The Big Guy

Its not everyday one gets to fish with their mentor whose skills and generosity have made him one of the unsung figures in flyfishing.  Through the years Emmett Heath and I have revolved through a variety of doors before coming full circle and again find ourselves entwined in business once again and more importantly even fishing together now and then.  For both of us, at this juncture in our lives, our recent hook-up only seems fitting.  

Emmett infused his talents and sense of ethics over twenty years ago into our guide service.  That sense of ethics and stewardship drifted away during his absence.   It’s nice to have him mentoring a new generation of guides with his soulful philosophy and sense of right.  Given the way most guides operate these day, most could all use a dose of his wisdom and tutelage.

For the first time since rejoining Western Rivers, I and several of my staff had the privilege of fishing with the “Big Guy”.  This seasons summer seemed has passed much too quickly for anyone’s liking.  Knowing that opportunities to fish the Green River and spend some time with our guides was slipping away had several pulling the Red Eye on what would end up being a spectacular day.

It is amazing how easy it is to take a resource as spectacular as the Green and those that are in your backyard for granted.  That is something Emmett has never done nor lost sight of.  He’s rarely left this panoramic country, simply recognizing that this prolific fishery suits him just fine.   Each time I and others have the opportunity to be on his river, I’m reminded of this.  This day, like those in the past was no different. 

keen eye and perspective on his place in the history of the Green River and what a precious gem this uniquely clear river is.  We got a sense of that before we reluctantly parted company late that day, and in leaving a sense of regret that we hadn't taken the time to do this more often.  Such surreptitious journeys have become a rarity over these past years.  Such seems to be casualty of life as of late. All of us hoped that will change one day.

Argentina Revisited

Comfortable seated, tired and stuffed, I leaned back to gaze upon a foreign sky consumed.  In my hand the embers from a dying cigar glowed warmly, a hint of smoke drifting aimlessly in to the abyss of the Argentine night.   Overhead the Southern Cross slowly crept from beneath a cirrus sliver; the Milky Way intensely reaching from horizon to horizon off to its side.  It was the first clear night since arriving in Argentina and the first opportunity to partake in a ritual my first evening the Nuequen Province; a therapeutic conclusion to each eventful day.

Earlier the day began cold and unwelcome; winds ripped the meniscus from the rivers black reflective surface.  Sheets of horizontal rain added to the mix of challenging weather, yet we found more than a few trout willing to take our small offerings.  As the day progressed unrelenting winds tore at our efforts disheveling our casts grossly off target as if discarded bits of paper.

These elements seemed to suit this vast countries character, its lush valleys and raw mountainous landscape.  Such days at home are cherished, knowing all but the fairest of flyfishers will venture out. Here, where 53 kilometers of private water at your personal disposal one doesn’t have to subject themselves to such exigent elements to enjoy relative solitude; a luxury that does not go unappreciated.

Last year the enamored waters of the Rio Malleo left me skeptical of its rich history and legendary reputation. First impressions of this storied fishery were vicariously morphed from the impressionable and imaginative writings of the prolific Ernest Schweibert.   Prior to leaving San Huberto, home of the Rio Malleo, the discovery of a timeless journal lavishly anointed with the musing of past guests expressively depicting their memorable experiences on these storied waters left me with images tempering my departing skepticism.  Its last entry in 1999 was the final year Mr. Schweibert would fish this river with his beautiful flies and leave his gracious impression and artistic renderings in the torn pages of this eloquent find.
  

From its upper meandering and lush meadows to the Rio Malleo’s lower reaches there is significant contrast to its character.  Shallow riffles yield to elegant pools that flow through one of trout fishing most impressionable valleys.  At its head stands the valleys omnipresent guardian, Lanin, a discernable landmark that lies in dormant vigil at Chile’s rugged border.    Further downriver the lower valleys more confined river corridor finds turbulent waters sheltered by dense thickets of willow; refuge to some of the rivers more notable resident that so far have eluded my gifts of fur and feather.

Towards evening fragmented columns of light magically found their way through the Andes raw granite stonework; picturesque light illuminating the valley walls and yellowing tall grasses evidence of the days belated hour.  After a lengthy walkabout in search of more enticing waters I emerged from a dense copse of willow to find the most alluring of waters.  Evening’s first caddis frantically take to the air; their pupal sucks abandon and lifelessly adrift. Those that lurked in wait briefly exposed themselves not wasting the opportunity to dine on Mother Nature’s bounty.  For now, the trout superior in the food chain, fed uninterrupted, but in an instant as in all of life that can change.

