This is Part 5, which follows Parts 1, 2, 3 and 4 (which I believe were collectively read by only one person: Howard Levett of Windknots & Tangled Lines —thanks, Howie).

So the Firehole Rangers finally found ourselves in Columbia Falls, Montana, faced with the long-awaited opportunity to fish the Middle Fork of the Flathead River.

It all began with an online auction to benefit Casting 4 a Cure. I wasn’t able to make it to their annual fundraising event in Victor, Idaho, this year, but I wanted to do my small part to help support this great organization. One particular auction item caught my eye: a one-day, guided trip with Glacier Anglers guide and TroutTV co-host Hilary Hutcheson. Before entering my bid I put out a group email to the Firehole Rangers and suggested we take a September trip to the Flathead Valley of northwest Montana. We had been pondering where to go for the last Ranger excursion of the year and since none of us had ever fished the area around Glacier National Park my suggestion earned collective approval.

With that I threw my hat into the ring and, for several days, enjoyed the peaceful confidence that accompanies a lack of bidding competition. Being that this was a fundraiser I was disappointed that there wasn’t more interest in the float trip. On the other hand I was pretty stoked that I might be able to pick this trip up for less than retail. With each passing day that the auction attracted no other bids I began to suffer from bidder’s remorse and wondered if perhaps others knew something I didn’t. Maybe Hilary was all smoke and mirrors—a hack guide—not worth the price of a bid? If that was true, how could I have missed that?

Social media is a strange and interesting facet of today’s society; a ‘place’ where we strike up ‘friendships’ with people whom we’ve never met and may never meet. We get a sense that we kinda know people without really knowing them and that’s pretty much how it was with Hilary. I’d had some limited professional correspondence with her going back a few years as she does some media work for Montana Fly Company, with whom I had an Olive the Woolly Bugger merchandising deal. I had also had a wee bit of personal interaction with her on Facebook and Instagram, but as one might imagine she has lots of Facebook friends and even more Instagram followers (Twitter, too, although I don’t do much on Twitter—in case you hadn’t noticed I tend to be a tad long-winded and Twitter only allows for 140 characters, including spaces, in which to state your message). But I digress. In short, in the fly fishing world, Hilary is a celebrity of sorts: she’s kind of a big deal. I, on the other hand, am just another average joe and a below-average, unaccomplished angler. I’ll certainly never grace the home page of Patagonia, that’s for sure.

Cover girl.

From my social media standpoint Hilary seemed like a good person and I assumed she must be a good angler as well. After all, she does galavant about the West, fishing and filming, with the crew of TroutTV. And despite her busy media schedule she does still find time to guide on her home waters in Glacier country. So why wasn’t anyone else bidding on this trip? My wondering didn’t persist as another anonymous bidder had the nerve to enter into the game.

The NERVE…

Mind you I am not an overly competitive person, I just prefer not to lose. Tension mounted as the auction went back and forth, $25 at a time, until there was only one day left. At that point I decided to put an end to the jousting and dealt a final blow to my anonymous competitor by upping the bid by $50. It was, after all, for a good cause.

After a victory like this I often give pause for reflection as I consider who my competition might have been. For half a second I surmised that it may have been Hilary herself, driving up the bid, trying to discourage me from winning so that she wouldn’t have to fish with me. Could she really be that type of person?  I didn’t want to think so. She doesn’t come across that way in the virtual world and I’ve watched enough episodes of TroutTV to assess that she actually seems to be a rather shy, reserved person engaging personality—some might almost say, fun.

Hilary catches big fish on the Yakima River.

I’ve subscribed to TroutTV for a year or so and I enjoy the episodes (yes, even the ones that feature co-host Rich Birdsell). On three different occasions the show has ventured to Washington to fish the Yakima River. In one episode Rich struggled early but did finally manage to catch some respectable fish. On the other hand, Hilary made it look easy, catching many and sizable trouts both times she was on the Yakima. In one particular episode (which you can watch for free, HERE) she proclaims, as her rod is doubled over, “So. Cool. I love this place! Washington state rules!”

Hilary catches more big fish on the Yakima River.

Right out of the blocks, on another Yakima River episode, Hilary makes short work of a really nice fish (nicer than I’ve caught on the Yakima in many years). “That was kinda easy,” she says. “Can I sign up for the advanced course?”

Oh, puh-lease.

The Yakima River never fishes like that for me, nor for most of the people I know who fish it. I’ve always resented Hilary for marching into Kittitas County, kicking ass and taking names and making it look so easy. I’ve oft wondered if I would ever get a chance to air my grievances in person and now it appeared as though I might finally get my chance.

When it was confirmed that I had won the auction I reached out to Hilary and inquired about possible dates that might be available for the trip. She refused to return my attempts at contacting her  She pretended to know who I was She was very accommodating and booked two more boats with Glacier Anglers. The Firehole Rangers would be floating the Middle Fork Flathead on September 13th.

And I began accepting bribes to determine who would share my boat with Hilary.

Not this Hillary.

Stay tuned for Part 6 in this 6 Part series of Weekly Drivel®. And remember—every time you leave a comment on the blog, a puppy in a third world country escapes starvation. 

Question to those of you reading this: Did you read the previous, related stories first? Because this is technically Part 4, meaning that there are 3 previous, related stories: Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.

The road north: the North Fork Road.

Armed with just enough information to be dangerous, the Firehole Rangers headed out of Columbia Falls on Saturday morning in search of a few spots from which to pursue some cooperative fish on the North Fork of the Flathead River. We were told not to expect big fish in the North Fork, but more fish perhaps than what we might expect in the Middle Fork Flathead (where we would be fishing on Sunday). The North Fork forms the western boundary of Glacier National Park so beauty was in no short supply as we proceeded north on a road that went from paved, to packed and dustless dirt, to very dusty gravel. Despite evidence all around of a large wildfire in the not-so-distant past, the mountains were coming back to life. There’s something particularly awesome about a new forest emerging from blackened devastation. We continued north on the North Fork road until we were 34 miles from the Canadian Border.

Another 34 miles and we’d have found ourselves in Canada.

Our first stop was at Great Northern Flats, where we geared up and spread out up and down the river. That’s the one drawback to fishing with a group of 6 guys: it requires space to accommodate the entire Ranger brigade. It should be noted that we were also joined on this day by Young Bill, the eldest child of Sir Lancelot. Likely you won’t recall, but Lancelot wrote a guest blog HERE at the Unaccomplished Angler years ago, and joined the Rangers on a trip to Yellowstone in 2013. He wasn’t invited back after refusing to never again wear his cantaloupe pink fishing shirt. Ever. Young Bill is not only far better looking than his father, but he’s also a much more agreeable chap and has a much more gender-appropriate sense of fashion. Our young charge was in the early stages of a multi-week trout bum trip, living out of the back of his truck and traveling where the roads took him in quest of new fly fishing waters, before returning to the real world where he will sit behind a desk in a cubicle for the next 40 years of his life (hopefully not).

