A river runs through it.
Sunday, May 24 2009
4:45 am
Wake up to my alarm. Crawl out of my sleeping bag, then my out of my tent and stretch out the kinks. Put a pot of water onto the Coleman and head to the outhouse. It rained late yesterday and the grass is still wet.
5:00 am
Coffee is ready and as I start my first cup I can see that the sky is beginning to brighten up. It's overcast but not cold. I dig out my gear and put fresh tippet on my leader. The campground is full but it looks like no one else is up yet. I finish my first cup and gather my gear as I start my second cup. My vest was hanging on a branch during yesterdays downpour but it isn't as wet as I had expected.
5:30 am
Start a fire for my friends and step into my waders. The air is calm and quiet except for the sounds of the river. As I step into the water at the bridge I notice a thin pair of wispy clouds stuck in the canyon upriver.
I open my flybox and grin at the sight. On one side are a variety of flies, mostly nymphs and emergers. The other side holds a dozen familiar looking tan and orange flies. Sandy Mites. I had been pestering the guy at the flyshop in Ashton to carry them for years. He finally buckled and had about a hundred in stock when I stopped in yesterday. Tied on a #12 and waded to the middle.
My first cast was pretty sloppy, barely reaching the thin channel along the far bank. Before the current could take it my line went taut. Fish on! Played him quickly and netted him. Hayspur Rainbow Triploid. Fish and Game stocked the river 3 days ago with about 2,000 of them. This one is about 8 inches, a typical stocker. It's going to be a good day.
6:30 am
Finished the run from the bridge to the bend and stepped out at my campsite for another cup of coffee. Gary and Daniela are still sleeping but others at Warm River campground are beginning to stir. A Father/Son team is gearing up at the pavilion. I better get back on the river before they crowd me out.
7:30 am
I stepped in just above the bend, claiming a stretch that contains my 2 favorite holes. I call them "the eddy" and "the rock" and they are my best chance of hooking a native trout in the campground.
The eddy gave up 2 stockers so I switched to a salmonfly before wading down to the rock. The two fishermen above me were getting too close anyhow. I worked the rock for longer than I should have and moved on without a strike. Switched back to a Sandy Mite and finished the run to the end of the RV sites. Hiked back to camp.
8:30 am
Gary and Daniela are just getting up when I return to camp. Start more coffee and brag about all the fish I caught. Daniela asks to see them and I explain that I usually release them, as I had done this morning. She's disappointed because she had never eaten a trout before and was looking forward to it. Then Gary gives me the "yeah sure you caught a gaggle of trout" look.
I had no choice. As they started their first cup I grabbed my spinning rod, a jar of Pautzkes and stepped to the bank.
Truth be told, drifting an egg from the banks of Warm River should be illegal for anyone over the age of 12, especially on Memorial day weekend. Within 15 minutes I had six 10" stockers on the grass. 15 minutes after that they were sizzling in a frying pan. I showed Daniela how to properly fry and bone a trout and we all had a fresh breakfast.
10:00 am
Puttered around camp until lunch enjoying the day.
1:30 pm
Roasted a set of hot dogs for lunch, put my waders and boots into a backpack and headed up the Yellowstone line trail. The hike to the honey hole is about 3 miles up the trail then a 400 foot scramble down the canyon side to the river below.
3:30 pm
Changed into my waders and realized I had left my fly box on the table back in camp. My only flies I had were the Sandy Mite tied onto the tippet and a pair of stone flies hooked into the wool patch on my vest. I swapped out the nymph for a #8 brown stonefly and stepped off the bank with high hopes. I could see my landmark, a huge cast iron wheel sitting in the riverbed just under the waters surface, assuring me I was in the right spot. I worked that hole for about 30 minutes and began moving downstream towards camp, hopping from one hole to the next without a strike. Feeling the frustration set in I switched back to the Sandy mite as I approached "the slide" and started working the channel off the far bank. There was another fisherman squatting on the big bend hole so I took my time hoping he would move on. After an hour of waiting I reeled in and was about to leapfrog him when he moved to the bank and sat down. I made a beeline to the top of the bend, switched over to my only remaining fly, a #12 orange stonefly. I drifted the bug through the channel 4 or 5 times when my rod bent in half and line began zipping off my reel. I set the hook and the fight was on. I could feel his weight and was sure my tippet would give way when he turned upstream right towards me. Ripping line off the water as fast as I could, I caught my first glimpse of the fish. a nice brownie. I finally caught up with him but had a birds nest of line tangling around my legs and net as the line once again grew tight. I started backing up higher onto the gravel bar I had been standing in and worked him into knee deep water. After a few brief moments I netted him and was finally able to admire his beauty. He measured 21 inches and weighed somewhere around 5 pounds. As I was releasing him back to the warm river and could hear the fisherman sitting on the bank cursing about how he "knew there was a brute sitting in the hole". We chatted a few minutes and I changed back into my hiking boots and walked the riverside trail back to camp.
7:00 pm
Started a dinner fire to grill some ribeyes and got a load of charcoal going for the dutch oven cobbler I planned for dessert. Camp was buzzing and campfires were crackling in just about every site.
9:00 pm
As we rested in our camp chairs, telling fish stories, we watched as a Moose and her calf stepped into the river on the far bank. We enjoyed some cobbler and relaxed at the fire as it burned down to shimmering coals. Sipping whiskey we sat in silence, mesmerized by the flickering coals and the subdued sounds of campers settling in for the night.
10:30 pm
Crawled into my tent and inchwormed into my bag wishing I had remembered to bring a pillow. The only sound was the rivers gentle voice, speaking to my soul, a few feet away.
As I lay there in the dark quiet, I wondered if a more perfect day could ever be experienced.
