mending and watching the indicator for any subtle shift in position. And mending. Rigged with an indicator above a Turd (Pat’s Rubber Legs) with an MK Flies Hula Worm (it may have many unofficial names) dropper, I proceeded to work slots of water broken by large boulders.

The Delectable Worm/Aloha Worm/Hula Worm tied by Aileen Lane.

I’d done this many times before: watch the indicator for any subtle change in position, micro mend repeatedly and —BAM! Well, perhaps not quite a violent take, but I had a fish on: a 12-ish inch brown with very little fight in him due to the icy run-off, but a fish nonetheless. An early fish, too, as I’d only been fishing for 10 minutes.  Normally the early fish gets the worm, but this one took the Turd.  This gave cause for hope and enthusiasm.

First fish of the day.

As I angled on I noted that Jimmy had gotten into an early fish as well. I stepped methodically downstream, doing more of the same that had gotten me into the first fish. When I happened to take my eyes off my indicator to look around I could see Marck with a fish on (no surprise there). Morris, who was following close behind Marck like an abandoned puppy, also enjoyed a bent rod.  I had no idea where Nash was, but assumed he was into fish as well. While Goose finds the Madison equally as frustrating as I do, he always catches at least one fish and I was confident that he would do so. A sense of calm swept over me as I considered the very real likelihood that everyone would avoid a skunk on this day.

Across the river, Morris is into another of his ~20 fish.

Over and over I’ve tried to decipher the secret code needed to crack the Madison’s vault. We all fish it the same way, every year, and the results are that Marck always catches WAY more fish than anyone else. I usually catch the fewest. What advantage does Marck have that I, and the others, don’t?  Besides a much higher view of the water, and cologne that smells like Powerbait, nothing comes quickly to mind. What does he do that I don’t? I’d determined that he sets the hook EVERY time the indicator shifts position, whereas I have a tendency to dismiss subtle movements as shifting currents, and sticks. I decided on this day that I would consider every movement of the indicator to be a fish, and set the hook incessantly. The result was another fish shortly after the first fish. This one was a much more respectably-sized rainbow that had been lying in a seam a few feet off the bank, right where a trout should have been. It took the Hula Worm and gave a much better fight.

Second fish of the day on the Hula Worm.

Two fish! To what did I owe my good fortunes?! I’d equaled my best day on the Madison and had only been on the water for 30 minutes. As I proceeded to fish downstream, I did so with a certain confidence I’d never had before on this river. To say that I had a swagger would be a stretch—after years of demoralizing hardship, one does not develop a swagger so quickly. But things were going my way: not only was I catching fish, but I wasn’t losing flies on the countless snags! My confidence skyrocketed. On my next drift I hooked a fish that immediately ran toward the fast current and peeled line before snapping me off. I rationalized that it was OK to lose flies that way. Certainly that would have been the best fish of the day—perhaps the best fish ever caught by any of the Firehole Rangers on the Madison. I had plenty of Turds left in the fly box, and 4 more Hula Worms. I needn’t worry about running out of ammunition.

I did continue to catch fish, but nothing to write home about. On the Madison a 12 inch fish seems a bit like a Participant’s Ribbon, and while I was grateful to have caught 6 fish by the time I broke for lunch, only two fish (both rainbows) approached the 16 inch mark; the others were more diminutive browns that would have been right at home in the Firehole where 10-12 inchers are all the rage. During our lunch break Jimmy reported that he’d caught a few fish and Goose groused about having scratched out just a couple.  After lunch I crossed the bridge and headed upstream along the opposite bank. I ran into Marck, who was returning from a morning of slaying fish. He asked what I’d been using and I showed him the Hula Worms. He asked if I might spare him one. Of course I obliged—I still had 3 left.

As I began the task of trying to continue the good fortune of the morning, I rapidly began a downward spiral. The section I was fishing tends to fish better because it has more structure. It also tends to steal more flies because it has more structure. At one point I decided to step into the river to see about retrieving a snagged rig, and as I set foot into the water I spooked a good sized fish out of the hole and was unable to retrieve the flies. Salt in the wound. It wasn’t long before I’d lost the last of my Hula Worms. Any confidence I may have had quickly eroded like a clay bank being eaten away by a river’s raging torrent. My attitude plummeted as I seemed incapable of doing anything right. I did hook into a fish that quickly dispatched of me. This time I was unable to rationalize that loosing more flies—even this way—was acceptable. After that I cursed to anyone within earshot, reeled in my flyless leader and began to hike back to the parking lot. Along the way I stopped to watch an Osprey returning to its nest after an unsuccessful go at fishing. Misery loves company.

