A true fisherman plans
his outings around the best likelihood of success. The mad fisherman takes any
event and decides while he is at it, he might as well fish. So if Reese
were the son of a true fisherman, he'd have planned his wedding during peak
cutthroat season- AFTER run off, but he is not, he is the son
of a mad fisherman.
I was astounded that as
we debated the water volume and the weather, neither Pablo nor the Mule
recalled the exact same debate no less than two years ago when
we decided to damn the torpedoes and hit the winds in September and were aptly
rewarded. So when Pablo took his characteristic position, "I don't
know, water is high and weather is $&^%", "I'm with you
boys" was Hondo's sharp analysis, so as usual, it was left to the Govna to
exercise rational thought, concluding, "well, if were just going to be
hanging around I'd rather do that in a tent in the river of no return
wilderness listening to rain on the tent fly than on Pablo's couch pouring over
maps of drive to fishing locations."
At O-dark thirty on
Thursday I heard Hondo roll in. As expected, his meticulous planning and
forethought had begun no less than 8 hours prior and he'd packed all night, but
was in good spirits given the spousal adjudicative discourse which had accompanied
said packing. But that is all part and parcel of the Mule's load.
So in the Honda CRV we
headed to Salmon Idaho where we'd gain entrance to the Frank Church Wilderness
and a week of unknown experiences. The ride was long, 4 hours, but
enjoyable as Hondo shared his latest wood working exploits and Pablo wallered
around in the back seat trying to find a position that wouldn't aggravate his
slowly healing back., causing us all to wonder exactly how he was going to hike
20 miles in some of the roughest terrain in the lower 48, but then again, I've
seen Pablo cast to rising trout while giving birth to a son and a daughter.
The ride in from Salmon
was marked with gathering clouds and fits of light rain. As the river
appeared we were elated to see it's rocky bottom- at least we were past
chocolate milk stage, but we could not discern the volume. It was
thrilling to be back in this wild and rugged place and as we strapped on the
bags, we were greeted with a flurry of wet snow flakes and a thick orange
marmot scrambling for cover. Spirits were sky high. The roar of
the river soon joined us as we hiked through the steep upper section, pausing
to peer at the swift current, pocket water and massive log jam.
We took one quick
break at a deep pool where Hondo broke out his new rod and from a down log
platform smoothly launched a few dry casts into the back eddie across the
current and against a steep rock wall. A couple of good swirling drifts
with no rise likely signal no fish in the hold. We carried on to the
meadow camp just below beaver creek. A beautiful campsite. The
years of expeditions together has created a well oil team as we set up the camp
with little or no direction, but effortless and even joyful cooperation.
Once set up, we all marched down stream to prospect. For some dumb
reason I kept following Pablo, down, down, down river hoping it would spread
out and open up, it never did. Even the less bouldery areas where too
heavy to wade and didn't look promising for fish to hold. On the way back
I hit the wall, lack of sleep, fatigue from the 15 miler in Muddy Creek Chute
400 miles south in the San Rafael Swell, sapped my energy and filled me with
doubt and despair as I stumbled back to camp. Apparently Mule had
"walled out" much closer to camp and a few hours earlier as we found
him sleeping in the tent. An early night was in order, all cares lost in
the constant din of swift water.
As typical, our hope was
back up with the sun and we packed up and decided to make our way to Monumental. The hike was marked by a playful arm in arm crossing of a
very cold and rather swift tributary, and occasionally prospecting, but I don't
remember much fishing until we hit the milky confluence of Monumental. I
do remember being in that mental gray area that often settles on you during a
hike, where your mind is calm and almost dreamy while your body works, and I
stepped on a loose rock and took a tumble, turning my right ankle pretty good,
so I was some what hobbled as we kicked around confluence camp. That
evening we built a nice fire, surmised our various survival tactics if ever
finding our selves on the reality show naked and afraid and to demonstrate my
firecraft, I banked the fire to see if I could reignite it the following
morning, which I did.
