Forecasting the weather is not completely unlike forecasting whether or not one is going to catch a steelhead when one goes steelhead fishing: neither is a certainty. The difference is that predicting the weather is a whole lot less accurate, because based on my experience it’s safe to assume that when I go steelhead fishing I am not going to catch a steelhead, and I am seldom wrong in that prediction.

Despite the fact that the weather forecasters were calling for the biggest windstorm to hit the Pacific Northwest since the great Columbus Day Storm of 1962, I packed up my gear and headed east for a couple days of steelhead fishing on Idaho’s Clearwater River. I have to admit that I felt a tad bit of remorse leaving I left Mrs. UA behind to fend for herself during what was sure to be a catastrophic weather event. However, before I left I did get the generator ready to go with plenty of fuel and instructions on how to use it. She would be, in her words, “FINE.”

The vast arid country of Central Washington, where it seldom rains much: Still raining.

It was raining steadily when I departed on Thursday morning. The rain increased as I headed east over Snoqualmie Pass, lightened up as I neared Cle Elum, then picked up again and maintained a steady pace all the way across the state of Washington, down the long grade into the Lewiston-Clarkston valley, and another 40-plus or so miles up the Clearwater to the campground known as Pink House. That’s 352 miles without turning off the windshield wipers. Fortunately I had new wiper blades. And I enjoy road trips, especially when I’m going fishing. Just crank up the music and settle in for the long haul.

The Clearwater River in Idaho. Still raining.

The first, and lesser of 2 storms was due to hit western Washington that evening. Friday was a bit of a reprieve before the main storm—the remnants of some damn typhoon in the Pacific that was said to hit the Washington coast Saturday afternoon, with “damaging winds” upwards of 50mph with gusts much higher. The weather forecasters had been talking about this storm for days and things didn’t look very encouraging. My hope was that when—not if—the power was knocked out, Mrs. UA wouldn’t have to endure too long before I returned home. Again, the remorse for having gone fishing gnawed at me, but there was little I could do about it now, other than go fishing.

The Albacore clan had arrived the day before, and Large and Junior were still on the river when I pulled into camp. Their pappy, Papa Albacore, had opted to sit out the afternoon in the comfort of the tent trailer, rather than fishing in the rain that afternoon. When the brothers returned they looked as if they’d been fishing for steelhead in Forks, where it always rains (and seldom gives up fish to the swung fly). I wasn’t surprised to hear that no fish had been encountered that day. As the rain kept a steady beat on the roof of the trailer we enjoyed a delicious supper prepared by Papa, and toasted the fact that tomorrow was a new day.

See that rod on the right? Yeah, well, that wasn’t mine.

The next morning we decided that we would take two separate rigs and meet up at the Holy Waters just a couple miles up the road. Under the cloak of darkness, Spey rods were stowed in their appropriate rod holders and we headed out as a moderately annoying rain continued to fall. When we pulled into the parking area there were two vehicles already there, which meant there was no room at the inn for 4 more anglers. We decided the best thing to do was split up, with each team of 2 fending for themselves in the quest for open water. With that, Junior and Papa pulled out ahead of us and proceeded downstream.

When Large and I arrived at our spot to fish I finally realized that the rod in the holder was not mine, but rather Papa’s. That meant my rod was with the others, so we headed down the road in search of them. We drove for miles without seeing their car, passing up several runs along the way. We were burning daylight and Large Albacore was not happy about the whole matter. When we failed to locate the others we decided the best course of action was to get on the river with what we had, and catch a fish. We pulled into the Gravel Pit, parked the truck and hiked toward the river. Armed with Papa’s rod I waded into the head of a run while Large fished down lower. It took some time getting used to a different rod and line set-up than I was accustomed to, but before too long I was producing adequately functional casts—pretty much what I am capable of, even with my own gear.

Despite that the rain had all but completely ceased, there was no bright sunrise, and thus no need for sunglasses, yet (mine were perched safely atop my hat for later). At least they were safely perched atop my hat until they became dislodged. When the glasses hit the water directly in front of me I instantly lost sight of them. The current wasn’t fast, so I figured I had a pretty good chance of finding them, but the problem was the glare on the water’s surface which made seeing below the surface challenging. If I had only had a pair of polarized sunglasses I very likely would have been able to see my polarized sunglasses as they bounced slowly along the bottom of the water. Despite every effort, I was unable to recover them. That was the second unaccomplishment of the day (the rod snafu being the first) and it wasn’t yet 9AM. Things weren’t playing out the way I had imagined. Neither Large nor I had so much as a bump as we fished through the long run over the course of the next couple hours. We decided to head back upriver to meet with the others for lunch, and along the way we stopped at the Red Shed where, fortunately, Poppy had a pair of sunglasses in stock that fit me well. And he gave me a good deal, which I appreciated. That’s the kind of generous guy he is and what makes the Red Shed stand out as an icon in the Spey community. The future was looking brighter now that I had eye protection, and soon thereafter I would have my own rod back. Cautious optimism ensued.