The Osprey returns…

Unaccomplished.

As I walked the meandering mile back to where I knew a cooler of cold PBR awaited. The weather had heated to the point where ‘breathable waders’ proved to be an oxymoron. I was not only defeated, I was hot, sweaty and defeated. Trudging through the sagebrush I reflected on the day that had been so good in the morning, and so filled with despair in the afternoon. I’d caught more fish than ever before on the Madison, but I was also reminded of just how cruel she can be. I decided to take the moral high road and remember the good while forsaking the bad.

And next year I vote for the Henry’s Fork instead.

Opposing bannks: The Yin & the Yang of the Madison River.

This is part 2 of a 3 part series, sort of. You don’t have to read part one or part three if you don’t want to.

The annual trip to Yellowstone is in the books, and while there’s much that I could write about the trip, hardly anyone reads the Drivel®. Conversely, nearly everyone likes pictures. So, rather than hunker down and scribe a plethora of words that will fall on deaf eyes, I’ve made the decision to tell about this year’s trip mostly in photos, with little emphasis on words. So, with the promise of many photos, let’s begin with a few words:

We fished a week later than we normally do. Turns out that was a good thing because opening weekend found the Firehole high and the fishing tough. Just ask Goose. He was there on opening weekend. He worked hard for 5 fish. He was also with us a week later, and he didn’t work very hard for a hell of a lot more than 5 fish. Overall the catching may have been a bit off the normal pace, but it wasn’t anything to complain about.

We arrived at the Ho Hum in West Yellowstone under sunny skies and warm temperatures. We held a meeting to discuss our plans.

Planning conference at the Ho Hum.

We also saw some cats. We always see cats.

The Ho Hum is home to many.

On Day One we were the only people in the parking lot at Midway Geyser Basin with intentions to fish. There was one other car. I’m not sure what their intentions were, but they weren’t there to fish. Usually the parking lot is choked with cars and tours buses: many there to tour; many there to fish. We geared up as it began to rain lightly. It often rains. But at least it wasn’t cold. It’s often cold.

Only the Rangers were there to fish.

As the rain picked up, we took refuge under a tree and continued the gearing up process.

A tree and a couple of Rangers.

As we always do, we posed for a group photo before mounting our assault on the fish of the Firehole.

Firehole Rangers 2014

We heard thunder approaching as we began our forced march. As we neared the river, the thunder neared us. There was lightning. We decided that waving graphite sticks in the air wasn’t perhaps a wise thing to do in Yellowstone when an electrical storm is brewing. Marck is usually very brave. He was not so brave this time. He retreated. We followed him.

The Rangers pull back.

We waited out the storm in the confines of Mrs. Morris’ minivan. It was the picture of manliness: Five Rangers in a minivan, seeking shelter from the raging storm. The storm passed within a few minutes, which was a good thing. Five men in a minivan after having consumed a breakfast at McDonald’s is not often a pleasant thing. We were relieved when it was safe to go outside.

The storm raged outside.

Shortly thereafter we were on the water, and into fish.

Jimmy with the first fish of the day.

As the day wore on, the weather improved. The fishing continued to be something nobody would complain about.

Morris enjoys a lack of rain.

Goose was happy to note that the fishing had improved greatly over the previous weekend.

The face of a man who caught only 5 fish on opening day.

Marck, who was not brave when it came to the thunder and lightning earlier in the day, bravely fished past a bachelor group of bison.

Fishes with Tatanka.

By mid day, the weather was downright pleasant and anyone who had failed to apply sunscreen that morning would come to regret it.

Morris sunning himself on the banks of the Firehole.

We enjoyed the remainder of the day as we fished down to Fountain Flat Drive.

Morris fishing from the banks of the Firehole.

Goose enjoys considerably better fishing than he did a week earlier.

Goose and Morris discuss how well the river was fishing.

Marck pauses between fish to look contemplative for the camera.

Gratuitous Firehole scenery photo.

A Firehole brown.

Ominous dark sky with sunlit landscape.

We did see a few anglers as Day One droned on, but that’s to be expected as we neared our termination point at Fountain Flat Drive. All in all we had most of the river to ourselves. Back at the Ho Hum we held a meeting to talk of the fish caught on Day One, and made plans for Day Two. It rained a bit, which came as no surprise.

Summing up Day One at the Ho Hum.