Young Bill, Nash and myself headed upriver while Jimmy, Morris, Marck and Goose headed downstream. Here the river was broad and shallow with very little interesting-looking water. The streambed was rather uniform and devoid of significantly large rocks to provide likely haunts for fish but I found a current seam that looked better than anything else around. I put a Purple Haze through the run, a 12 inch rainbow came easily, and I was falsely lured into thinking this might be a pretty productive day. Above me, Young Bill also got into an early, small fish. Nash, not so much, despite crossing the river and putting forth an honest effort. In retrospect, by crossing the river, Nash may have actually been fishing within the boundaries of Glacier National Park. If he was, he was doing so without a National Park fishing permit, which is actually not required as it is in Yellowstone, so he was breaking no laws. Which was a good thing because Nash is not the rule breaking type.

North Fork of the Flathead

I left Young Bill and Nash behind as I moved downstream, changing flies occasionally, and wondering where the rest of the fish were. To make a long story short, I fished a long ways and while the day was heating up the fishing was not. By the time I caught up with the others I was in full despair mode.  They hadn’t been doing much better, although Marck had managed a few small fish out of a particular spot. Overall the catching was sparse. We all met back at the white vans and agreed to drive back down river to another couple of recommended spots.

Beauty, but no fish.

Jimmy and I stopped along the way and surveyed the river from various vantage points. It remained broad and shallow, without many bends and very little to no woody debris structure. Runoff here is obviously a major scouring event and any logs that get caught up in the current must get washed far downstream. We passed up a few places and decided to make our last stop at Glacier Rim. We were not the only ones to stop at there—the launch access was busy with non-anglers frolicking on the riverbank. we waded upstream a ways to get away from the crowds and fished for about an hour without so much as a bump from fish. Jimmy vanished—I had no idea where he went off to—so I kept fishing, trying to make something happen. I fished a small streamer and various dry patterns. I finally managed a rather unimpressive 10 inch fish before deciding that it was too damn hot to be walking around in waders. I headed back to the Man Van and that’s where I encountered Jimmy, sprawled on the gravel taking a nap in the shade. He had caught so many fish that he was spent, had called it quits earlier. We groused over the lack of fish and decided to head back to the porch at the Glacier Inn, where cold beer awaited.

Within an hour or so the Rangers rolled up. They had found a spot where the fishing had improved a bit, particularly for Marck. Young Bill had not caught another fish after his first of the day. He remained rather quiet, his traumatic experience on the North Fork evidenced by his 100-yard stare that persisted well into the evening and even through dinner at the Glacier Grill and Pizza.

The 100 Yard Stare of Despair

Young Bill would be departing early the next morning for Canada where he planned to fish the Elk River and a small tributary where we assured him he would catch nice fish. Based on Instagram photos he posted, Canada welcomed Young Bill with open arms and fish that are as agreeable as its citizens. I’m sure he got over this North Fork Flathead rogering rather quickly.

Not the North Fork of the Flathead.

The Rangers would be finally fishing the Middle Fork of the Flathead the next morning. It was the reason we were here, and our expectations were high. The Middle Fork had to be more welcoming than its little brother to the northwest had been. It just had to be. If not, we were close enough to Canada that we might catch up with Young Bill.

Although not labeled Part 3, this really is a continuation of the previous 2 stories. And while Part 1 and Part 2 require that each be read (in proper succession) in order to gain a full appreciation for the whole story, one could theoretically read Part 3 without having read parts 1 and 2.

After our slight error in judgment on what should have been the Thompson River Road, Jimmy and I arrived in Columbia Falls at around 3:30 PM and checked into our lavish suite at the Glacier Inn Motel. Not long after our arrival the remainder of the Firehole Ranger detachment stormed into town. There were now two white vans marking our positions. Marck, Morris, Nash, Goose, Jimmy and I were all gathered here on this day to ultimately fish the Middle Fork of the Flathead on Sunday. Between now and then we had a day to kill on the North Fork of the Flathead River.

The first order of business was to stop by Larry’s Lary’s Fly & Supply for some river information and flies. Per instructions by the shop’s owner (with whom we would be fishing on Sunday) we found Lary’s in the corner of an old brick building in the heart of downtown Columbia Falls. We were a bit surprised to discover the shop locked up and dark but we reasoned that it was late on a Friday afternoon and the shop had probably closed early for a staff meeting or something like that. With our noses pressed against the window we peered inside: Lary’s appeared to be well-stocked despite its diminutive size and, aside from what you’d expect to find in a fly shop, one could also purchase Salomon trail running shoes if one were so inclined. I won’t say whether or not we would have been so inclined as to purchase said trail running shoes, but had the shop been open who knows what we may have bought?

This is not Larry’s Fly & Supply

Right next door, astonishingly, was the office of Outside Media, which also appeared to be closed for the week. Outside Media is co-owned by Shane and Hilary Hutcheson. Outside Media sponsors TroutTV, of which Hilary is a co-host. Hilary is also the proprietor of Lary’s Fly and Supply.  It was all becoming very clear now: the Hutchesons are like the First Family of Columbia Falls. If not that they are at the very least a pretty big deal on this block of Nucleus Avenue.

The offices of Outside Media, and home base for TroutTV

Despite the lack of new trail running shoes the next order of business was to run around town in search of a place for Goose to get his Montana fishing license (the rest of us had previously purchased annual licenses earlier in the year). We stopped by the next closest fly shop in town and although we were unable to purchase a license at Arend’s Fly Shop, we were able to gather some intel on the North Fork of the Flathead River, which we would be fishing the next day. We also dropped some coin and picked up a few flies while in the shop (it’s the right thing to do when requesting free information on where to fish). While perusing the selection of different flies and discussing what weight tippet to fish with, Goose may have mentioned that he couldn’t cast worth a shit. The result of that comment was a 5 minute lesson on the parking lot casting pond.

Goose gets some coddling and a casting lesson.

We were finally able to track down a fishing license for our newly-certified master caster at the local grocery store. Since the grocery store also sold beer it seemed a prudent thing to pick up more. Content with out supplies we headed back to the Glacier Inn for happy hour on the front porch. We were happy to be in Montana again.

There’s more to fishing than actually fishing.

Dinner followed at The Back Room of the Night Owl restaurant (tasty food, by the way), after which, like moths drawn to porch lights, we returned to the porch of the motel. It was a beautiful, warm evening in Glacier country as we sat around pondering Goose’s curious lack of leg hair. It’s always a good time Nobody is safe from ridicule at a Ranger rendezvous.

Almost like sitting around a campfire.

Later that evening we were graciously joined by Shane Hutcheson and a half gallon of R&R whiskey. Having not previously met Shane, it was a pleasure to shoot the bull with him and learn about the area we’d be fishing the next two days. He’s quite the likeable fellow and we wondered if perhaps we might swap him for one of our guides in particular on Sunday. Unfortunately Shane had weekend commitments that prevented him from doing so, but he cautiously wished us well with regard to one guide in particular. The porch session could have gone on all night but we had fish to catch the next morning and Shane had a roof to replace. We bade Shane farewell as he walked off toward his nearby home, under the cloak of darkness, cradling an empty bottle of R&R.

Actually I’m kidding about the empty whiskey bottle: it wasn’t anywhere near empty. The same may not have been said about the bottle of Pendleton. I may be kidding about that, too.

Next up, a  day on the North Fork of the Flathead.

As is often the case here, at the long-winded Unaccomplished Angler, this is a continuation of Part 1. It is always recommended that readers indulge themselves in the first story first. Ultimately, however, that is your choice.

