Trout Trek Part V - The Undiscovered Canyon

April 17, 2016 -  Fishing Day 2

Sunday Adventure begins here

It was an act of negligence on my part to wait this long.  I should have taken notes at the end of the day, or early the next day.  Alas, many of the details of this day have faded.  Many key events are still vivid in my memory, but a good amount of the moment-by-moment images have been washed downstream.  I need to be quicker to record trip details, probably rely on technology a bit more.

I remember waking myself up early.  I had a mission before the day could begin:  get down to Headhunters Fly Shop and retrieve the Epic 686 unidirectional fiberglass rod that John Arnold had set  aside for me.  They opened at 7 and I was in the door at 7:12.  The rod was waiting and the staff helped me take care of the paperwork.  In hindsight, it was rude/unprofessional of me not to buy SOMETHING while I was in there.  I feel badly about that.  No, I feel stupid.  Apologies to John and Mark.

I was back at the lodge before Mrs. Fading Angler was out of bed.  Breakfast was excellent and served with Lindsay's usual flair and TLC.  As food settled, the tone got serious between Joe and his anxious clients, all two of us.  What ARE we going to do today?  The weather was expected to be nearly identical:  full sun, some breezes, slightly warmer.  We could run the same stretch from Craig to the Dearborn River ramp and expect about the same as yesterday.  I'd had my fun there, and was actually looking forward to something new and a little more challenging.  The decision was made to float the "lower canyon."  Joe said it would be a lot of trial an error, relearning how fish were feeding because of the flow, temperature, and weather changes.  There was hope for some rising fish in some of the shaded sections later on.  Finally, he was confident that we'd have a good time tucking into some deep eddies.  I was anxious to see some new water, as yet undiscovered by me.

Trout Trek Part II - Slow Mo'-tion

April 16, 2016 - Fishing Day 1

The River giveth, and The River taketh away
(click photos to enlarge)

There was nothing hurried about this day, in sharp contrast to the same weekend one year prior.  My 2015 solo fishing trip to the Missouri River (aka 'The Might Mo' or just 'The Mo') felt frantic.  Even the fish were in a hurry.  Not so this trip.  It was kinda zen.  There was even a moment of perfection for me that I doubt will ever be matched.

If you read Part I then you know we arrived late on the 15th.  Before retiring, Mrs. Fading Angler negotiated a late start time, reasoning that the cold, snowy day and overnight freeze had pushed the fish into hibernation.  The truth is that she didn't want to sit in a drift boat in the cold.  And I cannot blame her at all.  We all laughed, retired, and slept late.  Breakfast was spot-on: thick, perfectly cooked french toast and fresh strawberries. I opted for the Montana huckleberry syrup.  (More about the Lodge and Lindsay's gourmet cooking in a future chapter.)   Then it was time for a plan.  If there's one thing I know in life, it's that Joe Bloomquist knows this river, and deserves the nickname "Mo' Joe."  He asked what section we wanted to fish, saying that everything from Holter Dam to the lower canyon had been fishing well earlier in the week.  I was feeling nostalgic and opted to float from Craig to the Dearborn Ramp (see map if interested.)  Joe agreed.  His plan: hit the hotspots and look for rising fish in between.  After the prior year's bug hatches, I was really looking forward to some spectacular dry fly opportunities.  Paraphrasing German military strategist Helmuth von Moltke: No plan survives contact with the enemy.

Trip Report: Casting Lessons on the Big Horn River

I spent my junior high and high school years less than three hours from Fort Smith, Montana, yet never fished the Big Horn River.  Heck, I’d never fished the Tongue River up on top of the northern end of the Big Horn Mountains until a few summers ago.  Since then, I’ve felt drawn back to the lands of my youth to explore some of these waters, now that I chase trout instead of girls.

A playground for chasing trout.  Trout won't kick your shins.

I contacted Gary Thompson at the Fly Shop of the Big Horns in Sheridan, WY.  He put me in touch with Rock Creek Anglers for their professional guide services.  After discussing my goals for the trip, Gary’s suggestion was to spend my Friday on a float trip down the Big Horn River from Fort Smith.  With any luck, there’d be a decent trico hatch and plenty of opportunities for tossing dry flies.  His suggestion for Saturday was to wade Piney Creek downstream of Lake DeSmet between Sheridan and Buffalo in Wyoming.  This would be “private water,” since it’s located on private property.  Unlike Montana, Wyoming does not have stream access laws that allow angler access to moving water on private property without landowner permission.