Setting out to fish in
the morning, JB was able to find away across the river and fished the seam at
the confluence, hooking a 30" class steel head that came to eyes, but no
to hand- curses of fishing a 5x tippet. I had my first taste of success
down stream as I mentally broke the river down into smaller sections and began
finding and fishing micro channels and seams along the edge and took 7 cut's in
one run, all on a bright orange hopper. With those successes stoking our
enthusiasm, we broke camp and began packing down river, pausing much more
often to fish the accessible waters trail side and having some success,but
still thoroughly enjoying the day. Some where in here JB found a drowned
black bear cub caught up in a log jam and lifted it's lifeless body from the
water with a stick. He commented several times of how it saddened him and
how equally unforgiving wilderness is on her permanent and temporary
residents.
It became a long hike as
Hondo was unspecific in his estimations of exactly how many more 1/2 mile
segments we'd have before our next camp site at coxy hole. After a small
climb behind an outcropping, we spotted the Coxy Hole, a dramatic bend in the
river with a picturesque campsite high above the river. Despite our
fatigue and growing clouds, I decided I wanted a bath. so slid down a steep
slope to the waters edge, a less than ideal balancing act on a little rocky
ledge framed by a garden of stinging nettle. Although professing my
insanity, Hondo and then Pablo joined. We expedited tent set up as the
skies darkened and with a few scout drops we dove into the tent expecting a
good deluge, but with in a few minutes pitter patter ended and we were able to come
out, eat and enjoy a nice evening although fairly fatigued.
The next morning began
with a climb around the downstream point of Coxy Hole with steep jagged drops
to the water. The burn damage gave way to more live spruce and pines
accenting the sheer cliffs and scree of the rugged gorge. We seemed to
fish a little less today as we hiked, although did find some really cool little
runs behind boulders- amazed at the cuts rising with abandon from heavy water
to take or refuse the big hoppers and foam terrestrials. Few fish were
taken, but no piscator seemed to mind, satisfied by the beauty and exulted in
the solitude.
|
The
Cave
 As the day progressed we
came to a spectacular cave, teasing our imagination with formation theories.
Shortly after the cave, the canyon began to open up, the feeling of the
river evolving from north west steel head gorge to Montana cutthroat meadow.
We had never been this far down river, in fact everything below the
monumental confluence was new. Although we tried to imagine the river at
lower stages, after decades of expeditions we've come to appreciate the chase
as much as the catch.
|
About 1 we came across a
single man tent and trash bag bear bagged. We surmised it to be the
"military wannabe" we'd heard about in Salmon. JB tried to
navigate some steep drop to the water and took some good jabs hacking through
brush and trying to stay out of the water. I barely missed a great take
(on video) as I sat perched on downed tree that jutted out over the river
ravine. I don't think we fished much after that and as the day wound
down, again we were tired and eventually came an incredible meadow where Big
Creek made two huge swings with a couple of braids. Sky's were blue, the
son hot- bath time again. JB moved down river, saying he took trout on
the hopper at the edge every time the sun was out. We all wadered up and
moved up stream. Again, the fish were sparse and current limited access.
JB came upon a rattler basking near a downed log. We used the tent
as a sun break as we dined on our final dinner and retired early. Our
minds wondered to the pick up tomorrow and wondered why the large flat meadow
was not a permanent runway, as it showed signs of previous use. The climb
the following morning up cabin creek was quick and easy although our intel that
the runway was on the downstream side of the cabin, caused us to back track
slightly. We were joined by a crew of young rangers who had be
maintaining trail down stream from cabin and were hitching a ride to
civilization for the weekend, one of the guys was from Brevard NC, a Western
grad.
We all commented on how
the ride reminded us of Alaska, spawning day dreams of other potential trips as
we explore this and other means of access and transportation. Although
the fishing was poor, the comfortable comradery, excellent weather and
exquisite wilderness, left us no regrets for returning to the river of no return.