On Day Two we hiked in from Fountain Flat Drive. We were the only fishermen in the parking lot. Only one other car was there and it belonged to a young couple who, based on their appearances as they walked toward their parked car, had spent the night in the woods. They were carrying blankets and a tarp and little else other than the clothes on their backs: no tents, no backpacks. We speculated as to what it must have been like to spend the night in the wilderness, in the rain, amidst perhaps a large herd of bison. Someone must have lost a bet.  We hiked upriver to our fishing destination, giving a wide berth to a large heard of Bison cows with their calves.

There was a large Bison hatch this year.

There were more Bison this year it seemed. Besides the large, aforementioned herd, we also saw a lively group of young bulls trotting and kicking up their heels. The small groups of old bulls never act this way. Oh, to be young again.

Young bulls.

We caught more fish, but it was considerably slower than the first day. It always is. We got off the water early and did the tourist thing for a short while, stopping to see what most of the people in the park come to see in the Midway Geyser Basin: Excelsior Geyser Crater. It’s pretty impressive. It discharges 4,000 to 4,500 gallons of boiling water into the Firehole each minute. That’s a lot.

Excelsior Geyser Crater. It’s big.

Not surprisingly, Excelsior Geyser is a main attraction and there were no fewer than several busloads of Asian tourists present. Morris posed for a nice photo with one group of young tourists who came to see a geyser and got their picture taken with a geezer.

An old geezer by the geyser.

Tourists must stay on the boardwalk for fear of damaging the fragile thermal crust, or worse: falling through the fragile thermal crust.

Heed the warnings.

One of the many tourists dropped the lens cap to his camera off the boardwalk. There ensued much chaos that included yelling and blame-placing, although in a language I did not understand. Scorn and panic are a universal language. Fortunately nobody was harmed and the lens cap was retrieved.

Grab hold and hope the seam in his pants doesn’t breach.

The drama was captured from two different angles.

That about wrapped up the Firehole for 2014. The next morning we would leave for our next stop along the way: The Madison River at Three Dollar Bridge.

Old Lady Ho Hum

Until next year…

1967

My family has had a place on the shores of Hood Canal since I was 4. It was the summer of 1967 and at that time I was a bit too young to do much fishing, but gradually over the years I branched out with friends who lived there year around and we dabbled in much the way that kids will dabble with fishing: We’d dunk worms under bobbers in the many lakes that dot the hills around the area, and catch diminutive trout fry in the nearby creek (looking back I’m quite sure they were juvenile steelhead and we unknowingly aided in the decimation of the once-robust runs of wild fish). In the salt water we’d drag spinning lures for Shorthorn Sculpin at low tide (we always called them “bullheads” and I still do). When the tide was high we’d use chunks of mussels on a hook dangled at the end of a length of monofilament for small perch (which we called “poagies”) that milled around the pilings of a local community dock. Hand-lining those 4 inch bruisers was great sport.

I was around 11 or 12 when I learned to fly fish. It was a friend of my dad’s—Lloyd Lewis—who was responsible for introducing my brother and I to the fly. Lloyd was a passionate gonzo trout fisherman, and at one time was President of the Overlake Fly Fishing Club. He enjoyed coming to Hood Canal to fish for sea run cutthroat (coastal cutthroat) trout. I recall that he had a blue Ford camper van with a Port-a-Bote strapped to the side. He’d assemble the folding vessel, mount an electric motor on it and troll the shoreline on an incoming tide. I don’t remember any fish specifically, but the catching was apparently quite good because he came back for more of the same on more than one occasion. Since my family spent a great deal of time at Hood Canal while I was growing up I would certainly do a lot of sea run cutthroat fishing over the years, or so I may have assumed when I was 12 years old.

Gradually cars, girls and countless other distractions took precedent over fly fishing, or any type of fishing for that matter. As a teenager and into my early twenties I was much more interested in waterskiing than fishing and spent my Hood Canal aquatic time pursuing that endeavor. When I became a responsible an adult, life got busy and it was many years before I picked up a fly rod again. When I did, I was all-in, and I became gradually more and more financially distraught for my addiction. However, despite having become consumed by fly fishing, I never did go after those sea run cutthroat at Hood Canal. More time was spent fishing inland rivers far away from the salt, and truth be told, I visited Hood Canal less and less over the years.  However, due to a recent turn of events I find myself now responsible for the family cabin, and have been spending more time there, enjoying the simple place of my youth. As of even more recently, I decided to finally go after those sea run cutts, again.

