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: 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.

The Henry's Fork: Days 1 - 3

We're home safe and sound and the trip to the Henry's Fork is now a memory--and lots of photos. Time to be processing those.

What we call the Back Channel was our primary destination on the river. We'd get there early so John could walk the banks on his never-ending mission to scout for the rises of big fish.

Like clockwork the Tricos would pop and festoon the shoreline. In addition, Callibaetis were soon swooping up and down over the water, and a few Mahogany duns showed. We were especially happy to see some cinnamon ants on the water that first morning. Sometimes referred to as "trout candy" they are usually a harbinger of very good fishing.

Once the bugs showed up it was time to wade out to meet the fish who were meeting the duns on the water. Many smaller fish were constantly active, so you had to look hard to discern the heavier rises in their midst.

I tended to haunt this grassy bank where I have had success in the past.

That's where I found this lovely fish on our first full day on the water. It seemed like such a promising beginning. It simply popped up within easy casting range and happily took the cinnamon ant I offered.

Incidentally, my brother the wildlife biologist and all-around naturalist, identified the growth on that bank as sedge, not grass. So we tried calling it the "Sedge Edge" for awhile, but I soon reverted to the somehow more pleasing "Grassy Bank."  

This is where we would cross over to the island that forms the Back Channel. It's a historic site for us, the first place we laid eyes on the Henry's Fork and entered its salubrious waters. And it's the place we met "Miss Missouri," a young and comely woman from Missouri fly fishing the Henry's Fork back when female fly fishers were rare. We sometimes call it the Miss Missouri Pool in her honor. It was a prime location in those early days. I remember evenings when big fish would smack a caddis dun over along that far bank and quickly outstrip the reel in a breakneck run. We checked it carefully with each crossing for signs that it may have returned to its former glory. Not yet.

On the third day we went to another favorite spot, the Last Chance stretch downstream from the famous observation deck. John loved to prowl the banks for "bank sippers," large hungry fish rising steadily in one prime food-producing spot. He found some to cast to but did not find a hook up.

I looked but did not find any so took opportunities to become a "bank sipper" myself.

We spent the morning there on that third day then went back over to the Back Channel.

Later we came back to the Last Chance stretch, this time upriver from the observation deck. We might be in the city limits of Last Chance there.

All these locations have good memories of good fishing. One afternoon three years ago after a blizzard PMD hatch I found a fish actively rising in the riffle behind this rock. It was one of those big fish you sometimes find methodically mopping up after the chaos of the hatch is over. I hooked him and he was a heavy fish. He quickly bested me. This time the riffle was empty.

We stayed until the sun went down.

I caught a handful of "pleeps" on a swung soft hackle.

We were alert for a caddis hatch but were at the wrong place apparently. So we spoke the mantra of early fishing trips fully believing in its conjuring power: "Maybe tomorrow."

Let the Best Man Win

I'm in Idaho with my brother John. We're going to fish the Henry's Fork for ten days. We got here yesterday afternoon. By the time we were all settled in there was still time to get on the water.

This was my first fish this trip. Not so big but it's the first trout I've caught since moving to Indiana.

There were lots of  fish this size eager to chase a fly.

We fished until the sun went down in a blaze of glory.

This morning we went to one of our favorite spots on the river. There were multiple hatches going on throughout the day--pmd's, tricos, callibaetis, and cinnamon ants--and enough fish working to keep us busy and happy.

This was my best fish of the day, a fifteen incher.

But my brother landed an eighteen incher. Let the best man win.

Grateful

I'm back. My cataract surgeries are over and almost 100% successful. At the moment I have 20/25 distance vision, and reading glasses do very well for reading and fly tying and tying knots on the water. And spending time on the computer; I will be dropping posts here again on a somewhat regular basis. I have a trip planned for the Henry's Fork for ten days at the beginning of September but I think I'll take my computer for some posts direct from Last Chance.

Meanwhile I tested my restored vision in fishing mode as soon as I could get to the lake. Here are some photos of those recent trips to Yellowwood. She's bright and beautiful in all her late summer garb, and I was able to change flies whenever I wanted to. Then the last time I was there I was able to see the stars in all their glory. I even caught a Perseid meteor over the south end of the lake. I am grateful.

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