Henry's Fork: Second Day

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We felt more acclimated that second night. It also wasn't as cold. We got up bright and early and ran into Last Chance for some quick supplies.

I found these at the checkout: Idaho Spuds! I haven't seen these since I was a kid in Nampa running across the street to "The Little Store" to spend my allowance dime on one. I remembered them as being more tasty than this one was. Still, nostalgia has a good taste all its own.

We had talked over plans the night before, and we had one: Bonefish Flats. We wadered up at the observation deck parking area and headed on down the trail for the mile and a half or so hike to the Flats.


It was a gorgeous morning, and we were in no big hurry. We took our time and watched for risers. This stretch is famous for its bank feeders, big fish that tuck up against the bank and settle into a steady feeding pattern. You usually find them after a hatch, as they settle into a current seam on the inside of a bend and mop up on the bugs concentrated there. But you can find them anytime. When you do find them, you get to engage in a truly specialized fishing experience, and often a supremely frustrating one, as the trout are locked on to one thing and one thing only, and simply won't give you a break.




I remember a bank riser one evening many years ago that slowly but surely drove me temporarily insane. Everything blacked out except that fish, oblivious to me, and rising, rising, rising, rising as I obsessively--and compulsively--threw one fly after another at it.

Since then I have learned: Be the Pelican.



We found a few fish working out a ways from the bank, like this one. You can just see its riseform flowing off at the top left of the photo. I cast a few times to it, but it moved out farther, and then dropped down out of casting range, a behavior I, at least, would see many times that day.



The Tricos had been swarming, and tiny little black Caddis were crawling all over us. A good buggy day that promised good fishing.



We split up at the Flats. John crossed to the other side and I wended my way around the bend to a long, wide, shallow glide that has held many fish in the past. And they were there.



They appeared to be on the Trico spinners, so I tied on my #20 and went to work. There were pods of good fish out in the wide open flats, and I got a few good floats, and a couple of takes, but no hookups. The fish knew I was there, and they were skittish. They would drift away from me, still rising and feeding. So it was cast and wade and cast again.



These fish are famous for being spooky, and for good reason. This section got the name "Bonefish Flats" because it's flat and shallow, and the fish have precious few places to hide. So they're extremely vigilant and don't hesitate to move away from any threat.

I spent all morning chasing big fish without success. At one point I decided to tie on a soft hackle and see if a big wide swing might pick up something. But just then a big flying ant hit me in the forehead. I looked at the water again, and big cinnamon ants were dotting the surface.

I tied on an ant.

Someone has called these big ants "trout candy." The trout love 'em. A good ant fall is something much to be desired, by trout and fishers, and our best years here have been when the ants were on the water.

The fish were really up now, good fish, big fish. Pods of five or six or more were rising every which way, often poking their heads out of the water as they enthusiastically gulped the ants. I saw one head--I'm not kidding you--as big as an anvil, and tried to get close enough to cast to it, but one thing I've learned here is, the bigger the fish, the quicker they'll go down until you go away.

I fished hard, and got a few takes, and a couple of hookups, but one was a small fish, and the other came undone for some reason.

And always, the best fish were just out of reach and moving away. Such is fishing on Bonefish Flats.



Then the wind came up, and the fish went down. By then John had worked his way around the small islands scattered along the flats, and we waded to shore for a break as the Tetons appeared through a break in the clouds. It's nice to catch no fish with the Tetons as a backdrop.



It turned out that John had outfished me, netting three good fish and losing two. (Good fish, but under twenty inches.) He spent some time reviewing video of the morning's successes.



The wind built in intensity, and there was a heavy chop on the flats. The sky, meanwhile, was putting on an amazing show.



We decided to start working our way back upstream, and found some fish working, too, in the sheltered water along the lee bank. John caught a couple more, and I continued to get rises to the ant, but still didn't bring anything to net.

It was right about here that we heard a single elk call, way off in the distance. It brought back memories of one year when we had stayed late at the Flats and were hiking back along this section in the dark. We had heard elk all afternoon, and now, in the dark, we heard a loud, clear bugle on the opposite bank. We stopped, and heard the bull and an unknown number of cows splash noisily across the river and come out on our side.

We held our breath as the band began moving off into the grass and sage, not sure whether the bull knew we were there. He did. He bugled, and it sounded like he was only ten feet away and looking right at us. The message seemed eminently clear to us, and we didn't move a muscle. Finally, after a suspenseful silence, we heard him follow after the cows.

We waited until he was far away before we dared move down the trail again.



