The Henry's Fork: Day Seven

On the morning of day seven I collect my frosted waders from the porch of our rental cabin. I had visions last night as I fell asleep of porcupines gnawing them to pieces. We're in a neighborhood where that is a possibility. But they are fine.

Frost on the windshield, too. It's what one can expect at 6,000 feet in September. We're grateful to be in a cabin this year instead of a tent. We've paid our cold weather camping dues in years past.

It's a road trip day. I have convinced John to take a day at the Teton River near Driggs. His son, Jake, who drove in from Minnesota to take advantage of the chance to explore Teton country, supports me. He's not a fly fisher--yet--but he would like to see how it's done on his way on one of several day trips he will make to the Grand Tetons and Yellowstone. So off we go.

It's a hazy morning, and the Tetons come in and out of view. There is at least one fire still burning in Yellowstone.

We wade through the tall grass and willows and right into the middle of a blizzard hatch.

The fish are up and we catch small cutts and brookies with tiny dries. I could do that forever.

A moose calf comes out of the willows for a drink. Then, later, its twin joins it. The occasional drift boats tell us they have seen their mother just off the river. We keep a wary eye out but never see her.

We do see a duck who keeps us company throughout the day.

We work the bank hard. There are cuttbows in here, and the last time we fished this undercut bank John hooked a heavy fish that he played for twenty minutes and then lost.

I'm upstream from John fishing a bead head nymph in a long pool. I catch some small fish with it. Then, the fly tumbling deep along the bank, I get a strong pull. As soon as the fish feels the hook it surges away and breaks me off. I think that would have been my fish of the trip.

I have more bead heads and catch some more beautiful fish. But I don't get a second chance on a big one.

Jake gets back from a flying trip to the Tetons. We pack up and drive toward Driggs. We know of a good Mexican restaurant there, and we're hungry.

Two Places I Would Like to Be

"The Things That Count" by Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1919)

Now, dear, it isn’t the bold things,

Great deeds of valour and might, 

That count the most in the summing up of life at the end of the day. 

But it is the doing of old things, 

Small acts that are just and right; 

And doing them over and over again, no matter what others say; 

In smiling at fate, when you want to cry, and in keeping at work when 

you want to play—

Dear, those are the things that count. 

And, dear, it isn’t the new ways

Where the wonder-seekers crowd 

That lead us into the land of content, or help us to find our own. 

But it is keeping to true ways, 

Though the music is not so loud, 

And there may be many a shadowed spot where we journey along 

alone;

In flinging a prayer at the face of fear, and in changing into a song a 

groan—

Dear, these are the things that count. 

My dear, it isn’t the loud part

Of creeds that are pleasing to God, 

Not the chant of a prayer, or the hum of a hymn, or a jubilant shout or 

song.

But it is the beautiful proud part 

Of walking with feet faith-shod; 

And in loving, loving, loving through all, no matter how things go 

wrong;

In trusting ever, though dark the day, and in keeping your hope when 

the way seems long—

Dear, these are the things that count.

The Henry's Fork: Day Six

The morning of day six we count our blessings and express our gratitude to be six days on the Fork with more to come. We try not to disturb the swans on the back channel but they soon paddle away upstream.

It's a pristine September morning. We seek out the trout.

The pattern is establishing itself. John catches fish and I fish.

In the afternoon John heads upstream like the swans, like a salmon powerless to resist the biological imperative. I fish the grassy bank a little longer then follow him. The bridle trail is enticing. It reminds me of boyhood trails that were a part of my growing up in this state.

I cut off the trail to pick my way through the rocks to Rocky Point Number One. That's its name on the maps. It's just downstream from Rocky Point Number Two.

I once saw a man hook a massive Rainbow here. We knew it was massive because it came out of the water and fell back in like a quarter round chunk of firewood. The man played it for about ten seconds and then it was off. He dropped his rod, made the "s-word" echo from the mountaintops, and then sat down and just watched the river flow by for a long time.

I also have some memories of fish lost here. I hooked one on a cinnamon ant right up against the rocks, and then lost it when it managed to get downstream in the swift current. When I retrieved my fly it had a piece of Rainbow jaw on the hook point.

This time I just check it out and then resume my search for John.

There he is.

This is new territory for us. We're down along the actual ranch stretch, and Millionaire Pool is somewhere up there. We go down to that point and cast to some rises out in the middle of the current. It's deep and rocky and uncomfortable fishing, so we tell ourselves they're probably just pleeps. Then one rolls with a big splash. That was no pleep. John lets me go for him--the pity phase has set in--and I manage to get a few drifts of my ant right over the spot where he rolled. But the surface is unbroken as it flows by.

We hike back to the back channel. All is quiet. So we head for the car and Pond's Resort for burgers and cold beer. Sometimes you just don't feel like cooking.

Back at the "cabin" we sit around the table for awhile. There's a big TV on one wall but once again it stays black. We talk over plans and process the day and tie a few flies to replenish our boxes for the day ahead.

Another full day of fishing in Teton country.

Halloween Muddler

On the day before Halloween I went to Yellowwood. It was a gusty day and the leaves were coming down all around.

I shared the lake with a couple and their kayaks. No other fishers.

I started out subsurface but the summer haunts for fish were deserted.

I crossed to the west side and tied on my secret weapon, a Halloween muddler. Time to see if a bass or two would be attracted to this orange and black treat.