The legendary Poppy Cummins, and me with my unexpectedly new sunglasses (and retainer strap).

We met up with Junior and Papa for lunch and chuckled about the rod snafu. When I asked Papa how he liked casting a compact Skagit with a sink tip (sink tips are frowned upon this time of year), he responded by saying that he didn’t even know it wasn’t his rod until he’d made a few casts.

My rod, in the hands of Papa Albacore, bends under the pull of a big fish.

I was relieved to learn that my knots had held when Papa hooked and landed a 34″ hatchery hen—the largest fish any of the Albacores had caught in their years on the Clearwater. The only downside to the fish was that, despite being a hatchery brat, it had to be released as this was the last day before the catch and kill season was to begin. It’s a damn shame to have to throw a hatchery fish back.

Papa Albacore with a large B Run brat.

That afternoon Large and I fished the Pleasure Palace, without so much as a sideways glance from a fish. While it felt good to be casting my favorite go-to rod (my Sage Z-Axis 7136) something wasn’t quite right. I noticed that the cork seemed a bit cleaner than it should have been, and when I looked more closely I realized it was my Z-Axis 8134, a rod I seldom fish (thus the clean cork). I was sure I had strung up my 7136 the night before, in the dark, but apparently I had not. Thinking I had grabbed my 7136, I had put the right reel and line on the rod, which meant I was casting my 7 weight line on my 8 weight rod (unaccomplishment #3). Despite the mismatched rod and line, my casts remained adequately functional, but fell short of hooking a fish the rest of the day. Large had no better success despite that he was fishing a floating line matched for his rod. The good news is that the weather had improved throughout the afternoon and it turned out to be a mild, dry day, with enough sunshine to make me glad I had new sunglasses.

Large Albacore, armed with the proper setup, casts in vain to unwilling fish.

That evening back at camp—while there was still daylight—the first thing I did was put the proper reel and line on my 8134 so that on Saturday morning I would be ready to go with the right equipment (I continued to use a sink tip, despite warnings against it). After another fine supper, we were able to enjoy a good campfire, around which we laughed, told lies, and talked of Papa Albacore’s superior angling prowess.  As the fire burned down we rekindled our hope of a more productive next day, and it was decided that we would meet up with our friend from Lewiston, Owl, at a run far downriver that was capable of accommodating all 5 of us.

We arose particularly early the next morning, properly stowed our rods and set off down river to meet up with Owl, who had, by arriving before 4am, secured the run we had hoped to secure at Lower Log Island. It was still very early when we arrived so we stood around for the better part of an hour waiting for darkness to give way to a sunrise, during which time I sold squares of toilet paper for $5 apiece to those in need, my profits nearly paying for the new sunglasses I’d bought the day before. When it finally became light enough, we spread out along the run and waded into the river to begin fishing casting practice once again.

Owl thinks Spey casting is a hoot.

Owl had only taken up the way of the Spey a few months earlier and this was the first time he’d actually fished with anyone besides himself, or his casting instructor. He apologized in advance for his ineptitude with a long rod, but his apologies were unwarranted: it was clear that Owl had received some excellent instruction, as his casting was much better than he gave himself credit for. Now he just needs to get a proper wading jacket to replace the rubber Walmart variety he was wearing. But, all in good time, after all breaking into the two handed casting game is not an altogether inexpensive endeavor. Fortunately the learning curve is long, and by the time one’s casting becomes proficient, one may have forgotten how much they’d spent on gear. Then again, angler types are never done purchasing fishing gear, such as new sunglasses. And running line.

