Norman Maclean writes in his seminal story, A River Runs Through It, “one great thing about fly fishing is that after a while nothing exists of the world but thoughts about fly fishing”. He hits the nail on the head here when there is a point in a day of fly fishing (or a life of a fly fisher) where they will become immersed in the activity and everything surrounding them melts away, the angler connects with nature, and they are fully present in the moment. While Maclean wrote this while approaching a large fish in the Big Blackfoot and wondering where and how to put a lunker on the end of his line and land it, I tend to think this way all day, every day. In my mind, and the minds of many other anglers, there is always a trout rising in the back of our head.

It was just another average day on a river in Boundary County. I had an early morning of removing about as many hooks from the branches of overhanging western redcedar as I had removed from smaller 6-8” trout. This section of the river was extremely fishy, but also very taxing on the fisherman with how they have to maneuver. Steep banks and high, almost canyon-like walls box me into the waters and boulders to which I had to climb with precision with my bamboo rod in my hand. The water was still running a bit quick for the time of year, and for days I hadn’t seen a significant hatch. I had traveled about a half mile or so on the banks of the river so far, and there was another half mile to go before I arrived at my exit route from the canyon. I found a nice boulder with a flat top to sit on and have my lunch, which consisted of a few pieces of lefse, a hunk of brunost, and a summer sausage. Then, like an aquatic ballet on the surface of the water, a hatch: mayflies. The air filled with them, and I was able to snag one quickly in my hand. Nearly bright yellow in color, a long abdomen, roughly size 12. I search my boxes, laying my fingers over numerous grey and purple Adams patterns. I open up another fly box, and there it is: the yellow quill dun. The mayfly in my hand had two caudal filaments, and so did the quills I tied. With a quick change of flies on the end of my tippet, I was up and casting.

The fishing was technical here. Fast moving water, limited breaks in the current, and loads of overhanging branches and vegetation behind me indicating that the roll cast was my only option. One pool rested behind a large boulder near the far end of the river about thirty five feet away. This is when I had a moment of deja vu. I have been in such situations many times before, but this was almost too close to the first section of Maclean’s story. Norman was in this same situation while his brother Paul watched from above, telling him “the fish are out farther…just a little farther…instead of retrieving the line straight toward you, bring it in on a diagonal from the downstream side…” Then, on cue, I saw the fish rise, just as Norman did: a black back of a head coming up to feed on the recent hatch.

I drew my line downstream and pulled up at a diagonal, increasing the water load and whipped it forward. The fly line rolled out, and landed into the backwash rolling towards the downstream side of the boulder.

But a perfect cast, one of those casts that you just know that a fish will strike, does not guarantee the fish. A good magician can fool you, but you can also know quite easily that the card is up his sleeve. I talked to the fly, mending the line and letting it float back into the calm. I raise my rod for another cast and that is when the fly gets slammed.

The fish cuts around the rock and takes off upriver, then cutting sharply into the current before running back down towards me. I followed him with the tip of my rod, giving slack and pulling back when it was safe to. I couldn't lose this fish. It couldn't be the one that got away. Then, a jump. The dark orange of the setting sun shone off the side of the fish, accentuating the greens and pinks and the very telling red line across the body. An Idaho rainbow trout in all its glory with my size 12 quill fly pattern hanging from its lip. Not the biggest, maybe just over 16”, but it fought like a giant.

The old click and pawl spun and sung its wonderful song as the fish darted into the current and down the river. I held the line down harder onto my grip, and reeled in the slack. I let go for a second and the current-influenced trout took another five feet from me before I could jam my hand against the reel to stop it from turning. The fish was in control now, and I stumbled down in knee deep water with it over loose rocks and through muddy spots. I kept it from running back into the current another two times and at the bank closest to me there was a bit of slack water so I tried my best to run the trout back into the slower water hoping that it was beginning to wear out and that I could bring it towards my net–but the trout had other plans. With a good bend in the Goodwin Granger, the fish pulled back towards the current and raced past me and up the river once again. I pulled the slack in as quickly as I could and the trout jumped again, flailing harshly in the air before it spat the fly out and it was gone forever.

I trudged back upstream to my boulder where I caught my breath and calmed my nerves. Maclean interplays the ideas of fear and hope throughout his story, and how these emotions are integral to the experience of fly-fishing (and the human condition as a whole). The hope was found in the chance of catching a fish and the fear is found in the possibility of failure with the loss of the fish. Or, on a broader spectrum, hope is the chance for grace in life, joy in what the world brings you and what you can return to the world, and to find a personal and spiritual space in the natural world. Fear represents a large portion of that space for us in the fear of failure, fear of the unknown, and the fear of loss to make things general.

My fears were founded in the loss of this fish, which would have been my largest river trout of the year and largest trout out of this particular river in all the years I had fished it. But I had the experience, I lived it and I am able to share it. Now, I have a trout out there to find once again, slurping mayflies in a calm retreat of water amongst the roaring flows of the river. It’s a story to tell to my child when I finally get him out to the river, and it is an experience that I hope he has at least once in his life. But knowing him, he will land it and hold it above my head for the rest of my life, and I will be there smiling, acknowledging that he has found hope and joy in the same things that I do. I have no fear about that.

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As for a quick fishing report (June 6), the Koot is still fairly high, but according to Leanna Young at The Last Resort here in Bonners, the water is clear and the flows are pretty great for floating and fishing right now. The Moyie was still a bit fast but once all the snow is off the tops of the Purcells and/or Queen Mountain, give it about a week and the Moyie will be very fishy (which with our current heat wave and the fact that this will not be posted for another week and a half, it may be great right now as you read this). The mountain creeks are still flowing hard and fast, and I would expect them to provide some very good fishing about mid-late June. Deep Creek is now open to bagging Rainbows and the normal spots are looking quite fishy.