Returning to the River of No Return

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.

Upper Section

 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. 

Coxy Hole Journal Entry

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.

The Meadow