Mike Vineyard and Bob Beachy picked me up at home at about 1:00 p.m.   They were driving Sam Broberg’s Suburban as Sam had driven up to Bozeman with his daughter to scout out the university and we are going to pick him up there and then go fishing in Montana and later, Utah.

We are driving as far as Rapid City, SD today and tonight.  Listening to fine music (the current selection is Pancho and Lefty) and just driving.  In the rain.

Most of the time it seems that I'm driving.  I kinda like to drive.  And that frees the other boys up to play gin in the back seat.  Sometimes I feel like a chauffeur, driving a card game around the high plains.  On this trip, Bob, Mike and later, Sam, will log about 400 hours trying to beat each other out of a dollar-two-ninety-eight.  WHAT'S THE NAME OF THE GAME?….means somebody just went down.

The music.  It's important.  Last year's trip featured a cassette Bob put together…it became the trip tape and was pretty much all we listened to.  Bob has put a few new tapes together and it will be interesting to see if we come up with a new trip tape.  Actually, in a way, the less music you have the better.  So you just play the hell out of whatever you have…over and over…and it becomes the trip.  And anytime you hear any cuts from that music for the rest of your life, you associate it with being in Montana and having fun.

1978.  Stardust and Red Headed Stranger.  The Henry's Fork and West Yellowstone.  Single women, Bud Lilly and some guy fishing the Henry's Fork in his long underwear.  All day.  There was snow on the ground, it was so cold.  What a hoss.  I still think of that as one of the more amazing things I've ever witnessed.  And the guy never said a word.

Anyway, the music's good and it's important.  Thank God for Willie Nelson and Jerry Jeff Walker.

It’s good to be on the road.  Tomorrow we should be fishing on the Clark Fork near Butte.

We made it into Rapid City last night at around 10:30 p.m. MDT.  It was about the right distance to go.   725 miles.

Thanks to Bob’s minimalist packing strategy, we were able to leave RC at about 0600 hours this morning in a damn cold rain.  Heading west.

We drove.  And drove.  And drove.

It rained.  And rained.  And rained.

Then it snowed.  And snowed.  And snowed.

But we pulled into Bozeman right on time…1315 hours.  Our target time was between 1300 and 1330 hours.  We pulled into the appointed meeting place, said hi to Sam and his daughter, Brandy, and went inside the restaurant to get a coffee for the rest of the trip (80 miles to Warm Springs just west of Butte).

Came out of the restaurant and the damn car wouldn’t start.  Can you believe that?  Drive 1250 miles and the car dies.

No problem.  Sam, who has been in Bozeman since Monday knows where the GM dealer is.  So Sam and I go to the car fixer place and Mike and Bob walk across the street to The Rivers Edge, a fly shop run by an ex Bud Lilly guy.

Sam and I get a new battery and we’re back in about an hour or so.  Just long enough for Bob to uphold ROLF by spending just at $500 U.S. before he ever wetted a line.

After a flurry of license buying/fly purchasing activity, we’re on the road.

And we drive through all manner of weather but mainly snow.  When we get to the fishing place, Clark Fork at Warm Springs, we jump out of the car and power our way through a mishmash of gear strewn all over the suburban.  (Due to the late hour, we punted on getting a room in Butte and unpacking into that room—as it turns out that is a great decision.)

We arrive at Clark Fork at about 4:00 (4:15?) and are fishing shortly thereafter.  At 5:04 I caught my first fish of this trip on some little green nymph.  At 5:05 I caught my second and then hit a dry spell that lasted until it ended downstream a little later.

We all caught fish on very raw, windy day that we didn’t notice too much about how shitty the weather was.  Sam spent some time talking (by cell phone) logistics with Brandy who was driving back to KC from Bozeman and was in the snow we had passed through.  She made it OK.

Flies that were successful included serendipities, both red and green, amber scuds, and some other stuff, I’m sure.  A Ray Charles also comes to mind.  One or two split shot.   5X.

After fishing until about 7:00, we loaded up and headed for a room.  Somewhere.
We saw a sign for Fairmont.  Must be where Fairmont Hot Springs is located. (We’d seen an advert for that place on the internet.)  Long story short, we went to Fairmont, stayed at the Spa thing, enjoyed languishing in the hot springs (108? F), had a great meal, bought numerous rounds for all patrons in the bar, closed the bar, astounded Eddie Preston, head honcho of the Cascades (Listen to the Rhythm of the Falling Rain—1963) with Bob’s answers to trivia questions such as “Dobie Gray” and generally had a darn good time.