I hastily packed my gear Thursday afternoon following a full day of work.  Actually, the word I should be using instead of “hastily” is “recklessly.”  You’ll understand shortly.  My wife shuttled me the 90 minutes (each way) to the MSP airport.  I soon settled in for a pre-flight double bourbon and relaxed for the trip into Billings, Montana.  I arrived 17 seconds too late to grab a steak at the restaurant I targeted near my Billings hotel.  The young lady literally locked the door in my face as I reached for the handle.  Montana hospitality ain’t what it used to be…

I spent a free night at a budget hotel near I-90, courtesy of some hotel points I’d earned in my travels for work.  After a 5 hour nap, I started tossing the day’s gear from the hardsided suitcase into a duffel bag.  Boots, dry bag, buff, folded waders in a stuff sack…  wait.  What the %@# was that?  When I tossed the waders across the bed, something lavender-colored fell out of the stuff sack.  Hmm.  That looks like the pair of my daughter’s socks that my wife borrowed when she tried on and purchased her waders.  (Insert long, painful pause here.)

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooooo…………  !

Pretty Sure I Was Dreaming

Sunrise on the Missouri River

Craig, Montana.  7 AM.

20 inch rainbow trout hooked and landed right here.  Look Ma, no net!

Happiness achieved.

The Blog at the End of the Universe

In many ways, this writing project is about restoring or finding hope.  I won't deny that I'm hopeful that somehow the universe will guide a few lost souls here and that a few of those will actually take some time out of their lives to do a bit of reading.  This is hope in its purest, mythical form.  Perhaps even delusion.  Not only that, I find myself crossing a line: I'm planning to offer advice.  As if The InterCloud isn't already awash in beneficial information about fly fishing, I'm hoping to contribute something of value.  When I analyze the idea of offering advice, a few things cross my mind.

Gravity

Shall we wax metaphorical for a moment?  If the future is like the sun, then I can confidently state that I'm living under a cloud layer.  Occasionally, a brilliant shaft of light penetrates the gloom,  but cold half-tones and thunderbolts are my future forecast.  Call it a low spot, but I seem to have given up most of my hope for the future.  The alluring radiance of the future has become obscured by the fog of a progressive, degenerative neurological disease with no cure.  As Parkinson's Disease gradually slows me down  physically and mentally, many of the things I used to dream of no longer make much sense.  So what does make sense?  I tell myself that I should hold tight to something I'm passionate about, pursue it with as much energy as I can spare.  So why fishing, and why fly fishing for trout?

We have met the Enemy, and they are Us

The fact that I'm writing again means that I'm suffering from a serious affliction.  Sadly, it affects far too many people, especially anglers who've sat through a long winter.  We suffer from an insidious illness that's been festering in the cold weather: hope.

I'm hoping for time on a cold, clear stream in the near future, in pursuit of trout.  I hope for many more such visits this spring, summer, and fall.  I have a brand new St Croix 3-weight fly rod that whispers to me at night like the One Ring:  The Precious wants to return to The Master.  (Yeah, I know I'm stretching the metaphor.)  Once I figure out how to have a few successful fly angling sessions in Southeastern Minnesota's "driftless region," I hope to bring my kids and wife along to share the experience with them.  We all have decent fly fishing outfits now, and I truly mean to take the time to fish while I can, before the parts of my brain that are in decay make it too difficult to fish anymore.  I will fish with my kids, teach them what I can, and demonstrate the patience and love my father showed to my 3 brothers and me.  With any luck, my wife will want to come along and join in the fun from time to time.  Someday, fishing "by proxy" through them may be the only fishing I can do.

I plan to write, as well.  I need to remind myself that perfection is the enemy of "good enough."  I don't need to write several pages at a time that might be worthy of publication in Field and Stream.  I just need to release the words, let them swim away, out into the wild.  (Wow.  I think I just make myself sick, a little...)  And I apparently need to suppress my inner critic.  Writing has always been a laborious and painful process for me, as I imagine it is for many/most writers.  I have friends who can produce long, elegant blog postings with a mere wave of their pinky finger.  I can't let admiration and envy be a barrier.  Just like I can't burn the candle at both ends for work anymore.

An example of a site I recently discovered and admire: Silk Lines and Paper Hulls.  The author, Gary Thompson, lives around Sheridan, Wyoming, and I'm seriously envious of him.  I miss Wyoming, even more so since I finally fished the tiny Tongue River on top of the Big Horn Mountains near Sheridan this past summer.  Gary also writes very well.  His most recent posting, Empty Pockets, talks of a day of settlement, looking back on the previous year and realizing you fell short of your expectations of yourself, letting far too many little things get in the way of living.  My time on the Tongue River, last summer, one short afternoon where I reeled in that gorgeous cutthroat trout and ran nose-to-snout with a young moose, was my one trout outing for the whole year.  My settlement shows a lot of red in the ledger.

I have stories I wish to tell.  Telling them in imperfect fragments will get results.  And I plan to make more fish stories this year.  Please, Inner Critic, do shut the hell up and stop telling me that this whole thing reads like a New Year's Resolution.  Perhaps a glass of Pinot Noir is in order...

Welcome aboard.  Enjoy the ride.

--Me and the Little Voices