A pond in the woods.

When I packed for our Memorial Day weekend visit to the cabin I wasn’t planning to wet a line in the salt. I did stow my 4 weight rod in the truck so I could steal away a few hours and visit my buddy’s ponds that are filled with trout. It’s something I enjoy doing about once a year, and the fish can be surprisingly finicky so it’s not quite like shooting fish in a barrel. The ponds are teeming with cutthroat and rainbows, stocked many years ago and fairing quite well. But at the end of the day they are pond fish, and while they do get by on natural food for much of the year, they also receive the occasional feed pellet welfare handout. Not quite wild fish. It was my intent to visit these pond monkies until a conversation with a neighbor changed my mind. He’d been catching some nice sea run cutts  on spinning gear: some at low tide and a few at high tide. One was caught right in front of our floating dock. This got me to thinking that perhaps I’d forego my visit to the pond in the woods and try my hand at the salty wild fish. And so after drinking my second cup of coffee on the front deck while watching the tide water recede, I decided to strap on my aging sandals—the crusty, decaying ones that remain at the cabin year-round, and head out. I strung up my rod and grabbed a couple simple streamers. I also grabbed my hemostats and my camera, hoping with little confidence that I’d need either or both. Mrs. UA offered a sarcastically encouraging “Good luck, Opie!” as I trudged a short distance across the muddy tide flats to a spot where a small creek dumps into The River. 

The estuary

The River flows from the low hills through a long gradual valley and enters Hood Canal, forming an estuary where the salt water reaches at high tide. Downstream of the estuary, The River’s channel continues out into the tide flats and only at the low tide mark does the river channel eventually vanish. Even at low tide, the water in the river’s channel is a bit brackish: part salt, part fresh. At low tide the mudflats are a popular stalking ground for Great Blue Herons; at high tide it’s not uncommon to see the occasional Harbor Seal chasing an unknown source of protein. Historically The River was a natal stream for salmon and steelhead: The steelhead are long gone, and the only small runs of Coho and Chum salmon return today.

Low Tide

As I approached my chosen spot, I chased a merganser off its hunting grounds. The bird’s presence was either a good thing, or a bad thing: Good, in that it meant there were bait fish and possibly chum fry, which meant there may also be larger fishy predators present; Bad, in that the bird’s presence may have spooked all fish out of the vicinity.  Armed with a size 12 black bead headed Woolly Bugger, my fist cast swung into the gentle current of the river. It was mid morning under an overcast sky and the water was murky: visibility being perhaps a foot or two at best.

On my first cast the fish slammed my fly with authority and and tried to run. I gave it a bit of line as it lept from the water no fewer than three times before I brought it in: a silver-sided, heavily-spotted, 12 inch sea run cutthroat. It was missing the vibrant throat slashes common to other species of cutthroat, but there was no mistaking what it was. From the distant front porch of the cabin, Mrs. UA could see the action as it unfolded. She yelled something to me across the flats, and although I couldn’t make out exactly what she said, I’m sure it was something like, “You actually caught a fish!” I’ll admit, I was surprised myself.

Exhibit A: 12″ SRC, first of the day

A few minutes later I landed a smaller cutt of about 8 inches, and repeated the same shortly thereafter.  A half hour into my day I hooked a fish that meant business. It hammered the Woolly Bugger like a small freight train and turned downstream toward the salt water, peeling a fair amount of line and jumping a couple of times. I pinched down on the line to apply the the brakes and as I did so I felt felt several violent head shakes. The fish was strong and bent my 4 weight nearly in half. Fortunately I had 3x tippet so I didn’t have to be too careful. I did have a barbless hook, however, so I couldn’t be too careless. The fish was a solid 16″ and as beautiful as the others before it. There would be a 3 more smaller fish for a total of 6 within a span of only 45 minutes. I was delighted with my angling prowess. The Bald Eagle in the tree above me was not—and screeched its outrage at my having not successfully harvested what would have made for a nice meal or two. The eagle flew off in disgust as I secured my fly and headed back to the cabin. Despite the slippery mud, there was an unmistakable skip in my step.

Exhibit B: 16″ SRC

If you ask Mrs. UA, I was probably insufferable the rest of the day. After toiling about the cabin yard  for several hours, we found ourselves once again sitting on the deck, drinking something other than coffee at this point, and staring out at the incoming tide. Still brimming with confidence from the morning’s angling success, I reached for my rod, donned my crusty sandals, and grabbed my hemostats and camera (certain that I would need them this time), and made my way to the water’s edge. The tide was coming in fast and there was more water in the chancel now than there had been earlier in the morning. The water was warmer, too, as is often the case when the exposed tide flats heat up under the sun of the day.