Back at the Last Chance stretch John waded across to look for bank feeders. He found one. I could tell because he very uncharacteristically stayed in one place for a long time. I waded over to see how he was doing, and to see if there might be a bank feeder for me. But the fish had refused everything he threw at it, then dropped down out of casting range, and finally stopped rising. To John's credit, he took it very well.



Clouds were building in the west as we patrolled the far bank looking for more bank feeders.



We stayed with it for awhile, but didn't find any fish, along the banks or anyplace else.



Then we simply sat down to rest and watch the clouds build and roll toward us.



When lightning began to bloom all along the base of this cloud, and we heard the first long, low rumbles of thunder, we waded back across and headed for the car.



We were able to get our waders off and settle into the car just as the wind and rain hit.



We drove into Last Chance and ran through the rain to buy a bag of ice. By the time we came back out of the store the sun was peeking out from under the storm cloud as it moved off to the east, and as we turned onto the road and started for camp a huge double rainbow appeared over us.

By the time we got to camp the rain was done, and by the time we were finished with supper and ready to hit the sack the stars were out.

We slept well.

Henry's Fork: First Day

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That was a cold night. We were in a tent, as we had been on every other trip to the Fork. We've had cold before, and even a taste of snow one year. But when we rolled out in the morning there was consensus that maybe we were getting too soft in our old age for tent camping at 7,000 feet in September. But then the sun cleared the ridge and the day turned warm, and we agreed that September was prime time for the Fork.

We cooked up some breakfast that first morning, but it was the last morning we did. Too much fishing to do to waste time at the camp site. We'd just fire up the coffee pot, stuff some munchies in our vests, and throw some lunch things in a bag in case we decided to stop for lunch.

Even with breakfast, we got on the river in good time. We savored the moment: a fresh start on the river of dreams.

There's a place on the river we love. It's the place where we first found big fish, where I first hooked and netted a decent fish of 17 inches, and where I caught my first twenty incher, and several more besides. It's a place where brothers have bonded, memories have been made, and stories born. It's off the beaten track--it takes a ford and a bit of a hike to get to--and often the only other fishers we see are Eagles, Ospreys, and Pelicans. There have been some years, though, when hatches were sparse and big fish nowhere in sight. We wondered what we would find this time.



The Tricos were swarming along the bank when we got there, and the pleeps were up and feeding hungrily. "Pleep" is a term we first heard at the Fork, and it has become a part of our lexicon. It refers to the sound a little fish makes when it takes a bug off the surface: pleep. We were listening for the sounds of bigger trout: ploops and plops.



It wasn't long before Trico spinners began to appear on the surface, and some bigger fish moved out to join the fray.



We were there waiting for them. This is the good stuff, as in amongst the pleeps you begin to discern the bigger riseforms of bigger fish. You move in carefully, ignore the little guys, and target the big boys.



Sometimes they'll stay where they are. Sometimes they'll move off just beyond casting range, or go down and come up thirty yards upstream or downstream.



Sometimes they'll take your fly, if you get it in their feeding lane, avoid any drag, and make sure it's drifting over them right when they'll be coming up for the next mouthful. Most times they'll ignore it.



I tied on a #20 Trico spinner with long wispy tails and went to work. Both John and I hooked a few little fish as we were trying to get the big boys to take. Even the little guys are strong and fast, and they do themselves proud. But wait 'til you hook into a big guy.

I finally got a take from what I thought might be a better fish. I tightened and--yeah, I know it's a cliche, but it's what happens--the water exploded. A nice fish came up and jumped, then bore down for a run. I was able to turn him and begin working him in.

Surprisingly, you have a better chance of landing a big fish than a small one in a weedy river like the Fork. The smaller fish dive instantly for the weeds. Both of us lost several fish, and one or two flies, due to that frustrating tactic. The big fish, though, will make a run close to the surface, counting on their speed and strength to get them away from danger, escaping into the weeds only as a last resort. All you need to do with the big fish is keep their heads up. Easier said than done on 6X tippet.

I was succeeding with this fish, though, and was holding him against the current, close enough to see that he was a good fish, in the 17 to 19 inch range, maybe even pushing 20. I was just thinking about reaching for the net, when he turned, arced down and up with all his remaining strength, and launched himself out of the water a good three feet. When he splashed down, my line was limp. I thought he'd broken me off, but he'd simply jumped off the hook.

Good show, fish.

You know, I could have gone home then, content with the adrenaline rush of that great Henry's Fork moment. But I was really glad I didn't have to.



