A Big, Beautiful Rainbow

Sebastian, our three-year-old grandson, just started attending Day Care. Yesterday he brought home his first coloring project.

Henry's Fork Report: Fourth Day

Our last planned day of fishing found us once again on the Teton. John would fish the Henry's the next day before heading to Idaho Falls for a flight out the following morning. I, however, would leave in the morning as soon as I could get packed up. It seemed I would have to wait to fish the Henry's until my next trip, whenever that would be.

It was a day of shifting light and shadows, intermittent showers, and distant thunder.

Our plan was simple: to bust upstream as far as we could get, fishing every inch of water there and back.

Every bend revealed new sweeping banks, tumbling riffles, and tantalizing runs.

We discovered that bead head nymphs drifted deep would bring up the fish. Prince nymphs couldn't miss.

There were also occasional risers, and an Elk Hair caddis would elicit enthusiastic and entertaining takes.

I finished fishing this section downstream, turned, and saw the moose standing in the river ten yards upriver from me. This time he bent down, took another drink, then waded to the four foot bank, stepped over it like it was a mere curb, and wandered off into the riparian meadows. That's the last we saw of him.

While we fished, we soaked in the view of the Tetons. Every time you looked, the view was different.

We finally turned and fished our way back downstream. We continued to catch small trout all the way back. The last trout I caught was another brilliant cutthroat.

Then it was time to pack up and start the drive back to the campground. We would stop in Driggs, we decided, for a farewell Mexican dinner.

As we made our way down the gravel roads leading to the pavement that would take us into town, the sun broke low out of the clouds and a double rainbow filled the sky.

And so we said our goodbyes to the Teton River under a cutthroat sky.

Rocky Ford Creek Report: Perspective

It was the first day of Spring, and I wanted to be at Rocky Ford Creek at the exact time of the vernal equinox.

On my journey to Rocky Ford I pass right by Lake Lenore, a Lahontan cutthroat fishery. I noticed on my last trip that it was open: fishermen were all over it. This time I stopped and talked to a couple guys who said the fish were in the north and south ends already, something they don't normally do until April.

I made a note to get the float tube ready and give it a try on my next trip, but, as the guys said, "Be ready to squeeze in elbow to elbow."

Rocky Ford was a little more crowded than usual, too. I wasn't the only one who wanted to celebrate the first day of Spring on the water.

I found the fishing slow. I managed to hook a few small fish, but the larger trout were eluding me.

At least I wasn't distracted by constant action, so I was able to keep track of the time and be ready for the moment of the equinox. So here is what the the arrival of Spring looked like at Rocky Ford Creek. 

I fished some more, but I wasn't doing very well. The truth is, all the time I wasn't catching anything, or catching another little trout, there was a guy downstream on the opposite bank reeling in one nice fish after another.

My competitive nature kicked in for awhile, and I tried hard to outfish him. But after a time I had to admit that my heart wasn't in it anymore. It was time to accept that sometimes it's someone else's day.

There were two things weighing on my mind. The first was that when I got out of the truck there was a fluid leak under the engine. I didn't open the hood then, but I checked the fluid. It seemed to be plain water, but I couldn't think of any explanation for it. I decided to worry about it later, and now it was later. I wanted to have some daylight for troubleshooting, and some extra time in case someone had to drive down and pick me up.

The other thing on my mind was that I had lost a good friend that week. He had gone in for knee surgery on Monday, and died suddenly early Tuesday morning. His memorial service was going to be the next morning, and I had some things to do in the service that I had been going over and over in my mind.

So I left the water and headed for home. The first test was to see how the truck ran. It ran fine. So now I could stop worrying about that and concentrate on my friend's memorial service.

The view of the mountains to the west fit my mood, and I had some extra time, so I pulled off on a couple of gravel roads to get a better vantage point.

It was good to see those snowy peaks rising out of the misty distance. It was good to remember that they had been there for eons, and would be there for eons more. They helped put everything else in perspective.

It had been a good day, and tomorrow would be a good day, too.

June Goes Over the Rainbow

Trout Lake Report: All Is Well

The heat stays for another day. The town's time and temperature sign makes it official.

The lake is as hot as the town. The wind is gone and the sun is bright. Everything basks in the heat.

A fellow angler has usurped my parking place on the north end. I go on to the northern limit of the lake. Yesterday's break area becomes my new put in. It puts me right on the doorstep of where I lost the good fish. So that's where I begin, casting and stripping a big muddler. I probe the area carefully, but this time nothing comes.

I start around the lake, working the muddler into the contours of the shoreline. It becomes a discipline after awhile, a ritual of hope. I move fish but seldom hook up. When I do hook up, the fish, with the reckless energy of youth, run right off the hook. I enjoy every minute of it.

I have covered a lot of water, and the sun is dipping behind the mountain, when I pay heed to the writing on the wall. It is an ant evening. They dot the calm surface. Some wriggle helplessly, some lie still in a spent position. The fish make no distinction; they eat them all.

I tie on my winged ant imitation. The fish eat it, too.

I fish the ant until dusk, then switch back to the muddler. I cut the tippet back to 4X. I start working up the other shoreline. Soon it's too dark to see the fly land. But I cast and strip. The bats don't mind me, but the beavers are alarmed. They depth charge all around me as I pass. I hope I don't hook one.

I get a bump, then a take. I've been thinking big marauding Browns, and my heart skips a beat, but this is a medium-sized fish, a Rainbow. I admire its spirit and release it without a photo.

I work all the way up to where yesterday I had seen rises ripple the reflection of Venus. I cover the area but nothing moves. By now Venus has set behind the mountain. I turn and head back, stripping out line and letting the muddler trail far behind me. The stars are bright and a light breeze freshens, bringing the scent of pines still warm and redolent from the sun.

The line pulses and a fish is on. I play it in the dark, net it, and see by the faint afterglow in the west that it's another Rainbow, bigger than the first. I record it for posterity.

I use my head lamp to find the take out and climb up to the truck. By the time I start the truck and pull out onto the road it's ten o'clock. And all is well.