Incoming tide

The incoming tide also tends to bring with it considerable debris such as floating wads of seaweed and eelgrass, which collect on fishing line and fishing hooks with great ease. The day had cleared and there was considerable glare on the water so I opted for a heavier fly this time, tying on a tungsten conehead olive Woolly Bugger. The first cast did not bring with it the same result as it had earlier in the day. Nor did the second or third. As  I glanced over my shoulder I could make out the distant form of Mrs. UA, perched in her red plastic throne on the deck, gesturing as if to say, “Not so easy this time is it, Mr. Big Shot Angler?” I waved, grumbled, stripped line and recast.

On the 5th cast or so—although who was really counting—I struck pay dirt.  The heavy fish grabbed the fly and was immediately pissed-off at its decision to have done so. It jumped once, but spent most of its time under water, pulling. Headshakes were felt down to the cork and the fish ran at will, taking more line than I’ve had a trout take, ever.  I was fairly sure I’d see my backing and probably would have save for the fact that the fish was swimming against the incoming tide, which worked  in my favor.  I was able finally to turn the fish with a doubled-over rod, wishing I’d had my 6 weight instead of the out-gunned 4. It took a while to finally subdue the silver bullet, but when I had it to hand I was surprised that it wasn’t larger than it was: another 15-16 inch fish.  Pound for pound it easily fought harder than any fish I’ve caught.

Exhibit C: Another 16″ SRC

A few more casts yielded no more takes and I doubted I could improve upon the last fish so I skipped back to the cabin, under the watchful and still disapproving eye of the eagle who’d come back to watch me release more perfectly good food.

The Eagle was not impressed

On the many rivers I’ve fished over the years, across and beyond the state and hundreds of miles from home, rarely have I encountered as many hard-fighting fish. Sometimes the best fishing is right under your nose. In my case it only took 40 years to realize this.

2014

Washington’s Olympic Peninsula is home to rivers that many regard as the last best fishing for wild, native steelhead in the lower 48. To name just a few, the Hoh, Bogachiel, Sol Duc, and Calawah comprise a list of rivers with long traditions of being a mecca for steelhead fishing. The area around Forks is a beautiful, wet, somewhat remote, wet, somewhat unspoiled, wet area that is less than 4 hours from Seattle, including a 30 minute ferry ride. Theses rivers are comparatively short as they flow directly into the Pacific Ocean from headwaters in the coastal Olympic Mountains. Catching a chrome-bright fish is common. Or at least it used to be, so I am told.

When the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife began closing Puget Sound rivers to late season fishing a few years ago, essentially eliminating the best of winter steelhead season, anglers had few choices of locations in which to chase these anadromous rainbow trout. Eastern Washington (inland) rivers, if they happen to remain open late in the season, aren’t quite the same as the rivers of the Olympic Peninsula. Fish in those inland rivers have hundreds of miles to migrate, past several dams on the Columbia River, in order to make their spawning grounds by Spring.  They tend to be smaller than the coastal fish and they’re far from chrome bright by the time they hit their natal streams. And most of them are hatchery fish. By no means are they not fun to catch, but it’s not the same. The inland rivers tend to fish much better in October anyway, while winter steelheading has always been more of a western Washington game. But when WDFW decided to close the Puget Sound rivers early due to depressed fish returns, that began to put more pressure on the Olympic Peninsula rivers. People wanting to pursue wild, winter fish began focusing more and more on the coastal rivers. While I am by no means an avid steelhead fisherman, I’m guilty of jumping on the Forks Bandwagon—at least somewhat.  For the past 4 years in a row, I’ve made a trip to fish the OP. 

Before ever having been to the Forks area to fish, I had a preconceived idea that there were scores of fish in the rivers, and that they would be caught—or at least a few would be. Even if angling unaccomplishments resulted in lost fish, I fully expected several hookups—this was the Olympic Peninsula, after all: Fabled wild steelhead rivers. Free-flowing wild rivers. Fresh fish, still carrying sea lice. Hot, strong, tail-walking torpedos that just hours before were still swimming in the ocean.