The Tricos began to dwindle, but we were seeing Pale Morning Duns, a few Mahogany Duns, and a mishmosh of other bugs. We took a break and compared notes. John had caught a couple in the 14 to 15 inch range. He had to listen to my story of the Lost Fish. It was lunchtime by then, but we decided lunch could wait until supper. We changed flies and went out again.



We ranged up and down that stretch and found good fish working all afternoon.



We found some plooping away and fished them together. John had told me about being broken off by strong fish, something I found hard to believe. (It's what we do; anything we hear that we weren't eyewitness to we automatically find hard to believe. Any size estimates that we were not present to verify we automatically reduce by a factor of 2. We may be smiling and nodding our heads, but we're doing it.) But then I watched John masterfully hook a fish and get broken off in about three seconds. Then I masterfully hooked a fish and got broken off in about two seconds.



I still found it hard to believe, even though I'd seen it with my own eyes. These were hot fish. There was no headshaking or jumping. No, these boys just turned on the jets and ran like powerboats as far as they could until they outraced the drag and the tippet popped. Or maybe, remembering the roostertail the tippet made as it was ripped through the water, it was simply the weight of the water that snapped it. Whatever was happening, it happened to me three times. The third time I thought maybe I had him. I bet I had him on for four seconds before the tippet parted.



That was a fun afternoon, but all afternoons wane into evening and the close of the day. We took a break and went back upstream to see what the evening would hold. Many smaller fish were up, and as I waded from the bank toward the middle of the channel a big fish moved out of the weeds ahead of me leaving a long wake. That gets you ready for some fishing.

There were many rises, though I couldn't make out any that looked like bigger fish. I cast to this rise and that rise, got some misses and some takes. I caught a couple like this one, beautiful, strong fish that make you pay attention as you're bringing them in.



It got darker, and I thought maybe that would be it for the first day.



But there had been a steady riser upstream from me and to my left. It wasn't a big rise; I heard neither a pleep nor a ploop. But it was steady. So I moved up a little and laid down a cast to it. Then another. I was getting good floats, and each time the fish would come up again.

Now, I have to be honest and say I was pretty sure it was another small fish. Maybe that's why I didn't get nervous or tight, something that can definitely happen when you know you're casting to a big fish. So I calmly laid out another cast, got a good float, and the fish came up and delicately sipped in my fly.

I tightened and began to strip in line, as I do for small fish. I don't know who was more surprised, me or the fish. He turned toward me in a big swirl and the line went limp for a second. I stripped furiously, still not sure what I had. When I came up tight on him again he came up like a racehorse breaking out of the gate. Then I knew I was onto one of those fish that keep you warm with memories through the long winter.

He ran right, then left, then right, and I quickly got him on the reel. He jumped, then jumped again, but I was able to keep him under control. And then, after a bit of maneuvering, I had him in the net. What a wonderful fish.

As you can see, these are heavy fish, perhaps the best conditioned fish we've seen at the Fork. And I have to report that, just out of idle curiosity, I measured my actual left hand across the knuckles. It's four and a half inches. Then, just for fun, I measured how many times my hand fit on that fish in the photo. Five.

Now let me see, that would come out to...just a minute...22 and 1/2 inches. But, since I wouldn't be able to get that measurement certified by the Bureau of Weights and Measures, I'm willing to knock off that half inch. (Even though, clearly, in the photo the fish is bending his head toward the camera.)



What a great day, one of the best we've had on the Fork. And what a pleasure to have such a good day on our favorite stretch.



We were back, and so was the river.

Henry's Fork: Arrival

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This was our 11th arrival at the Fork, each one sweeter than the last. It's always my brother John, and sometimes my brother Pete. This year Pete couldn't make it.

The first time we saw the Henry's Fork was on a swing through Idaho hitting as many of the famous trout rivers as we could. We started at the South Fork of the Boise, hit the Big Wood and Silver Creek, and then got to the Henry's Fork.

It blew us away. It also humbled us. We decided then that we'd keep coming back until we got it right. And even if we never got it right.

I don't know if we can say we've got it right, but we're veterans now, and we know how to find the big trout, stalk them, and sometimes catch them.

Maybe that's why we love this river so much: you can have enough success to feel fully satisfied, and still go home with enough unfinished business to keep you awake nights until the next time.

We converge on the Henry's Fork. I come in from the far west--Washington--and John comes in from the far east: Maine. While I was making the eleven hour drive from home, John was flying into Salt Lake City and driving up from there.

He got there first. But when I finally pulled into the parking area at the Last Chance stretch he had just gotten into his waders. I quickly followed suit. It was close to sundown, but when you get to the Fork with any daylight left you get out and see what's what.

