The Henry's Fork: The Last Day

It always comes down to this: the last day. We have packed up the car and locked up the cabin by the time we get to the river. It's another chilly morning and there is snow on the mountains.

At the grassy bank multiple rises bubble up like a spring. I think there might be good fish mixed in the pod. I actually try a couple of little trico and pmd flies, but it's a cinnamon ant that brings me a hookup. The fish is small but mighty, a jewel of the Fork. It will be my last fish of the trip.

The wind begins to whip. John is already downstream at the sheltered bend. He has caught some fish by the time I join him. I forget how many or how big. Just more than me and bigger than mine.

There are still some rises over close to the far bank and John shows me where he moved a good fish along a weed mat there. I have high hopes. I wade out. The farther I go the deeper it gets. The bottom is mucky. Each step I take I have to yank my boot out of its grip. I get close enough to the far bank to make some casts. They're good casts, tickling along the edges of the weed mats and the blow downs. On a different trip, with my mojo working, they might have brought me the fish of the trip. Not this time. I slowly, carefully wade out. I get safely to the bank and it feels like the achievement of the trip.

John continues to wade around. I get the feeling he forgot to tell me where the stepping stones are. The fact is he's a few years younger than I am and still has some spryness left. He doesn't catch anything more but he has still outfished me for the morning. And for the trip. Nice work, John.

We eke out a little more time on the bank looking for more rises, but all too soon it's time to go.

We load up and hit the road.

We pass right by Bitch Creek. We stop as we have done in years past and debate whether it would be worth the hike to give it a try.

We know we'll also pass right by the Teton again so we decide to pass up the Bitch and hit the Teton one more time.

The river's namesake peaks are clearly seen today. We quickly gear up and wade in.

We only have an hour or so. It seems like plenty of time but it passes quickly and neither of us catch a fish. Rivers share the performer's credo: always leave them wanting more. We load up and head over Teton Pass.

At Jackson we turn right and make our way south toward I 80.

At sunset we're deep in the heart of Wyoming. As the sage brush flows by we're remembering the flow of the Fork that filled our eyes and hearts for the last ten days; and we're dreaming about the next time we will be able to immerse ourselves in its healing waters.