Before departing to reconnect with my companions, I would experience one of those rare yet euphoric epiphanies that leaves one with the realization that anything other than appreciating the moment would detract from scale of what just happened.  It would come to it’s conclusion as the final piscatorial canvas, burnt orange and peppered in spots of the blackest ink,  slipped quietly from the cradle of my outstretched hands again to seek solace within these sheltered waters; its girth impressionable, the struggle filled with emotional swings, ending admirably in awe.

Before stepping from the river I paused to removed my hat, swept my hand across my midsection and bowed in a familiar gesture of gratitude and recognition.  Heading back evenings darkness had begun to blacken the western sky; distant peaks now absent of any illuminating light.  A cascading river and the ubiquitous chatter of parrots lent a sense of place to my surmising thoughts.    Momentarily among tall grasses I took stock of that which surrounded me and pondered the experience of fishing in an unspoiled setting where riparian corridors exist neither uninterrupted nor compromised by the presence of man.  Such is getting harder to find.

Upon leaving the Rio Malleo, I have a new found respect for the river that eluded me upon my first visit.  Looking back it troubles me that such considerations effected my perceptions; there should have been simple consolation in the eloquence of the resource, but as in life that which is obvious is not always easily observed.  I remind myself, the same can be true in fishing.         

Quiet Observation

In the growing twilight a lone trout rose uninterrupted from the placid mercurial waters quietly sipping dying mayflies haplessly adrift.  With each audible rise and residual tranquil dissipating ring of death the urge grew, yet I cast not a fly nor moved to do so.  I simply grasp the moment to relished the simple yet poetic act of life;  an act that only over time I’ve come to appreciate in simple observation content to not disturb that which was playing our before me. 

Harrmian State Park Threatened

There is movement afoot in Idaho to eliminate funding for the Idaho Department of Parks and Recreation (IDPR) by Governor Otter in an effort to trip the 2010 state budget.  In doing so he would move the state part system into the Department of Lands, saving the state and estimated $10 million dollars. 

For those who fish, this could and most likely will result in the elimination of Harriman State Park, home to the fabled fishery known affectionately as "The Ranch". This particular section of the North Fork of the Snake River, the Henry's Fork, was donated to the state of Idaho by the Harriman Family.   Under their aggreement, should the state default on any aspect of the agreement, the park would revert back to the family.  Should the governor get his wishes, that is exactly what would happen. 

Given the current economic climate, the move by Governor Otter are a threat to this national treasure and other valualbe resources in the state that are protected by their Idaho State Park Status.  For Harriman State Park and it's globally recognized waters, this resoucre is vital to those fragil communities that depend on this resource for their livelihood. 

To read more about the Governor Otters proposal read: 
Keep Idaho Department of Parks & Recreation. At the end of the article there are additional links to express your concerns to the Idaho Legislature and the Governor.   There is also an active petition:
http://www.thepetitionsite.com/tell-a-friend/6381547.

Make your voice heard.  Even if you have never fished these incredibly unique waters, it is imperative as an angler, conservationist, naturalist or user of this park to insure that the stay within the current system and remain protected for all to enjoy.  There are options, and far better ones than what is currently being sought by Governor Otter.

Intruder

A female river otter was recently transplanted to Utah’s Provo River. She arrived amongst great controversy from the fly-fishing community; a population that for the most part extols the virtues of wildlife. As more are released and they establish themselves within the fisheries riparian corridor, their impact will be closely monitored by all interested parties: biologists, anglers and other recreational users of the Provo River system. Only time will tell of their place and impact.

Across this country otters have been in a state of decline for a century. When the fur trade was at its peak in the late 1800’s and early 1900’s their desirable pelts led to the decimation of their population, as did any mammal with marketable qualities. Since then loss of habitat and pollution have continued to impact their numbers. In the 1970’s wildlife management agencies across the country implemented strategies to protect and mitigate habitats that were critical to these mammals. Reintroducing otters into healthy habitats where population had become critical or absent became an integral part of this process; a strategy that has been successful and well documented here in Utah.

In 1989 otters were relocated to Utah’s Green River. When anglers, guides, outfitters and local businesses learned of this, much criticism and concern followed. It was felt that the impact these animals would have on the trout population would detrimentally affect the fishery and in turn those whose livelihoods were dependent on this fishery. Two decades have passed since the first otters were introduced and their presence has benefited these waters in a number of ways, yet many in the angling community remain concerned and vocal about their presence. As long as they are free to cohabitate here and on other waters with similar attributes a certain level of narrow minded apprehension will exist.

