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.

Fly Tying Video Library

From Fly Fisher's International comes an extensive Fly Tying Video Library. Click the link to check it out.

Hit and Miss

I get back to the vise and concoct an improved muddler for Clear Creek. This one is articulated. That stinger hook just might cut down on lost fish.

Articulated Smallmouth Muddler

Shank: 1 3/8" articulated shank

Hook: Gamakatsu B10S Stinger #4

Thread: Black

Tail: black marabou, thick; or a few wraps of black crosscut rabbit strip;

then four grizzly hackles, two on each side; finally some flash, thick

Body: Grey Ice Dub, thick

Rib: tying thread, back and then forward again

Head: spun natural deerhair, cut bullet style

Collar: deerhair tips, flared 360 degrees around shank.  

I want to get even further downstream today. On the way to the fast water I do take a moment or two to probe the bend and test the fly.

It swims beautifully. The extra weight of shank and hook let me keep it in the killing zone.

It's a hot and steamy day, and there's a severe storm on the northeast side of town. I'm on the southwest side, though, and the sun breaks out. I congratulate myself on outmaneuvering the heavy weather.

I work through the deep runs without a touch, mindful the whole way of those spots that held a fish the last time I was here.

Then, where the stream widens out again, I find a scrappy smallmouth in a whole new lie. They do keep you guessing.

I take a water break and find a micro environment in the crotch of a tree.

Up ahead someone has stacked some stones. These cairns are controversial on mountain trails and summits where the moving of hundreds or thousands of rocks over time may have a detrimental effect. Here in the stream, though, I find them pleasing to the eye.

I come to the long pool in a state of zen. 

I find another smallmouth hanging out where the riffle dumps into the slow water. Like the previous fish, the take is hard, the fight is explosive, the jumps are high. But today, unlike my last trip, the hook holds fast.

I'm looking forward to that new riffle and run I discovered last time, but before I get there I realize the sun is gone and heavy clouds are moving in. Fast. Guess the joke's on me as far as the weather goes.

I'm not concerned about the rain--I'm once again wading wet. But I hadn't thought about wind. The wind hits like a wall and the woods are thrashing overhead. Sticks and leaves begin to rain down.

I'm suddenly thinking of all the downed trees I've seen along this stream. Just then there's a rending cra-a-a-a-ck, and a large branch whumps to the ground on the right bank. Then another cra-a-a-ck and another heavy branch hits on the other bank. I'm wondering if it would be safer to stay in the middle of the stream when a branch crashes into the water five feet away from me. I hustle over to the high bank and get under--guess what?--a fallen tree that hangs over the bank. Maybe that will afford some protection.

Then, as the storm comes on at full force I burrow under the bank itself. It seems safe. After a few minutes the wind dies down. I don't hear anymore branches or trees falling.

The rain moves in. I'm not hot anymore.

As the rain gradually slows I come out of my retreat and check out the branch that just missed me. That would have hurt.

So far there has been no thunder or lightning, but now I hear thunder grumbling its way toward me. Time to go.

I turn and head back upstream for the truck. I leave some geodes on a rock. I think I've got enough at home for now.

I pass the bluegill nests, now empty.

As I get around the bend where I will wade into the woods and take the fisherman's trail to the crossing, the rain picks up and the lightning and thunder are beginning to put on a show.

Just as I get to the truck the sky opens. I climb in, soaked to the skin, and start the drive home.

By the time I get to the highway the storm is moving off to the south, and by the time I get home it's over.

I reflect on the fact that fishing is a matter of hit and miss. Weather, it occurs to me, is the same. And so, it must be said, is our own personal safety, especially when we push the limits on our fishing expeditions. We weigh the risks and take our chances, because we know that with risk comes reward. At least we hope so, but the reality is that when all is said and done it's hit and miss.

It could have been a hit for me. I'm grateful for the miss.

Full of Summer

Between trips to Clear Creek I visit Yellowwood. The lake is full of summer, and fish come just often enough to keep my deep reveries from becoming full sleep. Still, coming to the end of the day, and of the long, liesurely fishing loop, is like waking from a very good dream.