We awoke moderately early the next day, dressed in shorts and puffy jackets, and cooked breakfast in the chill of the morning. Cold? No, but Fall was definitely in the air. We made short work of our meal, stowed gear in the Man Van, and bade farewell to the longest picnic table we’d ever had the pleasure of sharing camp with.

We once again hit what we assumed to be the Thompson River Road and headed upstream in quest of some fishy looking water. The road had turned to gravel shortly after leaving camp so we were confident that we were on the right path. On the opposite side of the river, which was no more than 20 feet wide in most spots, was another road. In our pre-trip planning we had read that there are two roads that parallel the Thompson so our confidence, that we were where we were supposed to be, soared.

We saw plenty of decent looking water but continued a few miles until we came to a bend in the river where the sunlight was just beginning to hit the river. We donned our waders, strung up our rods (I’d opted for my 3 weight) and hopped down the bank to the edge of the river. The water temp hovered just below 60 degrees and it took a good while before the fish would move to a dry fly. Jimmy and I each managed a single fish from this first run: mine was a healthy rainbow in the 12 inch range; Jimmy’s a bit smaller. We decided that we wouldn’t spend too much time in any one spot because we had another 40+ miles of river and road ahead of us: we could milk that much water all day long. And since we knew we were on the right road we had nothing to do but drive, stop, fish, and repeat.

We were on the right road, which was actually the left road.

We were the only ones on the Thompson River Road aside from the occasional log truck that kicked up thick plumes of white Montana dust. The road on the opposite side of the river carried a few more vehicles, but nobody seemed to be stopping to fish despite that the other road seemed to more closely follow the river and offer perhaps more ready access. We kept driving and passed by a lot of shallow riffles in quest of some deeper runs. As the mile markers increased, eventually we came to a junction where we found the first indication that we had, indeed, been on the correct road. We stayed our course.

At a point further on we came upon a major fork where the main road appeared to continue mostly straight but slightly to the left; a smaller road veering slightly to the right. Again there were no signs and all research had suggested that once we were on the Thompson River Road that’s where we would remain until we arrived at Highway 2. We hesitated only briefly before determining that the obvious choice was to stay leftish, on the larger of the two roads. The road now began to climb a bit, leaving the river for several miles. The trees grew smaller and the land became more arid, trading a variety of conifers for pines. It didn’t feel quite right, but again, we had to be on the right road. Right?

Internet maps that we’d consulted hadn’t indicated any forks or major junctions, nor was there cell coverage such that we might pull up a map on our phones (note to self: pick up a Montana Gazeteer before the next trip). Onward we proceeded, debating with each passing mile whether or not we should have taken the right fork in the road miles earlier. About the time I began to consider a U-turn, the road dropped into a broad meadow. The river came into view once again, but it had completely changed personalities since last we’d laid eyes on it: instead of a gently tumbling freestoner, here it resembled a meandering spring creek, lined by tall grassy banks with nary a gradient. We pulled off the road to survey the water’s glassy surface and immediately spied the rise forms from a nice fish on the opposite bank. That was all we needed to give it a shot.

The Thompson River takes on a whole new personality.

Jimmy hopped into the water and slowly waded downstream. He kicked up clouds of silty mud and spooked several large fish in the 15 inch range that darted from beneath a sunken branch. I walked along the bank until I came to a spot where it looked as though I might have a decent perch from which to cast toward where we’d seen the rising fish. Just one. More. Step. It was a bad decision that would have been disastrous had the water been another foot deeper. Fortunately the water was only 4 feet deep where my foot broke through the matted grass that had given the false impression of solid ground. I didn’t go over the top of my waders and climbed back out on the bank with only a minor blow to my ego. It didn’t take an intelligent person to know that any fish within close proximity were now on high alert: the Unaccomplished Angler was in town.

We’d each done a pretty respectable job of blowing our chances on this particular hole, so we surveyed the area and realized it was it was going to be very difficult to fish this section of the Thompson River, if it were in fact the Thompson River. I’d read prior to the trip that the Thompson resembles a spring creek in the upper section but had hoped access would be a bit easier. I don’t mind working for a fish, but overhanging grass banks make not only casting very difficult, but landing a fish even more so.

But was it even the Thompson River?

By now it was getting pretty warm—too warm to be slogging around in waders—so we made the decision get out of our Gortex and to continue down the road in hopes of finding water that was just a bit more access-friendly.

Not the Thompson River Road

In a few miles we approached a major crossroad that turned out to be Highway 2. We had expected to reach this point on the Thompson River Road. However, according to the sign alongside the gravel road upon which we’d been traveling, we reached this point via the Lang Creek Road. The river had been on our right for the last 10 or so miles. Had we a hard copy map we’d have realized that the river should have been on our left. So it may or may not have been the Thompson River that we molested in the grassy meadow. Was it Lang Creek? I’ve since been able to locate Lang Creek on a map. Indeed we should have taken the slightly right fork in the road miles earlier. A simple sign would have been nice, but then again a better job in planning on our part would have resolved this matter. Then again, in viewing the Google map of the area, Lang Creek Road instersects the Plum Creek Timber County Road, which is intermittently labeled as the Thompson River ACM Road, which is not to be mistaken for the Thompson River Road. Confused yet?

At any rate, we turned right, onto Highway 2, and headed east toward Kalispell. After a mile or 2 we came to a gravel road on our right that was marked: “Thompson River Road”.

I considered taking a right onto the gravel road but we still had a ways to go before arriving in Columbia Falls. The other Rangers would be arriving about the same time so we decided we were done with the Thompson River. Until we go back next time, armed with a Montana Gazeteer.

You may now proceed to Part 3, though it’s not labeled as Part 3, if you wish.

On Thursday Jimmy and I set out in the Man Van, ultimately en route to Columbia Falls, Montana, where we had a date with the Middle Fork of the Flathead River on Sunday. But first we wanted to visit a lesser-known river along the way: the Thompson. To get there we travelled east via I-90 to Cour de A’lane (I never get the spelling right). Before we could get that far we were forced to enjoy an hour+ delay just west of Spokane where the interstate was shut down for an accident. Not to make light of the accident, as it looked like a bad one, but we had a good ways yet to go on previously untraveled roads and I preferred to not travel in the dark if it could be avoided (first world problems are hard).

As we sat in traffic, going nowhere fast, we kept noticing large puddles of dark red fluid on the roadway in front of us, connected by thin dribbling lines of the same fluid (imagine a drop and pool river—it was just like that). Either someone ahead of us was dragging a bleeding animal carcass or someone had a badly leaking transmission. Inching forward we pondered from which vehicle in the long line ahead of us it might be. By the time we realized it was the emanating from the truck in front of us it was too late to warn the old guy behind the wheel—he took a right and we took a left after we were forced to exit the interstate. Poor old codger wasn’t likely going to get much further down the road before his tranny seized up. Hope he got to where he was going before that happened.

An unsavory delay and a trail of transmission fluid.