The Z-Axis 8134 now matched with its own reel and line, my casting continued to be functionally adequate, and at times maybe a notch better. However, as I mentioned earlier, this rod has seen very little action since I acquired it 3 years ago. Whether due to having spent too much time coiled up on the reel or simply being a problematic line, the Rio Powerflex Shooting Line was constantly twisting itself, causing problems when trying to shoot line. I’ve never had this problem with my Airflo running lines, so I made a note to purchase a new line when I got home. Fortunately none of the fish were so far out in the river that I couldn’t reach them with short casts. Unfortunately there were no willing fish to be found even within my abbreviated casting distance and after a few hours not one of us had so much as a grab or a bump. We split up and moved on to another run, where neither Owl, Large Albacore nor myself had any better luck. We decided to meet up for lunch with Junior and Papa, who had enjoyed no better success on their second run of the day.

Owl, UA, Junior, Papa, and Large Albacore.

After lunch we moved upriver to another run large enough to accommodate all of us. Unfortunately there weren’t enough fish to accommodate any of us and we came away without a single fish to show for our efforts. Owl had to depart early so we bade farewell and shortly thereafter we decided to head upriver in quest of more water. As we drove, the rain began to fall, lightly at first. We dropped Papa Albacore off at camp before Junior, Large and I headed back out into the rain, which was no longer just falling lightly. At around 4PM we dropped into the Pleasure Palace once again, hoping that a late day fish might be inclined to take pity on us. At this point the trip presented itself with another opportunity to unexpectedly spend more money. My Simms G3 wading jacket, which I’ve had for better than ten years, has always had one feature that I found annoying: the storm flap has a frequent tendency to get caught in the zipper, like a slow moving cow jumping in front of an oncoming train. A mild inconvenience at times, this becomes particularly aggravating at other times, such as when one needs to relieve themselves. As Murphy’s Law would have it, I had to pee and the storm flap wedged itself deeply in the zipper (think “beans above the frank”). It was really stuck this time, and Nature was calling—fast. In my desperation I gave a hard tug and the zipper came free, along with several teeth from the tracks.  My trip had just gotten significantly more expensive, and my casts, continually hindered by the twisted running line, had begun to take on an angry nature. Dogs can sense when their person is angry, and they tend to give a wide berth when this happens. Steelhead can apparently detect the same thing, and their lips remained tightly zipped, unlike my jacket. We called the time of death at around 5:30pm and limped back to camp.

We really were having fun. No, really.

It continued to rain all night and despite that it ceased by the time we ate breakfast on Sunday morning, it was decided that nobody was willing to subject themselves to more punishment on the river so we packed up and departed. About 2/3 of the way home the stereo in the Man Van started developing problems, refusing to play music on my iPhone. Add one more thing to the growing list of unanticipated fly fishing-related expenses, because you can’t have fishing road trips without music. And when it comes to steelhead, the choice of music is the blues.

Oh, and what about the catastrophic windstorm that was to pummel western Washington? Like the steelhead, it didn’t materialize.

The catastrophic windstorm of October 2016

Half of the Firehole Rangers made a quick trip to one of our favorite Idaho panhandle rivers recently. We’ve always fished this river in July, which is considered prime time, but never before this year have we fished it in late September. We were eager to see what this favorite place is like in the Fall, and expectations were cautiously high. The weather didn’t look favorable a week before the trip, but the forecast improved gradually as the departure day approached. Still, the weather cannot be trusted in the mountains that divide Montana and Idaho—we’ve learned that much. The past two years, we’ve had trip-ending rain that blew out camp, and the river. In July. We were hoping that would not be the case this time. Almost without fail, the catching is exceptional in July (until the rain puts the fish down). We knew the river would be lower in the Fall, but we hoped the fish would still be willing.

Here’s a nutshell recount for those who don’t have the attention span to read my typically rather lengthy Drivel®:

• As we pulled into the campground a young cow moose jumped off the road and ran into the woods.
• It rained during the night on Friday.
• In the wee hours of Friday night/Saturday morning we heard an elk bugling as it walked down the road next to camp. Then, it bugled as it walked back the other direction. One does not hear elk bugling in July. Ah, Fall.
• It did not rain the rest of the weekend.
• Saturday it was a cool day in the mid to upper 50’s. The fishing was slow. Fish were tight to the bank. I caught 2 fish all day. Jimmy caught 3, or 4. Morris did considerably better.
• The fish were all tight to the bank, and were mostly 16-18″ and very healthy. Only a couple fish were 12 inches. My net came in handy.
• We saw what must have been the same cow moose we’d seen near camp the day before. She was a couple miles upstream. We would not see her again.
• We had the river entirely to ourselves until just before we reached our terminus point, where we ran into two other anglermen.
• Late in the day I sat down on a particular flat rock at the “Bull Trout Hole“. When I sat down, apparently I knocked my net—attached to my pack via magnetic connection—loose. I did not realize this until we were on the trail back to camp that evening. Damnit. Unless another anglerman picked up the net, it would be there tomorrow, and we saw only one other anglerman in that vicinity—chances are he would not see the net. I rationalized that it should be there the next day.
• Morris prepared our supper that night: spaghetti with sausage meatballs.
• As we sat around the fire on Saturday night there were a gazillion stars overhead.
• It got cold Saturday night. I expected frost to be on the ground Sunday morning.
• Late during the night Jimmy heard what sounded like a herd of elk stampeding up the river—in the river. More bugling ensued.
• On Sunday morning there was no frost on the ground. Despite remaining clear all night, it had warmed up.
• Idaho takes pride in its outdoor recreational facilities. The “outhouse” at our campground is very clean and attended by employees that take pride in their work.
• On Sunday morning we each took advantage of the outhouse. 3 times each. Must’ve been the meatballs.
• The weather warmed up on Sunday, into the 70’s. At one point it was almost warm enough to complain about being too warm. We did not complain.
• The bugs were popping in the warm weather and fish were feeding in the seams and moving to flies. October caddis, black ants, mahoganies…most fish weren’t too finicky. Some were very picky.
• I caught 4-5 fish on Sunday. Jimmy caught a fish or two more than that. Morris caught considerably more although it was all on his word because he moved downstream ahead of us around midday and we never saw him again until we returned to camp that evening. All the fish, save for a couple, were large and vibrantly colored, like the foliage lining the river.
• When I got to The Bull Trout Hole, my net was not there. But a uniquely marked rock cairn indicated that Morris had discovered my net and picked it up. At least I hoped that’s what the cairn indicated.
• We had the entire river to ourselves on Sunday.
• A gazillion stars shone that night as we sat around the last fire of the season.
• On Sunday morning we broke camp and drove home, wishing we had at least one more day to fish.
• 2 days driving: 881 miles
• 2 days fishing: 15 miles hiking/fishing
• A great trip to end the trout season

And now some photos:

Camp, for 3 nights.

The clouds threatened rain but didn’t make good on that threat.

A thick, healthy cutty.

Watch your backcast: Jimmy retrieves his 79 cent fly from the tree while Morris holds his rod.

Young moose on the loose.

Morris the trout slayer.

It’s the Great Pumpkin Caddis, Charlie Brown.

Ample reason to look up from the water.

UA finds a willing playmate.

Jimmy enjoys s casting spot without trees behind him.

Another beautiful Idaho cutty.

Idaho State Forest campground facilities, complete with solar-powered garden lights.

We were thankful that Idaho’s public land employees provide 5 star accommodations.

And another beautiful cutty.

And another chunky gal…

Jimmy, tight to a trout.

UA seeks a cooperative playmate.

A beautiful Fall day draws toward a close.

A Fall scenery shot.

A uniquely-constructed rock cairn hopefully indicated that my net had been recovered.

Another Fall scenery shot.

And another Fall scenery shot.

The last shot of the river on the last day. Not a bad way to end the trout season.

And yes, my net was retrieved.

Next up, a trip to a vastly different Idaho river to not catch steelhead.

This is not a political blog—just noting that Hillary and The Donald were both at a state fair.

Recently I had the occasion to visit the Washington State Fair in Puyallup (pronounced (pew-al-up). This is the grand-daddy of Washington’s state fairs: it runs for nearly the entire month of September and attracts a large and varied lineup of big name entertainment. We were there to see Alan Jackson, who happened to put on a great concert.

Remember when…

I hadn’t been to the Puyallup Fair since I was in high school, which was 35 years ago. I’m not a big fan of state fairs—too much traffic getting to and from, crowds—lines everywhere. Pretty much everything a social recluse like myself loathes. OK, I’m actually not a social recluse, I’d just much rather be wading in a secluded river than wading through crowds of scone-eating fair-goers. I do, however, enjoy observing people, and people watching doesn’t get any better than at state fairs. In fact, that alone is nearly worth the price of admission. But when given a choice, I avoid crowds like the plague. Hell, if not for crowds we wouldn’t have plagues in the first place. But I digress.