We headed down the old familiar trail and took a look.

Some bugs. But no fish rising.



But space, lots of space.



And silence. Lots of silence.



We weren't in Kansas anymore.




We reminded each other of the good reports we had been hearing about the Fork, and speculated on what we might find come morning.



That was enough to get us heading back to the cars, eager to set up camp, get a good night's sleep, and wake up bright and early with four whole days ahead of us with nothing to do except find those fish.

Henry's Fork: Preview

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Last week was the Henry's Fork. Great trip. The sky, the Tetons, the river. Makes you feel like you're tucked into the heart of everything that's real and true.

And the fish. There were some fish.



I'm off to Oregon on a non-fishing trip. Then more on the Fork.

Lake Report: Feeding Frenzy

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I was able to get back to the lake again after a few days' absence. I was a little surprised, though not too surprised, to find the campground almost full again. Spring and Fall brings them out. It usually makes me thankful that my home waters are a worthy vacation destination for others.

Sometimes I head for the farthest reaches of the lake in order to avoid the crowds and noise, but I set up once again along the weed beds where the channel opens out into the upper lake. That's right in front of the campground, but it's also where I've caught some nice fish the last few trips. So I fished with the homey soundtrack of people--and dogs, always dogs--having fun in the wilderness.

It was breezy when I arrived, but I like that these days. The riffles make the Big Bomber more effective as fish, safe under cover of the riffles, don't hesitate to come up to grab anything that looks edible. The riffles also delay the tendency of the fish to lock onto a hatch, so they are much more willing to vary their diet.

Sure enough, I got some takers on the Bomber. I don't usually flop the fish down in the canoe, but they're feisty these days as the water cools down again, and this one muscled out of my hands as I was trying to get the hook out.
This one hit the fly, missed--or I missed--and then chased the sunken fly and hit it again.
The breeze started to back off and I changed tactics. Usually I'm trying to find the fly that the fish are willing to take. This time I wanted to use some flies that I had just tied and see if I could entice the fish to take them.
I started with a Henry's Fork Hopper. I tied it for the Henry's Fork, obviously, but I was curious how these fish would react to it. I'd have to say it's no Big Bomber, but I caught a couple of fish on it. This was the best one.
The wind sat down and fish started rising. Everywhere. The midges, of course, were thick, and the trout locked on and tucked in.
I tied on an emerger. It was the first thing I tied after sitting down to the vise after a long break from tying. Usually that means throwing something together with whatever is near at hand. The main feature of this emerger is a big yarn ball for the floater.

Again, not a raging success, but I finally got a little fish to take it.
After that fish the yarn ball was too wet to float. I kept the fly on for awhile hoping that might increase its effectiveness, but I got nothing. By now the frenzy had begun. An amazing number of fish were up and going nuts. This photo doesn't do it justice, but it's one of many pods moving along sucking up midge emergers.
I had one more fly to test, a little caddisy dry. Nothing. So I tied on a leech and retrieved it in through the boiling fish. I caught one fish. Then I tied on a little "Maydge," a light hackled dry with a wispy tail that could be a midge or a may. By then it was deep dusk, so I was casting into the sky's reflection so I could see the fly. Many fish ignored it, but one finally came up on it.

I set and started to strip it in thinking it was another little fish. No, it wasn't a huge fish. That's not where this is going. But it was a nice fish who took off on a run and pulled the line out of my hand, picked up all the slack and took some off the reel for good measure.

I didn't mess with the flash to try for a photo. So here's to you, fish.

Fish were coming up everywhere, and there were some good ones in the melee. It was the biggest feeding frenzy I've witnessed on this lake. I heard some otters making the most of it. They have a distinctive chuffing sound as they clear their nostrils of water. But it was near dark and time to go.

Later at home, as I thought about the evening, I remembered the first Fall I was here. I had just discovered this lake and didn't have canoe or float tube yet, so I was bank fishing. It was later in the season and the lake was way down. I remember fish boiling in the narrow channel. I would tie on a tiny black nymph and chuck it out in the middle of the fish. Invariably the line would suddenly start to move as a fish picked up the nymph, I would set, there would be an explosion, and the tippet would pop. I went through a lot of tiny black nymphs.

That was frustrating. But that's the kind of frustration fly fishers feed on.

So next time I'm going to tie on a tiny black nymph, throw it out into the frenzy, and see what happens.

Henry's Fork Training Film One

Trip's coming up soon. John, Pete, watch and learn.

Just in case.