After the detour we resumed a faster rate of travel on the freeway for another 75 or so miles. Twenty miles east of Coreau d’ Lane we once again exited I-90, this time by choice, and proceeded north along the Corda’ Lane River for several miles. The river was not-surprisingly very low, and while it looked as though it would be a decent trout fishery with a good bit more water, it wasn’t on our radar for this trip. The road was narrow and winding, but paved, as we proceeded onward toward Thompson Falls. Beautiful country; again no big surprise here as Idaho’s panhandle is a place of abundant beauty.  The leaves on deciduous species of flora were beginning to turn the colors of Fall, as well they should in this country in mid September. Somewhere along the way we crossed the Idaho/Montana state line without much fanfare.

Idaho panhandle scenery

After a couple hours we reached highway 200 where we turned right toward the town of Thompson Falls. This was game-abundant country, as evidenced by several blood splatters alongside the highway (definitely not transmission fluid). This was the main reason I didn’t want to travel at or after dusk. Despite new brakes and a Buckstop front bumper designed to withstand animal impact, I didn’t necessarily want to test either out. It was fully light as we drove through town and still we had to stop to allow 3 Bighorn Sheep to run across the road in front of us. The other reason I didn’t want to drive at night is because my damn eyes are getting old we would be searching for a campsite along another road we’d never before traveled.

We passed through Thompson Falls without seeing the road we sought. Perhaps I should rephrase: we may have seen the road, but it was unmarked. After crossing over the Thompson River we turned around and doubled back, taking a right onto what we assumed was the Thompson River Road. It had to be. The sun was behind the canyon walls as we proceeded up the road, following the Thompson River. From what we’d read, the Thompson River Road was a gravel surface. This road was paved, or at least it was paved for the first 5 or so miles. We found a nice campground less than five miles up the road: it was small, with only two vehicle sites and 3 tent sites. Fortunately for us only there was only one other rig in camp which left the remaining site to us. It was right alongside the river and a perfect place for the night’s lodging. In fact the only thing that could have made our campsite better would have been the ability to have a campfire. The burn ban was not unexpected, though, so after a couple grilled ribeyes and a beer or 3, Jimmy and I sat around the lantern before retiring for the night. We had 40 or more miles of Thompson River Road to travel the next day, much of it following the river. We would need our beauty rest if we hoped to look our best for the many trout we intended to meet in the morning.

Our hotel for the night.

You may now proceed to Part 2.

Not that kind of smoke.

In July the Rangers visited a favorite trout stream in Idaho’s panhandle, and amidst one of the driest years on record we got rained out (I posted about it here). In addition to getting drenched, the river went up and put the fish down. We could have stayed another day or two waiting for the fishing to warm back up, but the weather stayed cool and damp—not exactly enticing weather in which to sit around camp—so we cut our trip short.

Now, almost exactly 2 months since then, we’re headed east again, though this time to NW Montana, with the ultimate goal of reaching Columbia Falls. Me and Jimmy are taking the Man Van and an extra day to explore some smaller waters before arriving at our destination. Once there we plan to fish for a couple days with the rest of the Firehole Ranger detachment.

And not this kind of van.

Since July, wildfires have ravaged the entire west, and continue to burn. However, the weather has cooled down so the fires may have subsided a bit. We hope to dodge the smoke that was real bad just a week or so ago, but despite recent reports that the smoke has subsided for now, that could change with the wind. Let’s hope it doesn’t. Wind is bad. Smoke is bad. At least the forecast doesn’t call for thunderstorms so we should stay dry. Then again, we’re not staying in tents so whatever comes our way, so be it.

Oh, and we may be fishing with a celebrity in the fly fishing world, but it wouldn’t be prudent of me to talk about that just yet.

I’ll probably write something about the trip upon our return.

Continued from Part 1.  That means you should read Part 1, first.

Marck’s 11th hour fish.

Downstream of camp the fishing was slow and over a couple of hours I managed only one small cutt while Marck did quite a bit better, as expected. He landed a beautiful 17″ cutthroat just before I decided to head back upstream and work through some water with a streamer before returning to camp. The sun had given way to cloud cover and as I rigged up the streamer I smelled rain. Immediately thereafter large drops began to fall, gently at first—spread far apart. Ominous in a way that small drops close together are not ominous. Shortly thereafter the drops, still large, came with increased frequency. I decided to call it a day and began hoofing it back toward camp. By the time I got there it was raining hard and I was pretty well soaked through my lightweight shirt.  My first thought was to grab my rain jacket from the Man-Van; a decision I did not soon regret as the temperature had begun plummeting significantly. Thunder boomed repeatedly in the distance and with each concussion the rain came down harder. Marck showed up and joined me under the relative shelter of a large spruce tree; its canopy doing a fine job of keeping us fairly well protected from the downpour (we just hoped lightning didn’t choose to strike that particular tree). We figured the storm would blow through so we did what anyone would have done: we cracked a couple beers and waited for it to pass. And then we waited.

Firehole Ranger Lake

It didn’t seem possible that it could rain any harder until it did just that. And then the wind came from seemingly nowhere and hail the size of one’s fingernail pummeled the ground, and everything else. It wasn’t long before the big spruce tree was no longer capable of keeping us dry (OK, technically we were already soaked, but you know what I mean).

Casualty #1

Nash’s tent was the first to cave under the pressure as a gust of wind picked up the front of the tent and began to topple it ass over tea kettle. Thunder roared. I sprinted through the lake that was rapidly forming in the middle of camp and grabbed hold of the tent frame to keep it grounded as hail beat down on my knuckles. Shit was getting real. Soon the tent began to sag under the weight of the rain water and the threat of it blowing away lessened. My work was done There was nothing else I could do. We continued to be hammered by rain and hail as we noticed Morris’s tent had crumbled under the pressure of the storm. I wanted my mommy. It was worse than Nash’s tent. By the time we could tend to it Morris’s air mattress was floating; his sleeping bag and other gear soaked. This storm wasn’t messing around, nor did it appear to be short-lived. Perhaps the smart thing would have been for Marck and I to retreat to the dry safety of the Man-Van but we stood in the face of the storm trying to salvage what we could, which we couldn’t. We placed Morris’s wet gear in the back of the Explorer, not that it would do much good at this point.

Casualty #2

Even Marck’s tent, despite being new and properly set up, couldn’t keep its contents totally dry.

For the better part of an hour the rain continued to come down in sheets. The lake in the middle of camp grew to a depth of 12 inches (fortunately we still had our wading boots on). The picnic table held previously dry boxes of crackers, potato chips and paper towels and many other items that are best off not being waterlogged. However, the true mark of the storm’s severity was a plastic cup that filled with 4 inches of rainwater in less than an hour.

A glass half full, or half empty?

Put the waders on and have a seat!

After an hour the storm’s ferocity lessened, though it continued to rain steadily. After an hour and a half Jimmy, Morris and Nash slogged into camp. The appearance of camp told the story of what had happened there, but they had stories of their own. Since I wasn’t there I can only touch on the big picture as they relayed it to us:

When the storm hit upriver it did so with concentrated intensity as it funneled into the narrow river canyon. Thunder boomed all around and the wind snapped tree tops. Sheets of rain blew across the river’s surface and the three Rangers were instantly soaked, save for Jimmy who had a light rain jacket in his pack which gave him some protection from the elements. Nash and Morris soon began to shiver as the temperature went from pleasant to unpleasant in an instant. With nowhere to run and nowhere to hide they huddled under some brush by the side of the river where Jimmy put his arms around the other two and told happy stories to keep them calm. The hillsides began sloughing mud into the river, which in turn began to raise and turn the color of chocolate milk in very short order. The 3 lone Rangers had several river crossings before they would make it back to the trail, the thick dust upon which had turned to a quagmire of slippery muck.