When my kids were young we did take them to The Evergreen State Fair in Monroe, WA a few times. You can’t deny kids the childhood experience of visiting a fair, and they certainly enjoyed seeing the animals. And getting jacked up on cotton candy and soda and then going on the rides. I get that part—it’s all  fun (until someone throws up). But what struck me the hardest on this latest trip to a fair was the food. When did state fairs become all about food (and I use the term loosely)?

Actually, fair aficionados will quickly point out that state and county fairs, since their inception in the mid-19th century, have always been about food. Agriculture was at the heart of the matter and livestock judging was a key element to the early days of the fair; something that still exists today. Food, in both its production and enjoyment, has been the centerpiece of fairs from the very beginning: Farmers competing to see who could grow the largest crop specimen; home baked pies and recipe judging. That old chestnut.

If French Fries Were Fat free…

And while I’m not sure that the current culinary offerings are what the early fair attendees would have considered food, consumables are still king: Elephant Ears the size of serving trays; tubs of onion rings; loaves of french fries; corn dogs (called Crusty Pups); and burgers, burgers, burgers—every vendor claims to have the biggest burgers at the fair, and the only way to know for sure is to try them all! If its fried, you can find it at the fair, just don’t expect small portions. Serving sizes, like most of the swines on display in the livestock pavilion, are not dainty.

Nom, nom, nom…

Burgers, Curly Fries, Giant Western Sausage, and more!

And let’s not forget bacon! Bacon maple bars, bacon stuffed burgers, bacon wrapped hot dogs, bacon on a stick, waffle fried bacon. I love bacon, but some of these concoctions sounded a tad disturbing. I’m sure the 4H swine would have agreed with me.

BACON!

BACON!

BACON!

BACON!!!

MORE BACON!!!

It’s Alright to be a Redneck…

But not everything at the fair was typical greasy fried fare—there were some more “exotic” foodstuffs to be found as well. For example, Rabbit-Python Sausage. I didn’t try any, but I did have to wonder how it was made. Was the python ground up and then mixed with ground-up rabbit?  Or was it an incidental sausage whereby the python was in the process of swallowing the rabbit when it was ground up? And who was the first to think of this combination—someone deep in the swamps of Florida?

Two for one?

Where I Come From…

At one point while waiting in another line to get a beer (to wash down the Crusty Pup), I noticed a group of young people who were presenting their passports as identification—clearly an indication that they were from another country. It caused me to ponder, if one were a foreigner visiting the states for the first time, and happened to visit a state fair, can you imagine the thoughts running through their heads?  “So, THIS is America?” I’m not sure if they would be amused or dismayed—probably a bit of both. I know I am.

Walkin’ on the Rocks…

So to put the fair further into the distance in the rear view mirror, I’m heading into the remote Idaho back country in a few days to do a little wading in a freestone mountain river. The surroundings will be about as different from a state fair as one could hope to find. If we’re lucky we may not see another person, and the only lines will hopefully be tight to hungry cutthroat trouts, gorging themselves. Like people at the fair.

And there will be bacon. And beer.

Pop a Top…

Seriously, I found this graphic on the internet.

I recently received an email from a reader. The email said:

Kirk:

Are you guys off fishing? Haven’t seen anything in a while.

Dick

Dick,

Thanks for caring enough to write. To answer your question, no—neither myself nor any of my compadres have been fishing since our trip to Idaho in July. It’s sad, really, to admit that, but for me it was a really busy summer that went by faster than normal. What with the few weekends we have here in the Pacific Northwest (typically we consider summer to encompass July and August, which equates to 8 weekends), summer always goes by fast. But this year seemed more hectic than normal. Weddings, social engagements, a couple weekend day hikes here and there, yadda yadda yadda. All of a sudden, summer was  gone without so much as wetting a line.

The past two years the Rangers have done Fall trips: to Fernie, BC two years ago where we fished the Elk and Michele Creek (read aboot that trip here, here and here); to Columbia Falls,  MT last year to fish the South and Middle Forks of the Flathead (read about that here, here, here, here and here). We were planning to do another trip this Fall, but before we could agree on a destination, Goose, Nash and Marck proclaimed their inability lack of testicular fortitude and dedication to make the trip.

The good news is that Jimmy, Morris and I are headed back to Idaho later this month, and looking forward to seeing one of our favorite places under a different seasonal light. There’ll be a chill in the air—perhaps even frost in the morning. Wet wading will likely be out of the question, the fire danger should be a non-issue so we can gather round a good fire at night, and hopefully the trouts will be eating October caddis. And hopefully no rain like we’ve gotten the past two trips in July. I’ll let you know how it went.

