I would start here, creekside, a kettle spewing black over the fire as it overboils, a few of the precious coffee grounds covering the twig-run fire below. The sizzling subsides as I carefully remove the pot from the dingle stick rig, surprised that it held up, and place the kettle on the granite rock beside me to let the grounds settle before I perform the graceful act of swinging it in a circle with the full extension of my arm, the breeze blowing mist from the large waterfall into my face on the warm summer day.
The redcedar branches above me cast shadows of octopi swimming deep in the blue pool in front of me, spooking fish before I can break the film of the water with my first step. I had jumped two spruce grouse on my way down to this spot; of course I always see them before the hunting season comes and they retreat back to the No-James Zone.
But now a bluebird sings its bluebird song, I munch on a few of the huckleberries I picked on the way over, and I watch.
From this waterfall springs three runs this time of year: the left, the middle, the right. A month ago, the runoff would cause the pool to fill and run fast where you could nymph if you really wanted to but why? These creeks are made for dry flies. In a few weeks, the water would be lowered to nearly a trickle or three, the pool lower and the water at a temperature that just isn’t worth fishing for the sake of the native westslope cutthroat that inhabit this creek.
For a few weeks each summer, this creek holds the best fishing in the nation. The fish? Not big (a ten-inch is good, the 13-inch one I caught here last year an absolute monster), but hungry and seem like they have never seen an artificial fly in their life. The location? Close enough for a half day trip, far enough through the weeds and bushes and thorns that not even a deer trail is seen. Parking? Hidden in the wide open where I could have walked in any direction to any curious, wandering eyes who see my car parked where it is at.
It is a little, hidden piece of heaven that only I know about. Every fisherman has their spot, and this is mine.
I swing the coffee pot around in vertical circles a few times, place my kuksa on the old rotted birch leaves that look more like cardboard refuse than their vibrant fall colors of yellow and orange and reds, and fill the cup. With the first sip, I see activity along the far run from the waterfall. A few small insects were hovering. Gnats, I supposed.
But then I saw them emerge, splitting their skin and leaving what they knew for 90% of their estimated lifetime to fly in the warm air, feel the force of the waterfall, and be slurped up by a trout in front of me. Blue wing olives. Small, but manageable.
I took another swig of my coffee, and started to rig up my fly rod. The fish here aren’t usually too picky, but I had a small #18 BWO pattern to throw on my small 7x tippet, an unnecessarily small tippet for this type of fishing, but I had a roll of it that needed to be used up. Yet, tying such a small fly on such a small tippet always makes me feel a bit older each and every year, and this is the second summer in my life where I kicked myself for leaving my readers at home. But after a successful improved clinch knot, I put my wading shoes on, had another cup of coffee, and made my way into the cool, North Idaho water.
I watched from a distance as my shins acclimated to the chill, and the left and the right runs had a trout rising every minute or so. Nothing in the middle, which was normal. The middle held the bigger trout typically, and they were there but they rarely ever rose up to any bug. It has been like this for as long as I can remember. But I always start out with a blind drift down the middle, and I always get a rise. I don’t know if it is a fisherman’s luck, the fact that this is my spot, or if my imitation fly is more realistic and delicious looking than the numerous mayflies currently hovering above the water. This time was no different.
Before I could blink, my fly was taken and I set the hook. The rod bent, and I wasn’t prepared for how heavy the resistance would be. My 3 weight rod went this way and that as I held on and started stripping in line. The fish jumped, and I could have sworn I was transported back to a 17-inch cutthroat I caught on the North Fork of the Coeur d’Alene a few years back.
But in this creek? I snapped back to reality, played the fish, and lost it mere inches from the net. A loud guttural sound emitted from my mouth, loud enough that I may have attracted other fishermen in the area in my direction with the sound only known as “large trout lost” to most. I had never seen such a large fish in one of these alpine creeks, nor have I seen a westslope cutthroat so large in Boundary county. I pulled my line in to check on my fly and saw the culprit of the lost fish: the 7x tippet. I had snapped the fly off by playing it too hard. I have caught bigger trout on the same tippet, but I also played them a lot differently. I began kicking myself as I cut the 7x in frustration and added on the tried and true 5x I would normally tie on in this pool.
After a few six-to-nine-inch trout landed, I made my way back to my spot on the shore with a still half-full pot of coffee. After pouring another kuksa full, my emotions poured over me. I have a three month old baby at home, a five year old, and a wife. The amount of time I have had to stay home in the heat to watch the baby rather than experience the creek like I was today was too much; the ratio was nigh backwards.
This lost trout was more than just that; it was more so a lost part of me. That trout was my freedom slipping from me. Losing that trout was like some grand metaphor of leaving behind the life I had comfortably fallen into the past few years in exchange for more responsibility – less of giving to myself, more of passing on parts of me to my loved ones around me.
It may be selfish of me to nearly consider it a burden, but any parent that says they don’t miss what they had before an infant came is someone I would consider a better liar than me.
A better liar than any fisherman.
As I finished the coffee, I knew that my thoughts would go back to the sheer happiness of being surrounded by my children when I step back through that threshold of our house and have them in my arms. But for now, I sighed.
A few months back, I could have squeezed out a couple more hours without too much anger from my wife when I gave her a call after getting back into service and the civilized world. Today? I would be castrated and the family jewels would be put up on a mantle (that I would have to build beforehand since our house doesn’t have one).
The time was set to mope my way back to the car and live in that moping until I get home where I start to remember what life is all about. We have all lost a big fish before, but it doesn’t mean that it won’t be there next time or the time after that. The day was a good escape, but even the best career criminals will get caught at some point.
Tight lines out there, friends.