For the sake of authenticity I asked each of the 3 to weigh in with their own words.

Nash recounts the harrowing details:

“Well it seemed like a nice enough late afternoon to go out for an evening session of fishing.  Warm, overcast and according to Ranger Rick, only a 30% chance of rain later that night.  So of course, I confidently left the rain jacket in the tent.

 I decided to go straight to the “Swimming Hole” where rising fish haunted me the day before.  They had not wanted any of the bugs I had in my box.  I started at the riffle at the top of the hole and landed a nice, fat, 17 inch cutty.  I decided to move up stream a couple hundred yards and that is when it began.  It first started out quit calmly. Large rain drops, but spread very far apart.  I fished for a bit with Trevor Morris and Dave Jimmy down stream from me. Then the rain got harder. The thunder and lighting started, so I made my way down to them, and we all huddled up in the bushes by the Swimming Hole.  We were far enough way from the trees, in case shit broke loose, which it did. The sheets of rain could been seen blowing across the hole. The thunder became louder and the lighting closer. We decided to stay hunkered down until the lighting passed.  Easy decision for Dave, because he was all comfy in his rain jacket. Trevor and I just had on our light weight fishing shirts. The the wind picked up, and started to snap some trees up on the mountain behind us. The snapping trees were very loud. So loud, Trevor thought it was the ones immediately behind us, and he jumped up and towards the river, like a cat being burned with a hot poker. I did not know he was so quick and agile, nor I didn’t know his eyes could get so big. The rain became hail, and Trevor and I got chipply (chilly nipples), so we decide to get the hell out of there even though we had to cross the river 4 times in a lightening storm.  I blame it on Ranger Rick and his shitty weather forcasting!”

Morris offers his traumatic account:

It was fun. Until it wasn’t.

A short story by Morris

“One-hour into the storm of the century as the buzz was wearing off and our humor faded, we were still huddling in the thick brush, soaking wet and shivering uncontrollably. As the temperature dropped by what felt like 30 degrees, I knew we had to risk a move. We attempted three failed departures held back by falling trees, close lightning, waves of heavy rain, wicked wind gusts and one guy with a gore-tex jacket. Finally about an hour later, the decision was made to make a run for it. Running like three gazelles being hunted, fight or flight instincts take control as we sprint back to camp making several river crossings along the way. As I led the team from the depths of hell, happiness erupted with high-fives all around as we entered camp safely. A completely destroyed camp site didn’t even matter compared to prison raping we just endured. Pinned down by the storm of the century on the Joe is no way to die. Or is it.”

And Jimmy recalls it this way:

“Rained hard, got wet, glad I had a coat.  Fishing buddies got wet, got cold, shit pants. I think lightning hit the top of my 3 wt and broke off the eye (he means the top guide—ed.). The fine Redington cork handle took all of the impact and saved my hand.  Be nice if they covered it under warranty and sent me a new rod end.”

So there you have it—just like Reader’s Digest: Drama in Real Life.

The end result what that Marck, Morris and Nash realized spending the night would not be a pleasant undertaking so they tossed their wet gear into their car and departed at 9 PM, driving home through the night. Upon their departure Jimmy and I took shelter in the Man Van, thankful for a solid roof over our heads. The rain had continuted well into the the night but had ceased and when we awakened the next morning to low clouds. We decided to take a look at the river before making a final decision as to whether or not we should go fishing. The Joe had cleared nicely as far as visibility was concerned, but it was a good bit higher than it had been prior to the deluge the evening before. We decided we would take advantage of the lack of rainfall and pack up all the remaining gear before heading out to do see about some fish. We hiked a short ways up the trail and dropped into the river, hopeful that the fish would be aggressively feeding after the water-freshening rain: The infusion of rain was certainly good for the fish but it was not good for the fishing and after an hour, during which Jimmy managed only one small fish, we decided to cut our losses and head back to camp. During our hike back it began raining steadily, again, and continued to do so. We hit the road and it rained for the next 3 hours, all the way back to Coeur d’Alene, Idaho before finally drying out. What had been a small chance of a thunderstorm had turned into a widespread system that cloaked the Idaho panhandle in a Seattle-like shroud of gloom.  At least the fire danger was temporarily lessened.

Hopefully when we go back next year we won’t encounter a similar fate. In case we do, I hope that Morris and Nash will have acquired new tents by then.

The Pacific Northwest began to dry up early this year. After a bleak snowpack and virtually no Spring runoff, rivers were running strangely low all across the region by mid June. We saw it on the annual pilgrimage of the Firehole Rangers; we see it at home.  Local rivers look like they normally do September, and it’s only mid-July.  Wildfire season hasn’t proven to be any worse than normal but it’s still early yet (knock on wood).  Dry as a bone, the West is. And so when the Rangers departed on our trip to Idaho’s panhandle for a few days of cutthroat fishing, we did so with a bit of trepidation as to what we’d encounter. Flows were checked on a regular basis in the weeks prior to our trip and on paper the river was low. How it would actually look when we saw it in person remained to be seen.

A stop for ice and people watching at Walmart in Kellogg, ID

On the Wednesday of our departure the weather was hot and dry across the state of Washington, as it had been for every day throughout the month of June and thus far into July. As we passed through Idaho the temperature was 90°F although the forecast for Idaho’s panhandle called for a slight cooling trend into the low 80’s and even the upper 70’s (brrrr). There was also a slight chance of thunderstorms on Friday and Saturday. By slight we’re talking 10%-20% chance: not enough to cause concern. Jimmy and I planned to camp for 5 nights, fish for 4 days; Marck, Nash and Morris would be returning home a day sooner. The Man-Van was loaded with plenty of ice and firewood, knowing we would absolutely need the ice; not knowing if we’d even be allowed to need the wood. Did I mention that it was dry?

If the road doesn’t look dusty that’s because this is a photo a different year; a less dry year.

The road is dirt for the last two miles, and even though we traveled slowly the tires kicked up a thick plume of nearly-white dust. Just how dusty was it?  Suffice it to say that one did not want to be following another vehicle on this road. Jimmy and I arrived around 6pm to a nearly empty campground. We selected a site that would accommodate everyone and set up camp before cooking supper.  At around 9PM the others arrived, emerging from a crammed Ford Explorer belonging to the wife of Nash. The amount of gear they had managed to fit into the Explorer was impressive and left just barely enough room for 3 guys. Morris was shoe-horned into the back seat surrounded floor-to-ceiling by fishing and other gear. Besides personal items, groceries, Marck’s large (and brand-new) Camp Chef cooktop, and a Yeti cooler that was big enough to hold an adult corpse (it weighed enough that it may have contained just that). They each also brought their own tents so as to avoid a three man sausagefest. Additionally the roof pod was full of firewood so we would have ample supply for the duration of the trip (there were no campfire bans posted). The late arrivals pitched their tents as darkness fell and we toasted our full attendance late into the night.

Marck’s new cooktop was soon defiled by bacon.

