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.

The Henry's Fork: Day Nine

The ninth day on the Fork dawns cloudy and chilly. We wade out knowing that our precious time here is winding down. One tries not to dawdle but also not to rush. The swans arc into the swaddled sun; they get to stay longer than we do.

The clouds move on but the wind that moves them is here to stay.

We go back and forth between the banks and the tried and true fishy spots. John catches more than I do. Again. We're both a bit frustrated, me because I have caught precious few fish at all, he because he keeps catching them in the 16 to 18 inch range.

Both of us are hoping to find a fish in the 20 inch range, me because it would redeem the trip and give me the "biggest fish of the trip" laurel, he because, well, he's tired of all those 18 inchers he's been reeling in. Oh, and that "let the best man win" nonsense? It's an anticlimax; he was clearly the best man by day three.

John once again heads back to the cabin at mid-afternoon to spend time with his son. He'll pick me up at dark. I haunt the river. I notice that I've been fishing a cinnamon ant all day. I don't change it. I still have unshakeable confidence in it. It will bring me my big catch if anything will.

As the sun sinks in the west I hike downstream to a broad and slow bend that's somewhat sheltered from the persistent wind. I find a comfortable spot on the bank and wait for something to happen. This is my last evening here. This is my last chance to find that low light fish of the trip.

Fish begin to rise out in mid-channel. Then one begins to dine fairly close to the bank. I slip quietly into the water.

I get a good float with the ant and the fish sips it in. It's a good fish. I play it carefully. The tippet breaks. The fish takes the ant and most of my hope.

I tie on another ant. I wade out farther and manage another hookup, also a good fish, but it comes undone. Then the fish go down and the dusk thickens around me. That could be the ball game. We'll see what the morning might bring.

The Henry's Fork: Day Eight

The morning of the eighth day is frosty.

The river is a zen koan.

We meditate on the bank for a timeless space.

Fish start to ring. An Osprey pair dance in the sky.

I hike around the island. Some spooky risers are out there in the main channel. They do not want me there.

I follow John out by the first rocky point. There are fish popping up to look at our flies. Eventually a pleep sparkles in my net.

Once again the wind comes early. Feels like the earth's rotation has sped up.

John goes back to the cabin to hang with Jake. I am going to stay the day. First a lovely bankside nap.

I wake up and start upstream past the moose.  

I stop at rocky point number one. I fish it. The wind is still stiff but the lee of the point is fishable. And there are fish rising sporadically. I show them a cinnamon ant and they bump it and roll at it. I spend a long time trying to get them to take it. Later and even now I wonder why I didn't try another fly. When the memory rises into consciousness a long list of flies that I could have used reels through my aching mind. Must go back. 

I hike and wade back downstream.

I take a brief break back at my camp.

I then fish the back channel until dusk. John comes back and we fish until almost dark. Then back to the cabin and meditations on the sins of the day.

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.