Anyway, I wish you hadn’t had to write and inquire—it means you’re bored and I haven’t been fishing enough.

I’m sorry it it had to come to this.

UA

A dry camp galley.

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).

Tent City.

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.

Fire good.

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.

Day One:

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.

Quite a pleasant day in the Bitterroot Mountains of Idaho.

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.

Marck prospects for willing participants.

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.

One of several fine, Idaho westslope cutthroat 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.

Marck catches more trout as a downstream spectator looks on with envy.

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.

Day Two:

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.

A beautiful morning—perhaps the calm before the storm?

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 enjoyed a rather beautiful day where thunderstorms were 100% guaranteed and 100% absent.

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.

The fish were 100% picky and even more beautiful.

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.

Day Three:

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 forecast called for 60% of this not happening.

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.

An appropriate day for wetting a line.

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.

A penny for my thoughts? These Old Guys Flies are exceptional.

Marck works a small inside seam, and caught several fish, in the rain.

Even a fish out of water was plenty wet. #keepthefishermenwet

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.

A damp camp galley.

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.

Yeah, we were fishing during that steep spike.

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”.

What a difference a day makes.

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.

We were going fishing—of course we had wood.

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.

Moon Pass Road, plenty wide enough for the Man Van.

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.

Climbing toward the top of Moon Pass, looking back toward Wallace.

A fairly accurate assessment and sound advice.

The North Fork of the St. Joe flows below.

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.

One of the tunnels.

Another of the tunnels.

Light at the end of another tunnel.

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.

The Madison River: Beauty and the Skunk?

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.

The Firehole Rangers, showing some leg(s) on the Madison.

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.

A not very hard fighting Madison brown.

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.

Goose: Portrait of a Broken Man.

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.

Look very closely—that’s not a 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.

Getting our grub on.

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.

The big bugs: golden stone on Rock Creek

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.

The bigger bugs: salmonflies on Rock Creek

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.

Jimmy and Goose, desperately hoping to get a fish to rise.

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.

Rock Creek, where the beauty doesn’t suck, but the fishing does.

Did you read Part 1?

There’s no place like Ho-hum.

Some things never change about our annual trip, and that is where we stay in West Yellowstone. And the Ho Hum was still there when Jimmy, Goose and myself pulled into town shortly before 9 P.M. The others had arrived several minutes sooner thanks to Marck’s heavy, deformed right foot that had the accelerator pressed firmly against the floorboards of the Soccer Mom Van. They had already checked in and dealt with the dreaded olfactory overload by the time we rolled in. With the weather being unseasonably sultry, the open windows of the office at the cat motel allowed the aroma to waft lazily across the parking lot, ensuring that we would still get to enjoy the fragrance from afar.

This one came outside for a breather, and to greet us.

As we do every year, we made a couple quick stops to take care of business before eating dinner much too late. The first stop was at the grocery store for tomorrow’s lunch fixin’s and a can of air freshener (for our lavish room). After that it was off to Aarick’s Fly Shop for National Park fishing permits and a few trademark secret weapon flies that always get it done between hatches on the Firehole. Speaking of hatches, the nice weather had resulted in a Tourist Hatch and West Yellowstone was crawling with them. Now, one might argue that the Firehole Rangers are just as guilty as anyone of clogging the Park and West Yellowstone, but we’re not there as tourists: we’re there to fish. There’s a difference—right? And unlike the hoards of foreign tourists, the Rangers have a sense of awareness, personal space, and manners. But I digress. After consuming the too-late supper at the Three Bears restaurant, we retired to the comfort of our lavish rooms for a good night’s slumber. The air freshener would come in handy, repeatedly.

A little air freshener and it was as good as new.

The next morning we rose early, intending to grab coffee and breakfast at McDonald’s (in previous years, the only place open at 6 A.M.). The problem was that the Golden Arches wasn’t open, and in fact, new hours posted on the door indicated that they wouldn’t open until 7:30. SEVEN THIRTY?! The only other joint open for early breakfast wouldn’t open their doors until 6:30. Apparently West Yellowstone doesn’t cater to the early rising angler, which further serves to distance us fishermen types from the other tourists. We skipped breakfast altogether, settling instead for a cup of gas station coffee. Doing without breakfast was undoubtedly a good move since our bellies were still full from the dinner consumed just a few hours prior.