The next morning we broke in Marck’s new cooktop before embarking on Day One of fishing.  With bacon in our bellies the Rangers marched single file up the trail a couple of miles; Marck and Nash dropping down to the river at the “Log Trail” while Morris, Jimmy and I proceeded onward to “The Mine”. The plan was to fish the first part of the day before returning to camp for lunch during the mid-day lull. We would then go out for a later afternoon/early evening bit of angling. As it turned out we ended up fishing straight through the mid-day lull, living on protein bars and water. It’s not that fishing was so good that we didn’t want to take a break—it was just easier to keep fishing than hike back to camp on the trail. Besides this is gorgeous country, and it doesn’t take much before one loses track of time and space, even when the catching slows to a crawl.

It’s easy to lose yourself in this.

Antiquated remains from an ill-fated garnet mine.

Fishing was slower than normal, but better than expected, given the low flows. Fish that would normally be found in the riffles weren’t there. But deeper runs and holes still held some fish, which we caught. Morris may have done some nymphing but mostly it was a dry fly game—that’s why we come here. On a normal water year we can expect to find fish in nearly every inch of the river.

Morris with one of many bends in his rod.

Using a Purple Haze, and later a black foam ant, I managed a handful of small cutthroat in the 10-12 inch range before switching to a streamer as the mid-day lull set in.  The streamer soon yielded a nice 15″ cutt as well as a fish of a lifetime (details of that can be found HERE). It turned out to be a better day than any of us had anticipated, and in the case of the lifetime fish the day was better than I could have ever imagined.

The lifetime fish.

That evening after further defiling Marck’s grill, Nash, Marck and Morris ventured out for some evening caddis action while Jimmy and I stayed back at camp and stoked the fire. It was nice that we could still have campfires because camping isn’t camping without a fire, around which men can gather to solve world problems or site in silence without it being awkward.

Dry camp.

The next morning(Friday) we put another good hurt on the Camp Chef before embarking on a downstream journey to seek out some new water. The previous day had yielded decent fishing but we wanted to try some stretches of river that we’d previously only driven past. We had time to explore—after all this was only Day 2 of a 4 day trip. Nash, Jimmy and Morris were dropped off at one spot while Marck and I drove a couple miles further down stream. The idea was that the other 3 would fish down to where we had parked the car, then drive downstream and find Marck and me. That plan worked well, but when we met up and compared notes it was agreed that the water we’d all fished was less desirable than the water above camp. The river down here was comprised of long, straight and shallow sections with fishable water only to be found at the occasional bend in the river, and there weren’t nearaly enough bends in the river. Fishing had been dreadfully slow until I came upon one run that produced 8 fish in 10 minutes, though nothing bigger than 10 inches. Marck caught several fish as he always does. We headed back to camp for lunch and the mid-day lull.

Marck releases a fish that he had just caught.

That afternoon a couple of Forest Service Rangers stationed at Red Ives stopped by the camp of the Firehole Rangers to let us know that the threat of lightning strikes was very high for the next 12 hours. Despite that the region still looked green, they informed us that it was bone dry—tinder box conditions—and that we should take great care to manage our campfire. Smoke jumpers had been putting out small fires in the greater vicinity and while there were no big burns currently, that could change rapidly. We hoped that it wouldn’t. The threat of thunderstorms wasn’t particularly great and would become even less the following day, but the rangers informed us that on Tuesday the Forest Service was imposing a ban on all fires.  Good timing on our part—our last day was to be Monday so we could enjoy a campfire each night of our stay.

Jimmy stresses about the possibility of thunderstorms.

At that particular time the skies were clear and we were fairly confident wouldn’t be any lightning strikes in the area. As far as rain goes we weren’t too worried: Summer storms tend to roll in fast, do their thing, and roll on out just as quickly as they rolled in. With nary a care in the world we killed some time relaxing around camp before heading out to fish late in the afternoon. When the time came to grab our rods, Jimmy, Nash and Morris hiked up the trail a couple of miles as Marck and I headed downstream. It was our plan to return to camp earlier than the others and get dinner started.

To be continued in Part 2…

The reason for the two part series is two-fold: 1. By breaking the story into 2 parts, I create a sense of drama—a cliffhanger, if you will; and 2. It greatly reduces the length of the drivel. If I were to keep it as one lengthy story nobody would stay focused long enough to read it. Hell, chances are nobody will read each separate story anyway.

Like the sign says: Bull Trout Country

It’s been said that one should never bring a knife to a gun fight, and, being a reasonably marginally intelligent person, I would never intentionally do that. To be very clear I would never enter into a gun fight in the first place—not a knife fight, either. Nor would I be inclined to arm myself with a 3 weight fly rod with the intent of seeking fish that would be better suited to, say, a 6 weight.

That said, when fishing for westslope cutthroat trout on a particular Idaho panhandle river one knows that, despite being pretty rare, bull trout do inhabit these waters. During the summer months they eat their way up the system before entering small tributaries to spawn in September.  But when was the last time anyone caught a bull trout while fishing small dry flies?  These predatory char are known meat eaters that likely wouldn’t waste the energy to sip small bugs off the surface unless they were really bored. They’re much more likely to chase down a hooked cutthroat trout that had eaten your dry fly. But that’s not a common occurrence either, despite that I nearly had it happen once (if one were so inclined one could read about that HERE).

Troubled waters.

In my 4 previous trips to the upper Joe I’d never seen a bull trout—not that I can confirm, anyway. In 2014 Schpanky and I were fishing a couple miles above the St. Joe Lodge, which is itself 5 miles above the trailhead at Spruce Tree campground. We had just come ’round a bend in the river when we saw the shadow of a very large fish moving from beneath a logjam. It slithered, snakelike, and disappeared downstream at a rapid pace before we could get close enough to make an absolutely positive ID. At better than 2 feet in length, it was much bigger than any cutthroat likely to haunt these waters, and I’m confident it was a char. While unconfirmed, that’s the only time I’ve seen a bull trout on this river. But they are there, and they are endangered so targeting them is frowned upon, as is detaining them for questioning. Retaining them is illegal.

The upper Joe is all catch and release for any gamefish in the system and all you’re going to find here are native species: cutthroat, whitefish and, allegedly, bull trout. It’s pristine country, unpolluted by any human activity now or in the past (save for a brief garnet mining stint that proved unproductive and thankfully failed long ago). This is prime, and critical, habitat for the last self-sustaining population of bull trout in the Lake Coeur d’Alene watershed.

When the Firehole Rangers visited the Joe this year we encountered lower than normal river levels. This came as no surprise because every river in the west was low due to a mild winter that produced very little snowpack. But the Joe was still fishing pretty well despite low water: the riffles that typically hold ample cutthroat were devoid of inhabitants but deeper runs and holes still held fish and the fish appeared to be good shape. Overall the size of the fish was smaller this year than in the past but there were larger fish to be found—it just took a bit more work. The river temps were 58° F in the morning, warming to 64° at the heat of the day so it was still within the safe range without unnecessarily putting additional stress on the fish.