It's a tradition. In Washington I always tied up something in Halloween colors and fished it on Halloween, which was also the last day of the season. Most years I found trout with a taste for orange and black.

I worked the HM down the shoreline giving it plenty of time to get noticed.

But alas, it was ignored. Maybe it only works on Halloween day itself.

I came to a downed tree whose submerged branches sometimes hold a school of bluegill. The last time I was at the lake I found some who wanted a small fly. My cinnamon ants from the Henry's Fork filled the bill. So I tied one on again. It worked.

Then I noticed bugs on the water. Lots of bugs. What do you know, it was an ant fall. I thought for a minute that they were cinnamon ants--what a serendipitous turn of events that would have been--but they were black ants.

Even though my cinnamon version had caught fish up against the weeds, it was shunned by the bluegill rising out in open water. So it goes.

As dusk fell the bluegill went down. I tied the Halloween muddler on again and worked it down the dam. It felt so right in the spooky, misty gloaming. I could picture a monster bass looking up, seeing the fly's enticing shape slicing across the surface, and turning for it with blood in it's eye.

That would have been a treat, but it was just a trick of my imagination.

This Is Fly, No. 69

Right over HERE.

"Wakeful Things" by Michael Prior

"The Stag At Bay" Richard Ansdell (1815 - 1885)

You should never put the new antlers of a deer

to your nose and smell them. They have little

insects that crawl into the nose and devour the brain.

—Kenkō, Essays in Idleness

Consider that the insects might be metaphor.

That the antlers’ wet velvet scent

might be Proust’s madeleine dipped into a cup of tea

adorned with centrifugal patterns of azalea

and willow—those fleshing the hill behind this room,

walls wreathed in smoke and iron, musk

of the deer head above the mantle. He was nailed in place

before I was me. Through the floorboards,

a caterpillar, stripped from its chrysalis by red ants,

wakes, as if to a house aflame. Silk

frays like silver horns, like thoughts branching from a brain.

After the MRI, my father’s chosen father squinted

at the wormholes raveling the screen

and said, Be good to one another. Love, how inelegantly

we leave. How insistent we are to return in one form

or another. I wish all of this and none of it

for us: more sun, more tempest, more

fear and fearlessness—more of that which is tempered, carved,

and worn, creased into overlapping planes. The way

I feel the world’s aperture enlarge in each morning’s

patchwork blur of light and colour while I fumble

for my glasses beside the bed—lenses smudged

by both our hands. When they were alive,

those antlers held up the sky. Now what do they hold?

The Henry's Fork: Days Four and Five

The morning of the fourth day found us sharing the water with a pair of swans.

They were nervous about our proximity, calling to let us know of their displeasure. The honks increased in frequency and intensity until they took off to find some privacy. They created an unforgettable image as they passed by. These are the moments that make this place more than just the fish.

We waited for the hatch to signal the beginning of the day's fishing. A brief shower pattered on our hats.

Then the bugs came. This is my favorite time on the river.

I made my way to the grassy bank and fished to the waves of risers that came and went. I got lots of near misses and brief hookups before catching another fine healthy rainbow who couldn't resist a cinnamon ant.

We took breaks, sitting in the comfortable "recliners" the banks provide. It's a time to repair leaders and tippets, go through fly boxes searching for inspiration, and watch the river flow by around your boots.

As the sun went down I was still fishing the backlit grassy bank. You could call it a fruitless obsession with one spot in the entire river, or devotion to the place that gives you the strongest feeling of fishiness and sense of possibility.

Meanwhile, you should know, John was ranging far and wide and each time we would meet up he would give me his catch report. He was fishing rings around me. Many 12 to 16 inchers and a handful of fish at the 18 inch mark. He would often catch them in places I had just fished. Once as he was wading back to the bank he flipped his fly out right into the mouth of a good 16 inch fish.He hadn't seen any sign of it; he just happened to throw the fly to the right spot at the right time.

As we headed for the car I knew my work was cut out for me.

On the morning of the fifth day I waded over to the island in the back channel and crossed over it to the back back channel. We have often fished along the front of the island, but in some years long ago the back of the island held what we were looking for.

Right back here is the magic place where I caught my first 20 inch Henry's Fork rainbow. And it wasn't the only one I caught here. They were holding under stationary weed mats, and would delicately sip in a cinnamon ant drifted along the edge. Once my fly sank under the mat and when I began to pull it in to recast I found myself in a tug of war with another big old rainbow. Once after I had lost the last cinnamon ant I had on me I saw a big heavy rise bloom just out there in mid-channel. I pulled out my fly box, selected an Adams dry, and clipped it into an ant shape with my nippers. I showed it to that fish and he took it. Another 20+ fish.

This year I was alone with my memories. There were no fish or rises to be seen. I still fished my way down that shoreline paying close attention to the blowdowns, but to no avail.

On this day I did some ranging myself and covered some new water.

New water for me, that is. John had already been there and he was still outfishing me.

Then something happened that would cause us concern for the rest of the trip: the wind started blowing early in the day, around 10 or 11 o'clock instead of holding off until 1 or 2 o'clock. It made the conditions more challenging. I still have a soft hackle stuck in the back of my jacket. And I'm still glad it wasn't stuck in my ear.

We headed back to the cabin early hoping for better conditions the next morning.