It has been said that God does not count against a man time he spends on a stream.  I believe that.  Similarly, I also believe that money spent in Eddie Preston-type lounges, much of which is spent over-tipping and buying drinks for others, does not really come out of one's bank account nor does it reduce the amount one will have for retirement.  This may or may not be true, but it doesn't matter; I believe it.  Don't anybody tell me otherwise.

It was a helluva night.  I know it because in the morning we had three Eddie Preston tapes...

…and I woke up Friday morning with no way to hold my head that it didn’t hurt…but that’s the next journal entry….

As good a day fishing, pound-wise, as any of us had ever seen.

It started slowly but boy did it pick up.  We hammered  BIG fish.  Not huge but consistently big.  18-20+ inchers and deep bodied.  All on nymphs.  Green serendipties, scuds etc.  Mainly green, often with a bead head.  5X.

We took turns in one hole where there was the damnedest concentration of big fish any of us had seen.  Sheesh.  Us rotating in and out of the hole, taking a beer break while someone else caught fish and then jumping back in and doing it again.

If ever the old adage, “often times the difference between a good day of fly fishing and a great day is one split shot,” held true, today was that day.  In the great slot where pigs were stacked up like cordwood, I floated a rig with one split shot for ten minutes without a strike.  I had a mental image of my flies consistently floating harmlessly over the pod of fish hanging low in the current.  I pinched on another shot and boom!, first cast I was wired to a chunky boy.   And so it went.  One after another.  All afternoon long.  Big fish and lots of ‘em.  Doubles.  Sometimes they ran upstream, sometimes down, sometimes they just tugged around our pool.  We caught ‘em all maybe.

These were mainly brown trout.  We caught a few rainbows, including one really nice one that I took out of that hole early.

We also did a lot of videoing.  Should  be fun.

A bright, sunny afternoon that pretty much wore us slick.  But it was a good slick, no?

Satiated/saturated (satiurated? MV’s new word), at least temporarily, we extracted ourselves from the Clark Fork and headed south the hour and fifteen minutes to Poncho and Bev McCoy’s Red Angus cattle ranch north of Dillon, Mt. where we would be staying and fishing for the next few days.  It was a beautiful day, a beautiful drive with good music, good fishing reflections and a few cold beers if memory serves me.

Exiting at the first Dillon exit and going behind Lucky Lil’s will put you on the old highway.  Head north a few miles til you see a fairly inconspicuous McCoy's Cattle Ranch sign next to the highway, head east on that lane to Poncho’s.

We did.

We managed to be obvious enough to get Poncho’s attention and he drove up to the ranch house to check us in and explain the rules which, as near as I can recall, amounted to:  fish anywhere and close the gates.

We did. But the fishing part is tomorrow’s story.

We settled in in the Duck Shack which is a home Poncho built for Bev’s mother who apparently either passed away or moved.  Anyway, we’re in it and it is special.  The view is spectacular, we’re in a “hole” (as in Jackson Hole or Big Hole) surrounded by mountains (360?) all of which were still wearing snow at elevation.  Beautiful.

Sitting on the front porch of the Duck Shack, watching cattle on the range below us with the snow-capped mountains behind, listening to nesting pairs of Canadian geese, mallards and sandhill cranes….well, it might get better’n this but it would have to go some to do so.

We settled in, like I said.  As usual, Bob and I chose to room together leaving Sam and Mike to themselves.  They’ve always liked that.  We had invited Poncho to go to dinner with us since Bev was with Rona, their daughter, at a rodeo (high school athletics in Montana) up in Havre.  Not knowing us all that well, he accepted.

We went into Dillon where we ate at the Lion’s Den steakhouse.  Bob attempted to eat an actual side of beef disguised as the large cut prime rib.  He was defeated.  Soundly.  However, given the fact that we basically just don’t do lunch on fishing days (and these are all fishing days), his optimistic ordering is very understandable.

It was really good talking to Poncho.  As nice a guy as you’ll ever want to meet.  Interesting, interested, enthusiastic, open, bright, articulate and he’s a cowboy who owns a spring creek full of trout.  What’s not to like?  Huh?

Poncho.  Rancher.  Hunter.  All-'round good guy.