At the root of the controversy lies an otter’s diet. On average an adult otter consumes 2-3 pounds of fish a day. With the Green and Provo River being several of the countries more prolific fisheries, anglers have thoughtlessly taken notice. Otters do eat trout, but given the option they prefer other more palatable species: carp, chubs or whitefish. They also have a liking for crawfish, a crustacean that is prolific in Deer Creek Reservoir, as are carp.

It is known that a predator based ecosystem leads to a more vigorous and stable ecosystem. In referencing this in a recent conversation, an acquaintance raised concerns about otters not having a predator base. On the Provo River, this is what I came up with: dogs, coyotes, bobcats, mountain lions, and eagles. I’d say that’s a fair number. Add one more noxious predator, two-leggeds.

While putting the finishing touches to this piece, I learned that the otter mentioned in the opening paragraph has already died. An errant surgical complication led to her death. To those dedicated to this project and others who see the value in it, the news was devastating, especially since she was pregnant. To many in the angling community, they couldn’t be more delighted.

I fish because it puts me in places of beauty; liquid corridors resplendent in life, removed from the pandemonium of city life. Although fishing often is the vehicle that transports me amongst such panoramic splendor, it’s the entire range of the experience that makes the activity so rewarding.

To fish a watershed void of wildlife would be nothing short of a sterile experience. I’m more than willing to catch fewer fish, to accommodate these otters and other species whose existence and ensuing impacts may result in more resilient habitats. Playing court jester to suit our own avaricious motivations, since we fish for sport and not necessity, seems rather maligned although not surprising.

Several years removed, in the predawn hours, a friend and I walked the banks of a river long before anyone else had yet to arrive. Our early jaunt had nothing to do with fishing, but to experience a river as it awoke, hoping to find its corridor yet undisturbed.

For a mile we traveled a path long worn by others before entering the rivers current to cross. Downstream, in the distance a placid pools stillness suddenly erupted into life. Perplexed we stood vigil until we identified the cause of the disturbance, otters. Having fished these waters for over 30 years, it was the first time I had seen them. In our still act of vigilance, they frolicked close enough for us to here their barks, elevated in protest at our presence before silently slipping beneath the rivers waters, deceptively disappearing.

The significance of this encounter erased all else that took place that day. We probably caught a fish or two, but that isn't what either of us remembered.

To fish waters where habitats provide the opportunity to witness a spectrum of wildlife heightens the overall experience. Although, trout play a vital role in the affair they are only part of the ecological equation. All others play an equally vital role in the ecological balance of those resources we derive sport from. In the grand scheme of things it is us who are the intruders, and not those who now seek refuge within this biologically diverse resource; a resource where the otters will have an impact, as do we as well.

Reflections

First Light on a Perfect Steelhead Morning!

With winter knocking on Utahs door step the significance of the years passage hits home. The season has transpired as if life's time table had no relevance. This year in particular.

BC at its Best

Fresh from the Ocean

November in my world brings closure to the season regardless of its success or failures. Although, in fishing with a fly their are no failures. Over the years I have relived many of my journeys through my photographs and journal entries.Novembers quite cold tempers shop life creating windows of opportunities where years past travels with fly rod and reel can be relived and recorded. It will be a while before my journal entries can focus on British Columbia. Although it seems a distant memory, the accompanying photographs keep those memories fresh. I’m grateful for that.

The Arsenal

Cheeks of Crimson

For the first time since arriving in British Columbia the sun found the western hillside poplars and cottonwoods illuminating falls shifting foliage. Having been pissed on the previous days, suns radiance was a welcome salutation. There are sayings when chasing these fish about the character of a day; some revitalize the soul others can inflict harsh punishment, especially at the end of a fishless day. All is not easy in this game, for either man or beast, yet such elements make those successes even more revered.

The Mind Sweeper


Poachers Prints

"Q"

As falls last leaves cascade haplessly to the ground, ocean travelers continue to trickle into the great watersheds of the Northwest until only the bare branches remain, signifying that the end to another year is near. Each year, the silent season arrives more quickly, and no more so than this one. Although some images and experiences linger, like tracks in wet sand they gradually disappear only to live on through photographs, diminished memories and abbreviated writings. But at least I have these, which like worlds waters that I am fortunate to wander I remain truly grateful.