The first day of fishing was a bit slow but a handful of cutts were convinced to take dry fly offerings. A size 14 Purple Haze was moderately effective on a few fish, as was a size 16 black foam ant, but around mid-day things slowed considerably as we expected it would because it always does. It was during this mid-day lull that I reached into my bag of streamer tricks and extracted a white conehead Zuddler, size 6. I’ve always like fishing streamers, particularly when fish aren’t rising. It offers hope when hope is all but lost.  If there’s a fish in a run that has ignored dries, there’s a decent chance it may not ignore a streamer. And little fish don’t usually chase streamers.

Proper ammunition for not targeting bull trout.

It should be noted that I was fishing my 7’9″ Sage Circa 3 weight. It’s a sweet little stick for throwing dries all day long, and while I may have been better off using my 4 weight rod, this was day one and I wanted to put in some time with the Circa (I fully intended to rig up the 9′ 4 weight on day two). The biggest cutthroat I’d caught on this river previously was 17″ and I knew, that while not ideal, the diminutive rod was capable of handling a a decent sized fish. My capabilities, on the other hand, are always in question. On my Circa I use a furled leader by Cutthroat Leaders, with a couple feet of 4x tippet spliced to another couple feet of 5x. This setup presents small dries nicely but it does not do a very good job of turning over large flies—especially not weighted streamers. While I managed to get the big bug out there it wasn’t pretty. After Jimmy and Morris worked through a particularly run with their diminutive dry flies I came through with the Zuddler and managed to land a chunky 15″ cutt. I would be a happy man if I didn’t catch another fish the rest of the day.

See that log on the left?

A short time later I came to a nice run with a trough of deep water against a log on the bank. A large rock protruded, breaking the current flow. Had to be a fish there, right? By this time Jimmy had fished well ahead and Morris was behind me. I’m sure Jimmy had fished this spot but he had been employing the dry fly so I approached the hole as if nobody had previously touched it. I put the streamer upstream of  the rock and let it swing close. Then I began stripping (you know what I mean). An aggressive fish slammed the streamer but didn’t allow me time to set the hook properly. After an initial run and a couple of violent head shakes I got the fly back. It was a nice fish—felt like it may have been 15″ or better. Oh well, even streamer fishing, with it’s often violent strikes, doesn’t guarantee success. I knew I wouldn’t entice that particularly fish a second time and doubted there was another good fish in that run. Still, I decided to fish through the end of the deep green water (which was only actually about 3 feet deep). Another ugly cast toward the end of the log and the fly slapped down on the water. Swing, strip…strip…BAM!

This time felt different—the fish didn’t run—it just held its ground as if daring me to try to move it. The wee Circa doubled over under the strain of the stubborn fish and I’d have thought I had hooked a submerged log had it not been for the savage head shakes. When the fish began to move it did so at will, though without lightning speed: it felt more like a diesel powered truck than a sports car. All I could do was palm the Sage Click III reel and hope that my 4x-spliced-to-5x would hold up (I had my doubts). The fish made one good run but I was able to turn it before it had peeled too much line from the reel. As I coerced the fish into the shallower water opposite its lair I got a first look: that’s when I noticed fins with white leading edges. Not a cutthroat. I began to think ahead to landing the fish and wasn’t sure how that was going to happen as I had no net. Every year I tell myself I should bring a net to the Joe, and every year I decide that it’s too much crap to carry so I leave the net back at camp. Fortunately Morris was coming down the river toward me so I hollered squealed like a school girl, “Bull trout!”  He quickened his pace. I had managed to get the fish into the shallows just a few feet from where I stood and the fish remained fairly calm, as if it wasn’t particularly impressed by me. All of the bull trout I’ve caught (and there had only been 3 previously) were grayish-silver bodied; this fish was a more of a rusty-orange, and it was considerably bigger than the previous three as well.

All the bulls I’ve loved before.

Morris held my rod (you know what I mean) while I removed my Nikon AW1 from its case and switched to underwater shooting mode. All I could do was point the camera at the fish, depress the shutter and hope for the best—I had no idea what sort of images I would capture.  The big char didn’t take kindly to my attempt at a front angle shot and darted into the faster water, giving Morris a chance to play the fish back into the shallows. After a couple more shots I grabbed my forceps and gently removed the streamer from the fish’s maw. I didn’t want to  handle the fish if at all possible, and I sure wasn’t going to reach into it’s mouth with my fingers to remove the hook—its teeth were formidable and would have made short work of my phalangeal flesh.

Handling with kid gloves.

After a clean hook extraction the big char moved quickly back to the deeper water whence it came. “That was pretty cool,” I may have said to myself and possibly to Morris as well; I don’t know—it was almost dreamlike.  Following a high five we discussed the length of the fish. It was mutually agreed that it was likely equal to the distance from the end of the real seat to the stripping guide: (B) 25 inches; or on the conservative side equal to the distance from the end of the reel seat to the first ferrule joint: (A) 23 inches. I’ll agree to split the difference and call it (C) 24 inches.

A + B divided by 2 = C

No matter the size it was a fish of a lifetime and I can now die a happy man with a debt of gratitude owed to Morris for coming along at the right time and holding my rod.

Welcome to the final (thank god) installment of a five part series—it’s almost over. Did you even read Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 and Part 4 yet?

After the beat down on the Cornhole Madison, we drove 4 hours to Rock Creek, with a quick stop along the way in Deer Lodge for a bite to eat. Deer Lodge is actually a pretty interesting place because right in the middle of town is the Old Montana Prison (known as the Montana’s Territorial Prison when the first inmate was incarcerated in 1871). The facility hasn’t provided three squares a day for inmates since the late 1970’s, nor was there much to choose from as far as eating establishments elsewhere in town. We did manage to find a joint that was open and horked down a meal that was barely a notch above prison food before continuing on our way.

Buy some balls.

Twenty miles east of Missoula lies Rock Creek. It’s a place, not a town, despite having a Clinton, MT designation (Clinton is actually a few miles west). Interesting to note is that in this small settlement you have a couple of very well known establishments: Rock Creek Lodge, home of the famous Testicle Festival; and the Rock Creek Fisherman’s Mercantile. Inside the bar at Rock Creek Lodge you’ll find a handful of what appear to be locals, playing pool and pinball and drinking (this is not your Columbia PFG crowd). The wall behind the bar is adorned with a wide variety of interesting signs and stickers, my favorite of which being the one that says, “I don’t care that you fly fish”.  A quarter mile up the road you find the renowned “Merc” which does indeed care that you fly fish and exists because you do. Flowing just behind both establishments is Rock Creek—the legendary Rock Creek—another of Montana’s storied blue ribbon trout streams. Upon arriving at our destination we stopped for a beer at the Rock Creek Lodge before checking into our cabins at the Merc (shop was closed; keys were under the mats).

Buy some flies.

The first time the Rangers fished Rock Creek was in 2008 when we weren’t even known as the Firehole Rangers and our current assembly of corps hadn’t yet been fully assembled. That first visit was during peak runoff, on a year when there had been plenty of snow (unlike this year). We probably shouldn’t have been catching fish that year because we probably shouldn’t have been on the water. But alas we were and we did: lots of big water, lots of medium-sized fish, despite that we were too early for the salmonfly hatch that year. The second time we fished Rock Creek was in June 2014. We’d only been home for couple of weeks after returning from the annual pilgrimage to the Firehole when Marck, Morris and I went for a long weekend. It would appear, in going thru my records, that I didn’t write about that trip. I reckon there wasn’t much to write about. We were there during the peak of the golden stone hatch but fish were only wanting a Purple Haze. I didn’t discover this until the last day when it was all but too late to change the outcome of the weekend.