With that hope in mind, Schpanky and I embarked on our first trip to the OP in late March, 2011. That first year my buddy and guide, Joe Willauer, took us down the Hoh River where Scphanky caught two nice fish: one early in the day; the other at the take-out. Half-surprisingly, I came home smelling of skunk. I missed a real nice fish, but was glad to see the boy hook up twice so the day was a success in my books. We fished using nymph rigs all day. Fished long, fished hard. Despite the two fish, in my opinion it was a slow day based on my preconceptions. An off day I reckoned. Besides, it’s hard to time things perfectly with only one day to fish in the wettest part of the lower 48 where the rivers can blow out quickly. Perfect conditions are hard to come by unless you fish there a lot. We’d go back the next year and hope that the OP would show us her best, or lat least something better.

Joe and Schpanky, first Hoh River fish 2011

Schpanky and his second Hoh fish, 2011

In late March of the following year we returned to Forks to fish the Bogachiel River with Joe. On this trip we once again nymphed on the go, stopping to swing flies with the Spey rod once—to no avail. While nymphing, Schpanky landed a nice fish and lost a another, while I lost a nice fish and landed a 5 pounder: a colored-up fish that most would call a “trout.” It was slow fishing like the previous year, but we caught fish and at least the river wasn’t blown completely out of shape. So no complaints. Still, I couldn’t help but feel that the OP had to be better. I’d go back the next year and hope to encounter a more productive OP.

Schpanky’s nice Bogachiel fish, 2012

My Bogachiel “Participant’s Fish”, 2012

The third year was a total bust for me, but it wasn’t the fault of the rivers or the fish. A strong reaction to a tetanus shot I’d received the day before saw to it that I spent the entire first day hunched over in the back seat of Large Albacore’s raft with a left arm that I couldn’t move. I’ve never felt worse in my life—couldn’t even muster the gumption to pick up a fly rod all day long. Neither Large nor Junior Albacore had so much as a bump that day either. On day two, still suffering from flu-like symptoms so, I ran the morning shuttle for the Brothers before calling it quits. I drove home, cursing my doctor the entire way. After two more days of fishing, the brothers Albacore reported that neither had touched a fish. No bumps, no lost fish. Nothing. And the weather had been uncharacteristically perfect; the Bogachiel was in great shape, just lacking fish despite that the Brothers covering a lot of water with nymph rigs and Spey rods. It was, once again, late March. I began to wonder if this was normal.

Don’t get a tetanus shot the day before a fishing trip

The Brothers Albacore, 2013

After that fateful 3rd year I reasoned that it couldn’t possibly get worse so this year I went back, again in late March. This time I joined the Brothers Albacore and their Pappy Albacore. We fished the Bogachiel River, again. On the first day the river was a bit high and chocolate-colored from heavy rains. Despite the appearance, the river actually gave up a nice chrome hen to Large Albacore’s swung fly. I was fortunate to be there wielding the net. It had been a long time since I’d seen an OP steelhead—I’d almost forgotten what they look like. Relieved to get the skunk off the boat early on day one, we angled on with great hope. However, that was the only steelhead to be landed that day. I did manage a 10 inch coastal cutthroat, but one doesn’t venture to the OP in quest of 10 inch cutthroats. The next day the river was a bit higher, but better-colored. We nymphed, we swung. Not a single bump on day two. Large and Junior each scratched out a 10 inch coastal cutthroat, which we determined was the same fish, and the same fish I’d caught the day before. I had to return home a day early while the Albacores fished a third day. Despite Pappy’s hookup and brief battle, no other fish were hooked. 3 days, 1 fish. It was more productive than the dismal previous year, but the lack of fish willing to play was a tough pill to swallow. I spoke with a WDFW employee conducting creel counts at the end of the second day: a single fish had been reported caught on the lower Bogachiel River.

Large Albacore’s Bogachiel hen, 2014

I’m not going to go into reasons why I think the fishing seems depressed on the OP Rivers. I don’t get out there enough to capitalize on what may be more productive fishing than I’ve experienced, and I am first to acknowledge that catching is never a guarantee on any river, anywhere. But I will tell you that the escapement numbers of returning fish making it into the rivers is down and continuing downward. Make a point to see Shane Anderson’s film, Wild Reverence. Draw your own conclusions. Read Bob Triggs’ blog to hear why he quit guiding for OP steelhead this year.

Will I go back next year?  I won’t say no for sure at this point,  because I greatly enjoy the time spent with good friends. However, despite that my angling prowess insures that my impact is low, it’s starting to feel not right for me to go out there and attempt to harass what seemingly few fish remain.

Something ain’t right.