We had a very nice dinner.  Among other things, we learned that he competed in the 1968 Olympics in Grenoble, France.  The year Jean Claude Killy won everything.  Poncho was a world class skier who won the NCAA downhill one year and finished second two years, a total 3 thousands of a second out of first both years.  And I believe he dominated the slalom those years.

When we got back to the ranch, Poncho drove us around to the various areas we’d be fishing.  We saw a rise or two which issued promise for the morrow.

Even though it was the weekend, we didn’t expect to see too many other fishermen on account of we were the only ones on the ranch.  A good thing.

After going into town for breakfast, a fly shop stop (Frontier Angler’s—a great guy in there) we headed back out to the ranch where we hoped to catch at least one fish.

And we did.

After driving through the pasture with the new moms and their calves, we dropped Mike

and Bob off to go fish the upper ponds.  (I find it odd and somewhat interesting that even though Bob and I room together, he and Mike often fish together…perhaps it is because he hardly ever snores when he is fishing.)

We all had radios…a development Bob initiated the year before and which, in spite of kind of flying in the face of nature, the great outdoors, solitude and silence, they are real damn handy.

Sammy and I went down to the culvert and began to rig up.  I intended to go downstream and fish on account of I love that stretch of stream (Mike and I had fished it the year before by ourselves…in the fall).

However, before I went downstream, I couldn’t help but fling that woolly bugger into the culvert hole.  First cast I got a tug.  On about the third I took a big, fat, dark-colored, hook-jawed rainbow.  Let the games begin.  I rang up Bob and Mike on the radio and learned that they were already on fishes three or four.  This was shaping up to be a reasonably good day.

Sam stepped into the culvert hole and commenced to hammer trouts.  “Lots of em and they’re real big” was Sam’s description of the fishing.

Our Lady of the Weather was still looking out for us.  It was a clear, brisk mountain morning.  And it was beautiful all day long.

And we caught fish all day long.  Mainly nice sized rainbows on leech patterns (or woollys).  We caught ‘em in the stream, we caught ‘em in the ponds.

We caught fish in numbers the likes of which none of us had ever seen.  And we did it all day long.  There was no slow period.  We would stop once in awhile to have a cold beer, but invariably whilst drinking it, we’d fling the leech into a pool and end up playing a fish while trying not to spill the beer.  I hooked one once while I was taking a whiz.  As you might have guessed that was a very large fish.

Mike, Sam and I went to the upper ponds in the afternoon to test some sippers on dry flies.  We didn’t hear from Bob, who stayed down below, for the longest time.  When he finally broke radio silence it was to announce that he wasn’t leaving this ranch coursed by its lovely spring creek and that we were to let Mary Don know that the divorce papers could be sent to his attention at Poncho’s.  Or maybe he was going to draft them and she could pick them up here.  Whatever.  He ain’t leaving, and that’s just a good call.

The fish are healthy and fun.  They’re all great to catch, but watching a nose move over your fly up on a glassy pond, and then to see that fish protest the hook by thrashing on the surface, well, that’s just pretty damn great.  When they are doing their surface thrashing, their colors are so nice, red and amber, and it just feels great to play them in the still water.  Kind of like it feels good to play them in moving water.

We have no idea how many fish we caught that day.  Hundreds though.  Non stop.  It was a special day.

No, that's not an optical illusion…the fish really is huge!

I can’t remember why or when we stopped.  But we must have because I know we ate supper that night.  With Poncho again.  This time he gave us a tour of his home.  Most interesting to us were all the mounts…including the biggest elk – by a lot – I have ever seen.  Huge.   Taken by Poncho with a bow.  He told us the story of taking the bull…Poncho is one real hoss when it comes to hunting.  He also told a story of taking one at the range of four feet.  Sheesh.

Dinner was at the Lion’s Den again.  This time, among other things, we talked about Poncho’s land as a recreational, revenue-producing asset.  He currently is running a duck club there for ten guys at the all-time great price of $1,000 per year.  Poncho really developed it for duck hunting.  The trout fishing is a bonus.  Mike and Bob shared some initial ideas about how to get the most out of the ranch as a recreational deal.  With more ideas to come.  Poncho is a very good listener and a bright guy.  But as he readily says, making a living off cattle these days is a near impossibility.

In any event, these are the good old days at Poncho’s.  Before we know it we’re going to be waxing nostalgic about how it was before it “got developed” and found out– like Armstrong’s when it was just Mrs. O’Hair, her African violets, the dog, a worn out outhouse and a sort-of picnic table.  And when you could actually get on it.