4:45 am
Wake up to my alarm. Crawl out of my sleeping bag, then my out of my tent and stretch out the kinks. Put a pot of water onto the Coleman and head to the outhouse. It rained late yesterday and the grass is still wet.
5:00 am
Coffee is ready and as I start my first cup I can see that the sky is beginning to brighten up. It's overcast but not cold. I dig out my gear and put fresh tippet on my leader. The campground is full but it looks like no one else is up yet. I finish my first cup and gather my gear as I start my second cup. My vest was hanging on a branch during yesterdays downpour but it isn't as wet as I had expected.
5:30 am
Start a fire for my friends and step into my waders. The air is calm and quiet except for the sounds of the river. As I step into the water at the bridge I notice a thin pair of wispy clouds stuck in the canyon upriver.
I open my flybox and grin at the sight. On one side are a variety of flies, mostly nymphs and emergers. The other side holds a dozen familiar looking tan and orange flies. Sandy Mites. I had been pestering the guy at the flyshop in Ashton to carry them for years. He finally buckled and had about a hundred in stock when I stopped in yesterday. Tied on a #12 and waded to the middle.
My first cast was pretty sloppy, barely reaching the thin channel along the far bank. Before the current could take it my line went taut. Fish on! Played him quickly and netted him. Hayspur Rainbow Triploid. Fish and Game stocked the river 3 days ago with about 2,000 of them. This one is about 8 inches, a typical stocker. It's going to be a good day.
6:30 am
Finished the run from the bridge to the bend and stepped out at my campsite for another cup of coffee. Gary and Daniela are still sleeping but others at Warm River campground are beginning to stir. A Father/Son team is gearing up at the pavilion. I better get back on the river before they crowd me out.
7:30 am
I stepped in just above the bend, claiming a stretch that contains my 2 favorite holes. I call them "the eddy" and "the rock" and they are my best chance of hooking a native trout in the campground.
The eddy gave up 2 stockers so I switched to a salmonfly before wading down to the rock. The two fishermen above me were getting too close anyhow. I worked the rock for longer than I should have and moved on without a strike. Switched back to a Sandy Mite and finished the run to the end of the RV sites. Hiked back to camp.
8:30 am
Gary and Daniela are just getting up when I return to camp. Start more coffee and brag about all the fish I caught. Daniela asks to see them and I explain that I usually release them, as I had done this morning. She's disappointed because she had never eaten a trout before and was looking forward to it. Then Gary gives me the "yeah sure you caught a gaggle of trout" look.
I had no choice. As they started their first cup I grabbed my spinning rod, a jar of Pautzkes and stepped to the bank.
Truth be told, drifting an egg from the banks of Warm River should be illegal for anyone over the age of 12, especially on Memorial day weekend. Within 15 minutes I had six 10" stockers on the grass. 15 minutes after that they were sizzling in a frying pan. I showed Daniela how to properly fry and bone a trout and we all had a fresh breakfast.
10:00 am
Puttered around camp until lunch enjoying the day.
1:30 pm
Roasted a set of hot dogs for lunch, put my waders and boots into a backpack and headed up the Yellowstone line trail. The hike to the honey hole is about 3 miles up the trail then a 400 foot scramble down the canyon side to the river below.
3:30 pm
Changed into my waders and realized I had left my fly box on the table back in camp. My only flies I had were the Sandy Mite tied onto the tippet and a pair of stone flies hooked into the wool patch on my vest. I swapped out the nymph for a #8 brown stonefly and stepped off the bank with high hopes. I could see my landmark, a huge cast iron wheel sitting in the riverbed just under the waters surface, assuring me I was in the right spot. I worked that hole for about 30 minutes and began moving downstream towards camp, hopping from one hole to the next without a strike. Feeling the frustration set in I switched back to the Sandy mite as I approached "the slide" and started working the channel off the far bank. There was another fisherman squatting on the big bend hole so I took my time hoping he would move on. After an hour of waiting I reeled in and was about to leapfrog him when he moved to the bank and sat down. I made a beeline to the top of the bend, switched over to my only remaining fly, a #12 orange stonefly. I drifted the bug through the channel 4 or 5 times when my rod bent in half and line began zipping off my reel. I set the hook and the fight was on. I could feel his weight and was sure my tippet would give way when he turned upstream right towards me. Ripping line off the water as fast as I could, I caught my first glimpse of the fish. a nice brownie. I finally caught up with him but had a birds nest of line tangling around my legs and net as the line once again grew tight. I started backing up higher onto the gravel bar I had been standing in and worked him into knee deep water. After a few brief moments I netted him and was finally able to admire his beauty. He measured 21 inches and weighed somewhere around 5 pounds. As I was releasing him back to the warm river and could hear the fisherman sitting on the bank cursing about how he "knew there was a brute sitting in the hole". We chatted a few minutes and I changed back into my hiking boots and walked the riverside trail back to camp.
7:00 pm
Started a dinner fire to grill some ribeyes and got a load of charcoal going for the dutch oven cobbler I planned for dessert. Camp was buzzing and campfires were crackling in just about every site.
9:00 pm
As we rested in our camp chairs, telling fish stories, we watched as a Moose and her calf stepped into the river on the far bank. We enjoyed some cobbler and relaxed at the fire as it burned down to shimmering coals. Sipping whiskey we sat in silence, mesmerized by the flickering coals and the subdued sounds of campers settling in for the night.
10:30 pm
Crawled into my tent and inchwormed into my bag wishing I had remembered to bring a pillow. The only sound was the rivers gentle voice, speaking to my soul, a few feet away.
As I lay there in the dark quiet, I wondered if a more perfect day could ever be experienced.