After a ridiculously long swig of caffeine, me and Alex head in the
car and drive off down the mountain to the Fork, speeding past all the trees until we reach
the dam, our first spot.. I head down and immediately go down to “Hole
Reliable”, the large hole that has always had fish in it. I balance myself
precariously on a log, and prepare to cast. I make a cast in the middle, and
seconds later my strike indicator dips under, and a fish is on. It’s quite a
fight, the clear fast flowing streams really turn the fish into street punks,
and I fight it against the current. It’s funny, although these fish are too
small to break my 6X tippet, I still play it like a tuna on sewing thread, and
soon enough, I lift a nice cutthroat into the air, about seven inches. I can’t
see Alex, so I announce as loudly as I can to the forest that I caught a fish, and
then it squirms from my hands and swims away. I place a second cast in the same
spot, and the indicator dips under, announcing another fish. I soon land the
slightly smaller cutthroat, about five inches, and then release it. A couple
more missed strikes, and I head to the car to fish some more downstream, and
soon enough, we stop at a visitor stop, which is more high-gradient than the
rest of the stream. I explore a bit, making some casts with no fish, then I
move on. Alex complains that he fished a giant hole with no fish, when I remind
him that generally when fishing a giant hole, one doesn’t stand in the middle
of it. We then move to another section, a stretch behind the hydroelectric
power plant that has always been the producer of the best fish. In order to reach the stretch, bushwhacking is required, and this time I fail
so badly I end up behind the stretch and need to climb over logs to get back
(this is why I use the loosest waders I can find, the tight ones stiffen up)
and get right in front of Alex, who went the easy way and has been happily
fishing the hole for several minutes, making cast after cast while I have been
untangling my line from alders and ponderosa pines. Covered in dirt, I unhook
my fly from the cork, make one cast…and the strike indicator goes down about
three feet. I don’t even need to set the hook, as I have a large (for the
stream) trout on, shaking its head and fighting like mad. The rod’s in a
perfect U shape, and for several minutes I fight the trout to a standstill,
when I grab it around its body and struggle to keep in still for a picture
while dad struggles to get the iphone out to snap a picture of the assumed
eleven inch cutthroat, which by this point has lost all of its parr markings, a
sign of maturity.
Unfortunately, for the picture, I make the mistake of holding
the trout close to my body, which makes it look miniscule in the photo. I
release the fish and move on to a spot about five feet from the end of a log
that gradually descends into the water. I make a weak cast about three feet
away, and the strike indicator digs down into the water. Man, nothing gets your
adrenaline pumping like a strike indicator suddenly going down. Another
cutthroat. I unhook and release it, then get another fish on the next cast. The
next six casts each produce cutthroat ranging from four inches to eleven
inches, and I easily go seven for eight, with the eight being a trout that shed
the hook. Eventually, lockjaw sets in and the trout refuse to bite (all this
time dad has been tying on a fly), and by this point Alex is in the next hole
upstream. I expertly navigate around him to the tail of the hole, and begin
casting my nymph over his dry fly. After a few casts and a few tangles, he
gives up and heads upstream, and I take the entire hole to myself (why do you
think there are never any other fishermen in this river?). The funniest part
is, as soon as he leaves the hole, I set my hook into another cutthroat, which
makes ten (five is a good day), and I release the little trout into the deep
hole. I make a few more casts, and then get into number eleven, which looks so
similar to number ten that it might be the same fish, but common sense
dictates. I move upstream to the “epic spot” and climb on a log and, just for
fun, fish from up there being right on top of my strike indicator, and I have
fun until the strike indicator dips and I come to the sudden realization of my
being about five feet above the water and about to land a cutthroat. I raise my
rod in the air, bringing the trout, when the hook rips out and the fish falls
in the water. Ouch, although I see it swim away fine. The fishing’s done for
the day, and I reflect on the numerous trout landed that day. I inhale deeply.
This river has always smelt the sweetest; I feel like I belong here in this
river, the trees, the clear water, the fish, the wildlife, the partially broken
vodka bottle I nearly stepped on, everything makes me love this river, even
beyond the fantastic fishing this place has to offer.
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