By the way, this stream hadn’t been fished but about once since last fall.  They generally don’t open it this early due to the nesting waterfowl, but Mike sweet-talked them and we got to pretty much open the place.  The cost was $50 per rod, per day.  They only allow one party fishing.  Minimum is $100…ie, if one person wanted the place to himself, he could have it for a rod fee of $100 a day.  The room was $130 per night for the four of us.  We should have cooked there but we didn’t.  Next year, we grill.

God, we’ve gotta do it again.

So we did.

Personally speaking, the edge was gone.  After hammering trouts for two and a half days, my mind was willing but the heart/body was up for a fairly relaxed day.

To that less than overly enthusiastic end, I decided to head down to the “beaver pond” area.  This is an area southeast of the main stream we were fishing and is wooded (and “brushed”) and has a stream flowing through it.  The stream ain’t great there…it’s heavily silted and not a lot of great fishing water as near as I could tell.  The evening before, Sammy and I went down there and I had hooked a fish that broke me in some bushes.  I was hoping to catch a large fish in there on this day as Poncho allowed as how some monsters had been taken out of there.  (Sam had seen a brown that went about 24 inches the night before…skinny though.)

Anyway, I started there and caught some rainbows out of the only two pools I saw.  I also caught a sucker.  One of the many born every minute.  Ugly sumbitch.  As far as trout, nothing bigger than 15 or 16 inches which is about the size of the one that broke me the night before.  But they were healthy.

Tiring of this, I headed back to the main stream or lakes I can’t remember which.  Everyone was catching fish again but I think at an understandably somewhat slower pace than the day before.  I know I was slower.

The day before, Poncho had mentioned that he would like some brook trout in his new pond that was formed when he created a hole getting gravel and rock (which is his driveway).  He brought me a bucket at about midday and when I caught a nice brookie out of one of the upper ponds, I netted it with the bucket (yes, I suppose I bucketed it) and beat it on down to the new pond whereupon I set it free in its new home.  I later caught another and did the same thing with an assist from MBS (Mike Bob Sam).

I also caught a very nice rainbow out of a ditch between two ponds.  He was cruising and sipping off the surface and took a parachute adams even though he didn’t want it very much.  I should have put the fish back into a pond but I didn’t think about that until it was too late.  Poncho said the herons really like that unprotected ditch.

It was hot and still and kind of a brutal afternoon, especially when the sun got a little lower and was beating down on us as we stood on the east side of the ponds and also got the reflection.  On this day I never put my waders on and ended up in shorts.

An interesting thing happened that afternoon.  Mike was fishing the stream (about his first foray past a pond) and told me about some rising fish upstream of him.  I walked up there, staying back from the bank and I saw some ripples emanating from near the bank that was between me and the stream.  I was far enough away from the stream that I couldn’t see the edge of it but the ripples no doubt were caused by a hoss rainbow.  I circled below where the rise was and edged closer to the stream.  Then I saw it.  Head and shoulders came out of the water and I sucked in my breath.  It was huge.  I couldn’t believe how broad of shoulder it was.

It was a muskrat.

I did see some rising fish, but I didn’t catch them, try as I did.

On the ponds, by the way, I found the trout to be pretty selective.  They would take a bunny or a parachute adams or a parachute green wing olive but they really were eating very small stuff.  I did catch some on real small black stuff I’d bought at Orvis before I left.  For one period there was a large bug coming off and that made things better.  I had a fish take my fly with a natural a few inches away.  I also saw a lot of fish take naturals next to my fly.  Sometimes they’d start munching and work their way to my fly.  I particularly liked that.  Very confident takes when they felt like it.

Which raises the question...is there ANYthing better than watching a trout eat your fly and then raising the rod tip and connecting with that wonderful resistance that is trout fishing?  Huh?

I didn't think so.

After conceding to the sunny afternoon, we headed to the shack.  A shower was great.  The laundry at the house was also great.  Next time I don’t need so many clothes.  (Plus there’s a Patagonia outlet in Dillon if a guy needed an emergency jacket.)

A couple of days fishing at Poncho’s is probably about right.  But staying there as a base camp and fishing the Beaverhead, Clark Fork, Ruby (perhaps the Big Hole but not me) is really a good way to go.  I prefer it to Mark Lane’s since we have a little more freedom to cook etc.  Plus it’s closer to Dillon for supplies.  And Poncho and Bev are special.