Morris, Nash, Goose and Jimmy proudly(?) displaying their Ranger shirts

The good news, this year, was that we had timed our arrival perfectly. We talked with a guide who had just gotten off the river and he told us the salmonflies were working their way upstream and we could expect to encounter the giant stoneflies at about mile 30 up Rock Creek Road. The salmonflies begin popping on the lower river and work their way upstream as the days/weeks progress. It was decided that we would drive to the big bugs in the morning.

High octane fuel to start a long day on Rock Creek.

There’s not a lot at Rock Creek other than the Merc, the Testicle Lodge and Ekstrom’s Stage Station. But there is, of all things, a coffee stand right outside the cabins where we stayed: good coffee, too. After breakfast we piled into the Soccer Mom Express and proceeded up Rock Creek Road. The first 8 or so miles are paved; after that the road turns to dirt and potholes, although being early in the season the road was still in pretty good shape. Good thing, too, because with the weight of 6 guys in an already-low-slung mini van, it could have gone badly had the road been in worse condition. After what seemed like an hour (because it was) we arrived at the river access near the Morgan-Case Homestead (interesting story behind that—stop by and read the signboard next time you’re up that way). We geared up and packed our Gore-tex jackets—rain was forecasted. I had intentionally left my lucky fishing hat back at the cabin because it doesn’t accommodate the hood of a rain jacket as well as a ball cap, and frankly it hadn’t proven to be lucky the day before (stupid hat, anyway). We hiked a short ways to the river and spread out; Marck and I heading upstream while the others moved down. Before we had even gotten to our first run I heard Goose yell, “I got one!”  That didn’t take long and it gave me hope that it would be a good day.

Up Shit Rock Creek without a paddle.

The river looked nothing like it had in 2008, when it was a raging torrent of chocolate milk, and while it was still flowing plenty fast, good visibility was in ample supply and we didn’t have to stand far back in the bushes to fish. That said, at these flows wading was not much of an option so reaching good water was a challenge. Fishing was a bit slow to get started: I was using a salmonfly dry pattern with a SJW dropper. After an hour I had one 10″ brown to hand that ate the dropper. Marck hooked his first ever bull trout about the same time, making Rock Creek the first river on which we’d each caught a bull trout (mine came in 2008, and was a lot bigger).

We hadn’t been at it for more than a half hour before the weather took a rapid turn for the worse: the wind came from downstream with little warning and we could see a squall blowing rapidly in our direction. In the time it took to remove our jackets from our packs and put them on, the rain was upon us; blowing sideways. Fortunately it didn’t persist for more than 20 minutes before the clouds parted. Despite that the we had dry conditions for the remainder of the day, a dark cloud continued to follow me around.

A load of bull for Marck.

No fish were rising and no bugs were out and about. In fact we didn’t see many of the big bugs until much later in the day, and even then they weren’t prolific. The fish weren’t keying in on them either, which field research confirmed: we tossed a few live bugs into the river and watched them flutter as they floated downstream without a single fish rising to take them.

Protein a’plenty.

I tried several different dry varitions of a salmonfly but I had zero takes. Big ones and slightly less big ones; bright orange ones and less brightly orange ones. Not even a tasty looking Cat Puke could rise a fish. All I could surmise was that the fish had seen and eaten so many of the big stoneflies recently that they were absolutely stuffed and they couldn’t eat another bite (reference Mr. Creosote, Month Python’s Meaning of Life). That, and/or we were simply in the wrong place. A few rafts drifted past during the day, casting to the opposite bank, and we observed several of the boat anglers catching fish as they cast their bugs under overhanging branches. So apparently there were fish in the river willing to eat, but most of the good water appeared to be on the opposite bank, far out of our reach: there was no wading across at these flows so we made do with what we could. I tried different ant patterns, a golden stone dry, different droppers…all to no avail. In retrospect I probably should have tried pulling a streamer through some deeper holes.

As the day droned on and the fishing remained painfully slow (for me anyway), I had plenty of time to appreciate the surrounding beauty. Rock Creek flows through a narrow canyon carved into the Sapphire Mountains and if the fishing had been good I may not have taken the time to appreciate where I was. However, I was there to catch fish and because I wasn’t catching fish, some of the natural luster wore off by afternoon.

Another beautiful place in Montana.

I slowly moved downstream, all the while trying to convince myself that my luck would change, until I came to a spot where I saw 3 moose on the opposite shore. They were most likely a safe distance away and fortunately none were cows with calves. But I don’t really like seeing moose when I’m alone in the wilderness and I’m not afraid to admit that their presence put me on edge. Had I been distracted by catching fish I may not have even noticed the moose; but since I wasn’t, I did. I glanced around to find the nearest climbable tree but when nothing promising could be found I moved away from the spot and headed back upstream toward the main trail from the road. Shortly thereafter I ran into Nash, Jimmy and Morris: all had been catching fish and none had noticed the moose. Morris barely slowed down to exchange words: he seemed to be on a mission as he aggressively worked through water that I had just fished. I tried to warn him that there were no fish there, just as he hooked up with and broke off a nice fish before continuing upstream at a frantic pace, changing flies in mid stride as he focued intently on the next piece of promising water. Nash drifted a fly through some water I had just passed through a half hour earlier. Before I could tell him he was wasting him time he landed a fish. Screw this—it was 3 pm when I finally walked back to the truck mini van, climbed out of my waders and broke down my rod. And reached for a cold Vitamin R from the cooler.

The sign offers false hope that anglers can expect to catch a Rock Creek Grand Slam.

After an hour the others began to trickle in. The fishing had been tough for almost everyone but nobody had caught just a single fish, other than me. Goose managed to land 6 fish and, due to having been distracted by soggy feet, missed the hook set on about 20 more. Morris caught “more than anybody else!” by landing about 20 fish, including 4 out of 5 of the Grand Slam species. Jimmy only remembers catching a brookie and some others. Nash recalls catching 6 or so, but “had a hard time seeing the size 4 salmonfly dries” he was throwing (I think he was being sarcastic). Marck declined to weigh in with his fish total, but I know he caught at least a bull trout (undoubtedly many more other trouts as well). If you count all the fish caught by everyone, collectively we got the Slam: bull trout, rainbow, brown, brookie, and westslope cutthroat. And a bonus whitey.

I stood idly by while the others talked of their fishing prowess and geared down for the last time on the trip. For Goose, this was a welcome end to having spent the past 5 days wearing leaky waders. As he removed his foot from the custom garbage bag liner I snapped a quick photo and made what may have been some sort of wise-ass comment. “F#ck you!” he said, offering a familiar hand gesture, “You’re not going to make fun of me on your damn blog.”

I would never do that.

His waders may have leaked, but he caught more fish than me.

And so the annual pilgrimage of the Firehole Rangers is in the books and, other than a single day on the Big Hole, it’s one I’d just as rather forget. If I wanted to get my ass handed to me I could stay much closer to home, wear my lucky fishing hat, and spend a day on the Yakima.

But at least my waders didn’t leak.