When a friend asks an angler to take their 23 year-old nephew from out of town fishing, an angler feels
obligated honored to do so. Immediately after committing to said act of selfless generosity, the angler begins to wonder just what they may have gotten themselves into. The angler’s imagination runs rampant, fueled by speculation, curiosity and anxiety. What will said nephew of this friend be like? About all the angler is told is that the nephew is fairly new to fly fishing and would really like to get out and wet a line. The angler ponders what, in this case, “fairly new” means. I can mean one of several things:
- Said nephew has fly fished a few times
- Said nephew has gripped a fly rod once
- Said nephew has watched A River Runs Through It, and wants to do ‘that’
More significant than the experience level is the type of person said nephew turns out to be. The angler wonders at the nearly countless possibilities, and speculation is vast:
- Said nephew is painfully quiet and socially awkward, making conversation difficult
- Said nephew is an ill-mannered punk, representative of the worst that the generation of entitlement has to offer
- Said nephew is horribly offended by the occasional colorful expletive
- Said nephew doesn’t drink beer
While en route to the rendezvous point to meet said nephew, the angler is deep in wonder; thoughts dominated by one: What the hell did I get myself into?
If appearances alone are any indication, my anxiety was immediately reduced. Said nephew, whose name shall be “Dan” from here on out, appeared to be quite normal looking. No piercings or visible crazy tattoos. No that there’s anything wrong with tattoos–I mean, heck, all the kids are doing it, right? His social skills were above normal without coming on too strong. A good firm handshake and eye contact. Someone had raised this young man properly.
We loaded his gear into the back of the Fish Taco and made our way east on I-90 toward our destination. We didn’t have a long drive so awkward silences wouldn’t be intolerable. However, the conversation came easily. It also came with some very interesting discoveries. Turns out we shared a common bond: we
were are both Eagle Scouts. I’ve met only a small handful of Eagle Scouts over the years; not surprising given that the achievement takes a lot of hard work and dedication (not many teenagers are interested in that). I’ve never met an Eagle Scout I didn’t like (not sure that they’ve been able to say the same about me).
The conversation moved naturally from one topic to another and as it did so it revealed that Dan and I also brothers. Not in the familial sense, but fraternally. He attended Oklahoma State University recently while I attended Washington State University not so recently. During our years at respective state universities, we were both members of the same fraternity: Sigma Nu. From that point forward we were like old college buddies. Sort of. A generation gap did divide our college experiences, but we had a bond.
We fished an easily-accessed section of the South Fork Snoqualmie River that lies within full view, and earshot, of I-90. While perhaps not quite the back-country fishing experience Dan may have hoped for, it was a delightful afternoon to be doing something other than work, or mowing the lawn. My favorite nearby rivers are still running high due to La Niña’s ferocity this past winter/spring. The high flows are good for the fish, bad for the impatient angler. The South Fork levels were looking pretty favorable. I warned Dan that we would not be stalking trophy trout.
I armed Dan with my Sage Launch 4 weight, and we began with some casting instruction. Dan had done a little stick waving prior to our outing, but not much. I explained the basics of waiting for the rod to load, about presenting the fly, mending to get a drag-free drift, yadda, yadda, yadda. I explained about current seams and what to look for. Fish the foam! After a while of me hovering, the best thing for me to do was leave him alone so he could relax and get the hang of it. He did.
After a few missed opportunities Dan eventually set the hook on a fish: a 5 inch brook trout. I’ve yet to catch a brook trout, and
cursed him congratulated him on his accomplishment. A few more missed hooksets followed before he landed a little more respectable fish: an 8 inch brook trout. Sonofabitch Good for him! I hadn’t caught anything yet, but in my defense I wasn’t really trying.
We worked our way upstream, careful not to bump our heads on the I-90 overpass. We fished more trouty-looking water as I intensely went about my quest for my first brook trout. Dan caught another. Finally I hooked up with a fish: an 8 inch rainbow. Damnit. To show my angling prowess, I asked if Dan would like to see a wild rainbow trout. He was impressed (or so he pretended to be).