Summarizing flies in case I haven’t so far…woolly buggers, pheasant tails, prince nymphs (I mopped up in one run on the prince), marabous (Bob did real well with the marabou and it needs no weight since it has a lead head), small dries—midges—dark, griffith's gnat, fore and aft, bunny, parachute adams, probably a comparadun…small and black would work.  Mike fished small (22) midge pupas/emergers behind small dries and did well with them in the ponds.  Sam also used a hare’s ear to great advantage.  And leeches.  Black mainly but that was about all I fished.  There was a chrome strip or two in one black leech that I about wore out.  Not too big on the leeches.  12 or so?  Maybe a size 10.

Check with the boys at Frontier Fly Shop in Dillon.  They work with Poncho some.

We had another nice evening.  We ate at Papa T’s where Mike got a new glass (Big Hole Brewing Company in Belgrade, Montana) for Headstrong Brew.  Bob won a t-shirt in the promotion.  Sam and I got zip.  A fine brew but so far most of them have been.  The proprietress is Evelyn and she’s a friend of Poncho’s.  Pizza.

Then we went home and Poncho came up to the shack with a book of cowboy poetry from which Bob and Mike read aloud much to the pleasure of all.  The story/poem of Windy Bill was my personal favorite.  Of course, Poncho had to explain a bunch of cowboy terms to us so we could understand the poem.  Terms like a McGee, hard and fast (as opposed to dallying) and something stack in referring to a saddle.

We also talked for a good length of time about cowboying, ranching, driving cattle, anachronisms and juxtapositions within a community of severely different lifestyles (cattle drives and cul-de-sacs are mutually exclusive) and the attendant problems and a way of life that is disappearing.  And water rights and leasing range land from the State of Montana and the US Gov’t.  And skiing in Chile, Australia, New Zealand, Europe and more.  Spider Sabich (he’s a lucky sumbitch), Billy Kid, something Chaffee (Suzy’s brother) and others I forgot.

It was a great evening.  We all learned a lot.  Wanna talk about red angus?  Huh?  Recessive gene in the black angus.  Easier cattle to work with which is a consideration when your wife and daughters are working them.  And did you know that when you order BLACK ANGUS steaks in a restaurant that it likely ISN’T black angus but just from a beef with a black hide?

Poncho’s herd is all red angus.  Did you know that all offspring from a red angus bull must be documented but that isn’t the case with a black angus bull and therefore only the good offspring get recorded?  Buyer beware, baby.

"Gee, Poncho, those brands look pretty big."  "Right, boys.  They grow."  Oh, yeah.  We knew that.  Hello.

It was a great evening.  Again.  We’re pretty much batting a thousand on evenings.  And days.

It’s great to be us.

We stayed an extra night at Poncho’s after getting a real good report on the Ruby south of Twin Bridges…actually right below the reservoir.

So, it’s check out day and we did.  Bev had made it home the night before from the rodeo with Rona…they made it at 1:30 a.m. due to a flat tire on the horse trailer.  Unloading the horses and fixing the tire just off the highway in the night is hard.  Life in Montana.  It’s a hard land, Scoby.

It was good to see Bev.  Really a nice gal.  She was embarrassed (she said) that Poncho had “made” us read cowboy poetry.  She also mentioned that he had been on the Board of Angler’s Inn when his very good friend, Dr. Hugh Hogle, owned it.  Hugh suffered a very bad stroke four years ago or so.  He is a great friend of Poncho’s and Poncho is helping him crawl back from the stroke but it’s real tough progress.

She told us to come back.  We’re booked there September 19/20/21/22 of this year.  Fall.  The stream is a lot prettier then but the upper ponds will be mossed in.  No problem.  Lots of fishing around.

Said our good-byes and headed up to the Ruby.  A really nice stream that I only vaguely remembered from twenty years ago.  In fact, I didn't remember the stream where we fished at all.  We caught fish (all rainbows and some very nice ones in this stream) on small black pheasant tails, tan serendipities, prince nymphs…all bead heads.  Mike and Bob really did well.  They both fished right where the legal fishing started, below the closed area after the reservoir.

Later, downstream, Bob read a spot very well and promptly hooked up with about a half dozen which was a helluva'n effort.