The Way Home

The Journey Continues

Steelhead Paradise

Steelheaders Ills

Cradling the wild fish in the rivers glacial currents stung my hands. Her prominent reflective scales flashed silver in the late afternoon sun. A hint of pink flecked from the rhythmical movement of her gills continuing down here lateral line. River bottom was visible through the distal tips of her pectoral fins, now steady and flared at her side. I still remember upon first bringing her to hand the milky white appearance of her plumb belly and the scar that lingered at her wrist. With the powerful flick of her broad tail she vanished; a phenomenon I’ve witnessed hundreds of times that lends a hint of doubt that she or others were even there.

As arduous as her life passage is, it pales by comparison to those steelhead that travel in my home waters in search of those rivulets of their birth; she passes no dams nor through the toxic waters that lie behind them. Upon her return and those of her smolt they will not know the burden and the toll such ill conceived atrocities take on their kind. They will not now the indignity of being loaded into a barge and boated through stagnant obstacles; a distance they could easily manage themselves, yet such navigation often become fatal. The fact that many steelhead survive such a journey is testament to their kind. Instead this beautiful hen and those of this pristine drainage migrate through flowing waters unimpeded by man; a luxury that few other races of steelhead encounter these days.

Slowly I stood, mentally reliving the brief encounter taking stock of the scale of the experience. Before me a free flowing river that dwarfs those waters that make her whole. Her arteries fed from a resilient yet threatened labyrinth of glacial basins each sustaining their own unique species of steelhead. For the most part these stocks remain relatively healthy, yet some stocks swim these currents no more victims of commercial netting that could have easily been prevented. Given the world’s climates and other encroachments, these remaining stocks also seem to be following a similar fate. Each passing year I seem to ponder such notions more, yet marvel in wonderment at the grandness of this country resilient fish and the totality of what draws me here.

A formidable wall of ancient cottonwoods resplendent in fall color stand guard over this emerald corridor. Recent snows dust the granite peaks that tower overhead in all directions. Wisps of vapor dance around their formidable summits. October’s sun radiates upward from the expansive field of neatly strewn boulders where I ponder the plight of these fish, this vulnerable landscape and its rivers knowing the greed of man can change all with the stroke of a pen. The native peoples of this land whose lives for centuries lived in harmony with these resources know of such fates.

For decades I have wandered liquid highways a driven soul where steelhead have migrated since ancient times; an event so purposeful and eminent it lends a humble perspective. Each year the urge to return knowing life’s journey comes to and end becomes much stronger, the sorrow in leaving more painful. Wilderness, their rivers and their mysterious travelers evoke such thoughts and emotion.

Content I again enter the river my pace now tempered finding solace in each cast, and the gentle arc of the line as it slides across the water. Periodically I lean back taking stock knowing my travels here are coming to an end, yet in the same thought recognize my fortunes in having such opportunities. Upon returning home, I know I’ll ponder with detail these days and count the time between until I return. These are the ills of those who wander these landscapes in pursuit of such a noble fish.

The Drive

After midnight we would finish packing. Little dialog was exchanged between us after along day and knowing what lie ahead. Before departing we would stick a pair of twenties in the ash tray to cover food and gas during our travels. Such was life back then.

My partner invariably began the drive behind the wheel. His stints were always short lived. An hour or two would pass before he would be humped over the steering column, eyes a gaze barely pushing 40 in a 65. I’d put in a dip, pour a cup of coffee and take over. Sometime during the day he would comment on his state of refreshment. I never quite had that same sense, finding a mid day nap my only option for eluding the numbness that grew as the day lingered.

An hour into it our journey took us north, leaving the blue highway behind for two lanes our headlights the only luminance penetrating the sudden blackness. Through some of the west’s heartland we slowly progressed; agricultural lands dotted with cattle and neatly rowed crops lay juxtaposed yet hidden in the night. Periodically a lone light would signify an approaching farm. On nights it would rain, our travels became treacherously slow.

Sometime in the early hours of morning dawns first light would expose the Teton’s rising majestically on the horizon signifying that our drive was nearing its end. The fertile valleys were lined with rows of neatly sown crops interrupted by a smattering of small towns. Climbing from the valley floor to the caldera the landscape changed from fields to one pitted with sage, pine, aspen and varieties of wildflowers.