We wrapped up the day with a beer on the tailgate of the Fish Taco before heading into North Bend for a bite to eat (I “pulled chapter number” on him and made him buy my dinner). In the end we had a rather enjoyable day (at least I did). Dan learned a good bit about fly fishing for (brook) trout, made strides to improve his casting, and showed every indication that he is well on his way toward becoming an accomplished angler. The same cannot be said about me.
(One may have gathered from the title that this is the second in a two-part series. In order to fully enjoy Part II, one must first read Part I. That being said, even then one may not enjoy Part II)
Over the course of two days the Firehole produced for us in typical fashion: solid numbers of willing browns and rainbows, most in the 10” – 12” range, but a couple slightly larger. At one point I saw Marck headed upstream from where we’d just come and asked where he was going. He’d apparently seen but not landed a big brown in a nice hole the previous year, and was going back to see about sealing the deal. Right, whatever. An hour or so later he returned, smiling. When he announced that he had caught the brown and it was BIG, I called Bison shit. He maintains that he caught the fish. I suggest the altitude was getting to him. Nearly all the fish were enticed by dead drifting a magical nymph pattern that I would tell you about, except for the fact that I would not be invited again on this trip if I did. I will tell you that this secret weapon can be found at either Bud Lilly’s Trout Shop or Blue Ribbon Flies or Arricks’s Fly Shop or Jacklin’s Fly Shop or West Yellowstone Fly Shop or Madison River Outfitters in West Yellowstone, but only at one of them. 99% of the fishing was subsurface without an indicator, which makes it a little easier to tolerate nymphing. We encountered one impressive BWO hatch during which only a couple fish were caught. Too much of a good thing proved to be the case, and with literally a gazillion real bugs hatching, our imitations were largely overlooked (mighta been due to less-than-perfect presentation, too). Still, it was amazing to see browns rising every few feet in a stretch of water that had hardly yielded a fish just a few hours earlier in the day. But considering the Firehole was running higher than average for this time of year, I had nothing to complain about, other than a couple of nearly sleepless nights as Stan’s roommate. Mother Nature threw everything at us, from driving snow to sunbreaks and everything in between. It’s always unpredictable fishing at 8000 feet in the Rockies during late Spring.
Ready for the next leg of our journey, which hopefully would involve some bigger fish, we departed the comforts of the Ho Hum motel in West Yellowstone at 5:30 AM in order to be at the Rock Creek Mercantile by 10 o’clock – the time designated for meeting up with our guides for the day. Two full days of wade fishing and perhaps 4 total hours of sound sleep had left me a bit loopy, but it was nothing that a cup of Joe and the promise of fishing the infamous Rock Creek wouldn’t cure. A stop at the golden arches in West Yellowstone for a quick hit of caffeine turned into a skunk, as the coffee machine was broken. This was not the way to begin a day that required a 4 hour drive, and the lack of java did little to lift the spirits and puffy eyelids on board the Soccer Mom Express. I volunteered to take the wheel for this first leg, knowing that at this early hour of the morning there would be few cars on the road and I could drive in a relative state of shame-free anonymity. Aside from a bull moose galloping alongside the road, I don’t recall seeing another living creature until we pulled into Big Sky for coffee. That’s not to say that there weren’t other vehicles on the road, but the lack of caffeine insured that the senses remained dull and I don’t recall seeing anything other than the moose, who glanced sideways at us in a manner that bespoke his thoughts: “Nice mini van.”
Properly revived by the ample supply of coffee acquired in Big Sky, we made excellent time heading westbound on I-90. We pulled into the Rock Creek Mercantile with 15 minutes to spare and were greeted by proprietor Doug Perisco, who was hard at work in his chair on the porch with a good cigar. The first order of business was to check into the cabins that we’d be staying in that night. In our excitement to arrive at Rock Creek, we had failed to draw the straws which would assign sleeping arrangements for that night. I watched as Stan carried his duffel bag toward the entrance to The Small Cabin. I quickly grabbed my stuff and sprinted toward The Big Cabin. After having bunked with Stan for the previous two nights I was looking forward to getting at least one night of decent sleep while on this trip. Survival of the fleetest of foot – my decisive action would have made Darwin proud. Marck was right on my heels, and as soon as we’d secured our lodging or the night, we shared a moment of silence in honor of our friend Nash, who would be bunking with The Goosemaster.