The Firehole Rangers, 2016

A half hour later we arrived at our starting point somewhere in the Midway Geyser Basin, geared up, and posed for the annual team photo. We were the first rig in the parking lot thanks, likely, to the fact that the tourists were all back in West Yellowstone waiting for breakfast to be served. There was a chill in the air, but the low fog was already giving way to blue skies and the promise of yet another beautiful day of fishing. We’ve had some interesting weather fluctuations in the past, and have fished in every kind of weather imaginable on the Firehole. Until 3 years ago we had always fished the Park on opening weekend (the Saturday of Memorial Day weekend). While a week can certainly make a big difference in the high country of Yellowstone, the weather is reliably schizophrenic and we never know what we’ll encounter until we get there. Even then it can change from hour to hour. The safe assumption is that the worse the weather, the better the catching. I’ll take sun and blue skies over the polar opposite, any day.

What a difference a week (and fours years) can make.

We strode off into the lifting fog toward the crown jewel of our annual trip: the Firehole River. Arriving at its banks we quickly noted that the flow was as low as we’d ever seen it. A quick temperature reading indicated that the water was still an acceptably cool 54°F (if you’re looking for celsius you’ll have to go to Canada). The flows had been low the previous year, but with the unseasonably warm Spring of 2015, the water temperature had also been also been 70°F.  The result last year was the slowest day on the Firehole I had ever encountered. This year the spring weather had been much cooler (until our arrival) and things appeared to be on a better track this year as I hooked my first fish on the 2nd cast (by compasison it took an additional 30 casts before last year’s first fish was landed). The first fish of 2016 was a hard fighting 10 inch brown (same as last year). The next hour resulted in a couple more fish, but nothing like the glory years when double digits were caught in the first hour. Working our way downstream, the catch rate was well off the average pace for everyone, including the Firehole Master Ranger himself, Marck. I managed to land a few more 10 inch browns and a similar sized rainbow or two. Each fish put a smile on my face; pound for pound these Firehole fish fight as hard as any trout anywhere and they’re a lot of fun on a 3 weight rod.

When the pace of our downstream progress is slow it can be always attributed to really good catching. And there have been many years when posting up on a run for an hour and steadily catching fish was not uncommon. That said, we pushed downstream at a much quicker pace this year. Jimmy and I had talked of the need to slow down and remind ourselves to enjoy simply being there in such a beautiful place, and not get caught up in the rapid pace of fishing.

The beauty of the Firehole.

That wasn’t a problem this year—at least not the pace of the fishing. But slowing down didn’t do anything the speed up the catching: it remained slow throughout the day, though not as slow as last year when the fish total for the UA was 3 fish. I managed to quadruple that number this year, but the real telltale sign of the day’s slow catching was Marck: He normally catches an average of 173 fish on the Firehole; this year he caught around 20 (unthinkable!). But misery loves company, and everyone was well off their average. We won’t even talk about Nash’s day.

Another thing missing this year was the bison. We normally see at least a couple small groups of animals along the way; sometimes large herds. This year we saw one lone bull briefly along the river the entire day. Also missing were the typical crowds of angling folks that we typically encounter as we approach the lower part of the river. We saw perhaps a half dozen other angler folks all day, including a couple groups of beginners who were receiving guided lessons on how to not catch fish on the Firehole.

No tourists were seen falling into thermal pools.

Most of us were back at the rigs drowning our sorrows well before the agreed-upon rendezvous time of 2:30. We shared our relatively meager catch rates and Nash nearly wept as Goose strutted in last, his chest puffed out as he announced that he had landed 8 out of 13 fish hooked.

The downtrodden, basking in the glory of a beautifully slow day of catching.

Nash (aka Tadongka) reflects on the lack of catching.

On the drive back to West Yellowstone we saw another lone bison, along the side of the road. The bull appeared lost, and hot, so naturally we loaded him into the back seat of Morris’s Soccer Mom Van and took him a Bison-Cooling Facility.

Poor little fella…

Our good deed done, it was declared that the Rangers were also done with the Firehole and would not be fishing it the next day. We spent one more fragrant night at the Ho-Hum before departing the next morning for the next leg our our trip. Before doing so, however, we demolished a motherlode of food, and perhaps a few too many beers, at Wild West Pizza, where it’s not always clear to everyone which restroom to use.

Gender identity confusion, or too many beers?

Up next, Part 3: Would the Madison deliver a kick to the nuts again, this year?