After camp was set, and fresh coffee was made before heading out to fish. By the time we’d reached the worn turn out, morning’s sun had removed any chill from the air. Methodically we would change; donning waders and assembling rods, attaching reels, carefully stringing the line, each lost in our own sequence of readiness. Spinners gather overhead; an orgy that plays out daily on rivers during the season. Eventually we would make the long hike through dense fields of Sage, Lupine, Larkspur and Mules Ear. For the first time since leaving there’s a sense of alertness knowing we’d soon be soothed by flowing waters and casting to rising trout.

Several decades ago “The Drive” lingered for seven laborious hours. Today, it takes a little over four, if one is motivated. Like this drive much has changed in our world. In some respects our chaotic and shortened world leaves me yearning for that period in time when life passed at a much more leisurely pace, yet one now can leave this polluted and burgeoning city behind to fly fish on some of the worlds most prolific waters all that much quicker. A trade off that I struggle to find consolation in knowing the affects continued growth will have on the west and those waters and landscapes were I seek solace. Unfortunately those who pursue such rabid development as sung by Jerry Jeff Walker "…have never seen the northern lights, never seen the hawk on the wing, and never seen the spring in the Great Divide…".

Part of the Picture

Fly-fishing’s allure draws us from a myriad of directions. From the exhilaration one demonstrates upon landing their first fish, to the emptiness that's remains after the fish of a life time eludes the net, to the visual beauty in the surrounding landscapes where we pursue our obsessions. Amongst those who cast wisps of fur and feather there are many similarities in what we find appealing, yet the sport is such that it allows us to mold it to ones personal needs.

Over time, I’ve been fortunate to fish many of the world’s fisheries. In doing so, I’ve come to appreciate the array of physical and emotional experiences that are generated when fishing with a fly. Looking back to my early beginnings my ventures where more singular in focus. Now there are a variety of reasons that create the urge to cast a fly. In the grand scheme of things, the beauty in the sport is how it caters to each at so many different levels rendering a profusion of life experiences.

Waiting for the evening rise....

Hoping for one more...

Over the years I’ve always enjoyed trying to capture the beauty in fly-fishing through the lens of a camera. Although not a photographer, the rewards and challenges of preserving images have become as satisfying as the moment when a fish takes a fly. On a recent trip I spent as much time filming my days on the water as I did fishing. Reflecting back on a life of fishing with a fly rod I remember few if any such ventures that were as visually stimulating. It was a rare moment when one could focus on the task at hand without being distracted by the dynamic weather and visual spectacles that Mother Nature continually displayed. Although the fishing was quite good, it became only a piece of that which was impressionable.

One that Got Away......

One that didn't.....

Ducking for cover....

In a thousand words, I couldn’t describe that which daily unfolds when fly-fishing. Yet lost in such images as these are Mother’s Natures music; the sound of Sandhill Cranes off in the distance, the wind as it rustles a pine, rain as it lands upon water, the cry of a Redtail hawk, or lightning that sends you to your knees knowing such a posture still leaves you exposed. Yet they suffice to elude a mood leaving one to reflect on the beauty we are confronted with when we venture out to cast a fly upon waters that leave us with images, begging us to return.

After Hours Tugs

Mid summer’s late evening light and July’s caddis hatches created the seasons first after hour’s Shop Rats night out at a local watering hole. After a long hot day of trolling behind the counter the thought of cool air and water is sufficient motivation alone to expeditiously flip the closed sign and head for the nearest productive water. Add some cold brews, a chew, the potential for an evening rise with your compadres, and closing time just can’t arrive too soon.

Prior to our hasty departure discussions as to choice of waters given we have several good fisheries within an hour of the shop occupied the quite times. Matt, a shop manager and one never of a mind to waste coveted fishing time settled the conversation; what’s the closest river that allows us the most amount of time on the water to fish? With that pragmatic approach we settled on the Weber River. The fact that this river also has some of the states most prolific evening caddis hatches and a fair number of sizeable browns only bolstered the beleaguered resolution. In the end it mattered little, yet generated much more than an idle thought.

We arrived from a variety of directions. Nick and Bryce rendezvoused at the Side Track Café, a favorite shop eatery in Heber City, for Pasta Night and a few cold ones before joining those of us who worked. Sometime around 11pm when we’d reeled in for the night their diversion proved a wise diversion.

Shortly after our arrival and rapid exodus from Matt’s Element, the local residents quickly amassed for a gathering in hopes of a quick easy meal. Several dove for the Deet when one paused long enough to intravenously take a blood sample before joining their mates.