We geared up quickly and drove with our guides some 15+ miles up Rock Creek. The river was running high, as we knew it would be, and nobody to speak of had really been fishing the Creek recently. Everyone else was waiting for the salmonfly hatch to start, which could happen at any time (though it would not happen for another few days). Still, our guides assured us the fish were ready to eat, and we strung up our rods with white and yellow bead-headed variations of the woolly bugger. We boarded two rafts that would carry us downstream at a very quick pace and began pounding the banks with our flies.
I was sharing the raft with Stan (he doesn’t snore while fishing), and we got into fish shortly after the put-in. As soon as the heavily weighted flies hit the bank, we were instructed to give a quick tug and a good mend to allow them to settle into the water. We were drifting fast, which didn’t allow the fish more than a split second to see the flies and make a decision to strike. It took a few attempts and a couple of lost flies before I got the hang of this “Runnin & Gunnin” style of fishing. To describe the day as a combination of whitewater rafting and fishing would be inaccurate only because the water was less white and more the same color as the coffee with creme I’d enjoyed so much a few hours earlier. But it was a thrill to bounce through large waves while chucking flies. Soon we were hooking up at a regular rate with 12-15 inch browns , and an occasional rainbow. Stan hooked a small bull trout, and shortly thereafter I caught a bigger one – not very big by most standards, but being my first bull trout I was thrilled. And yes, I’m sure it was a bull trout.
It was halfway through our float when our guide proclaimed that a Rock Creek grand slam wasn’t out of the relm of possibilities. The grand slam of trout fishing is when an accomplished angler has a banner day on the water, and successfully catches, in a 24 hour period, each of the trout species known to reside in those particular waters. In this case that entails rainbow, cutthroat, brown, bull and brook trout (even though a bull and Brookie are, as we all know, technically chars). Rock Creek is one of the better rivers that afford the chance of hitting a grand slam, and while I never even pondered such a milestone, I was just happy to have caught a few fish. Even though we had yet to catch a cutthroat, we knew the river had a good supply of them. The likelihood of catching a Brookie seemed unlikely until Stan caught a Brookie. Now the reality of the Grand Slam seemed well within our reaches. I knew I wasn’t going to be honored with the achievement, but simply witnessing the act was good enough for me. Stan was standing at bat with the bases loaded, and all he needed was to connect with the right pitch. I became a Stan fan, and cheered him on with every cast. For a while I even kept my line off the water so as to give him room to work his magic. The problem was that by now we were in the lower stretches of the river, and the cutthroat tended to be higher up. Still, each cast carried with it tremendous hope, and you could feel the tension in the air. We were still having fun, mind you, but the mood aboard our raft had taken on an intense focus. Fish continued to hit Stan’s fly, but the fish were not the coveted cutthroats we sought. I managed to land a cuttbow, but that didn’t count (and besides, it was not I who was in the running for the grand slam). The catching slowed significantly during the last hour of the day, and unfortunately as we reached our take-out, the game winning cutthroat trout evaded us. There would be no Grand Slam for Stan the Man, but we raised a beer and toasted a great day on a great river that provided us with great angling excitement. Between the two of us we had probably landed 30 fish, and we’d each hooked up with a couple species which we had not previously caught. Our day on Rock Creek topped off another great Montana fishing adventure.
The report from Nash and Marck’s raft was that they had brought over 50 trout to the net: Browns, rainbows and a whole bunch of cutthroat which they’d caught in the first 2 hours of the day.
And in case you’re wondering, yes – I did enjoy my last night by sleeping peacefully. At dawn I awoke to the sound of a large bird, and immediately assumed it was just geese in the cabin next door. Poking my head out the door I realized that what I’d heard was not a gaggle, but rather a gobble. I’d already filled my turkey tag back in Washington that year, so I went back to bed for another hour.