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Bodies and gear were quickly sprawled about the ground in preparation for the evening hatch. Momentary confusion struck before the cluster of Patagonia Pack Vests were personally identified, given that’s what most of us fish with. If there was ever such a thing as chaotic organization, we resembled that conception. From a distance to the unsuspecting observer we may have more closely resembled a well armored swat team versus anglers preparing for an evening on the water.

Like ants we anxiously followed each other across the lush field to the rivers edge. From there we broke off into various directions in search of caddis and a seductive rise. By now suns heat had settled below the western horizon, the air now chilled. The tall streamside grasses yielded a few caddis as we moved about. Several worked their way over the waters mirrored surface, yet no trout rose to take the fleeting insects.

From the tailout, the footprint of a subtle rise grabbed the evening’s first attention. Shortly after that another rise appeared, the ring quickly melting with the ruffled surface of the riffle. Eventually several browns broke the waters rippled surface as caddis began to rise. A quick flip of a fly into the seam where several trout had risen didn’t drift long before dissappearing in the dying light. It wasn’t the largest of browns, yet its strength left an impression of a trout much larger. We hooked into several more spunky trout before the trout and the brief hatch ended among the growing darkness.

Succumbing to the inevitable we made our way under a star filled sky back. Several headlamps disappeared in and out of the dense vegetation, highlighting the others. On the frontage road, the dome lights from a vehicle showed others had given up earlier. They greeted our arrival with a welcome and cold beer.

It was after 11pm when we departed for home. Above us the Milky Way stretched across the horizon and drew considerable attention as we discussed the evenings mixed experiences. Anymore such sights are a rarity. One of the kids pointed it out. It was encouraging to see given most kids these days couldn’t recognize the

Big Dipper.

This will be one of several such forays now that the caddis have begun to pop. We talked of the fortunes we have here in Utah and the west before departing. Although such forays surrender moments of pandemonium, these evenings always make for a rejuvenating conclusions to a long day. This evenings experience was no exceptions.

Early Season

“A picture is worth a thousand words”. Through the windshield on a recent foray into trout country attempting to find fishable water makes one ponder the sanity behind such actions. At times during the early season journeys to western rivers and streams simply were a bust; reservoirs filled to beyond their thresholds regurgitating torrents downstream, monsoonal rains taking stream levels even further beyond their natural limits. Yet, the adventure of the unknown that early season fishing yields is often justification alone; seldom predictable, occasionally successful, always intriguing.

Given the patience of those who pursue trout with fur and feather this wet season has been trying. For others willing to roll the dice, there are rewards and discoveries that only the wrath of Mother Nature’s violence can conjure up.

If you are serious about finding good water to fish when seasonal conditions are so unpredictable better leave home with a full tank, a thermos of coffee or two, pack a lunch and don’t plan on heading pack anytime soon. You should also have a plan if you are hoping to have any opportunity at success. That said, even the best laid plans this spring have failed to deliver.

In a recent trek, the undertaking revolved around a reliable rumor involving Salmon Flies. Upon arriving at our destination, Salmon Flies may have been around, but the evenings down pour had negated any such opportunities. We moved finding the next piece of water in better shape, but also suffering from the previous nights deluge. Hours later we climbed to 9660’ the road eventually vanishing into a gray wet abyss before dropping into the canyon. Gnarled aspens still void of leaves eerily rose obscured by the summits dense blanket. This image fueled a growing skepticism. Descending the sun navigated through the ashen vapors illuminating a distant hillside lending hope to our dwindling spirits, the brilliant display only temporary.

Pulling over the rain continued to follow us, yet below the streams currents ran clear, a stark contrast from those waters we viewed earlier in the day. Rain drops dimpled the surface. Downstream a trout rose, its residual ring dissipating in the streams quiet currents. Those miles and swollen rivers we had left behind quickly transcended into distant memories.

PMD’s, Drakes, and Blue Wing Olives struggled to rid them selves of the stream. Those that struggled quickly disappeared, the streams piscatorial predators taking advantage of the easy meal. They showed the same eagerness for our flies, as long as the drift was true. At times that didn’t even matter.

At days end we gathered in a brief interlude of sun, riding ourselves of a damp chill. The valleys Aspens and Willows glowed, their newly emerged foliage shimmering in various shades of luminous green. Just before departing we witnessed a Golden Eagle’s rage as it fell from the sky in an attempt to red an unsuspecting Redtail from its turf both perilously plunging earthward. The hawk pulled up, the less agile Golden continued to descent before recovering to continue its ill time pursuit. This alone was worth the journey.