I did ok as did Sam.  Nice fish.  Nice stream.  Really nice stream.  Classic Rocky Mountain stream (if you ignore the fact it comes out of a reservoir). Nobody else was there. Life is good.  Fished only a couple of hours, jumped back in the trusty Rolfwagen and headed it south to Wyoming via the Patagonia outlet in Dillon.

A note on mosquitoes on the Ruby.  Be prepared for them.  We were warned about them but because of the cool weather (I guess) we didn't have to contend with them.  That was lucky.  Anyway, pack some repellent if we fish it again.

We are now somewhere in the middle of Idaho (east side) headed for Kemmerer, Wyoming where we’ll fish the Ham’s Fork of the Green in the morning with Tom Knight.  And then on down to the Green for floating Wednesday.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself now.

A couple of notes…

The weather.  As I noted earlier, on the way up to Montana we drove through rain and snow most of the way…especially the second day’s driving.  Almost to the minute of our arrival at the Clark Fork, it stopped snowing and raining and we fished in relative comfort although it was a bit windy at first.  Then we had great weather for the four days.  When we walked off the Ruby today and were getting out of our waders it began raining and it’s been raining on us off and on, mainly on here lately, as we cross Idaho enroute to Kemmerer.   What I’m saying here is that this has been one heckuva trip as far as good fortune is concerned.  We’ll see what happens tomorrow.

Another note…the magnetic rod holders are a necessity for a place like Poncho’s…next year we need to get another one as we have more rods than holder spaces.

One more…the card games continue.  These guys are easily amused.  But they really seem to enjoy themselves.  I can't tell who's up and who's down but it doesn’t much matter.  Mike will end up winning probably, although Bob is a formidable foe.  Sam is stylish but, as far as I can tell, not a threat.

We made it into Kemmerer, Wy., in 7 ½ hours from the time we left Ruby Reservoir with an extended stop in Dillon at the Patagonia store, Pocatello, Id. at the DQ and grocery store, Montpelier, Id. for some dinner.  Really, it’s probably about 5 ½ or 6 hours from Dillon, which is pretty doable.  We stayed at the Fairview Inn in Kemmerer.  It was pretty good but VJ the Hawaiian innkeeper is a bit smothering.  Whatever.  A nice guy and the rooms are big and the TVs play my video camera.

Today we planned to fish the Porkfork with Tom Knight, one of our guides from Angler’s Inn in SLC.   Tom showed up at the Fairview with Hank Boehm, our other guide.  No problem.  We bought one day licenses at the Kum and Go and headed up to the Pork (actually the Ham’s Fork of the Green River).  Due to days of rain and snow, the Pork was blown completely out.  Way frigging out.   We’re 0 for 2 on the Pork.  Bob has dubbed it the Spam Fork, not believing it is deserving of a pig’s proper name.  Agreed.

Soooooo….we headed over to the Green below Fontenelle Dam.  Not many fish but they average very large.  We proved it.  We didn’t catch many but Bob hooked two certifiable hogs.  Unfortunately they threw the fly on jumps but he saw them both and both were, in his words, the biggest fish he didn’t catch.  The second one, which jumped twice, Hank estimated at six to eight pounds.  Pig.  Oink.

It’s better to have loved and lost than never to have engaged at all.

Sam was the leader in the clubhouse today.  He caught four trout.  Mike, Bob and I were below that.  But he’s a hoss.  And let me just take this opportunity to say he's a darn well-dressed hoss.  He always is setting the pace fashion-wise.  Bob pointed out that it is easier to be a fashion plate if you pack a steamer trunk.  Which is an exaggeration.  However, Sam did UPS boxes of clothes to our various destinations along the way.

I did hook a nice brown on a dry in an "aquarium".  Nice upstream cast of a parachute adams with a pink post; one half second after I found the fly in the foam, I saw a big trout engulf it…I was on 6X and had to play him fairly tenderly in the pool.  I had seen the fish jump once and knew it was a nice fish.  Heavy.  There was a tube exiting water from this aquarium and twice he tried to get through the tube; despite Tom’s best goalie efforts (Tom had moved in with a net to help me out) that sucker made it through the tube the second time.

So, now we had a problem.  A fish on the downstream side of the pool, through a 24-inch tube.  Tom was all over the situation, and he told me to get on the downstream side of the tube and he’d hand the rod through the ten foot tube to me.

Amazingly enough, that is exactly what happened.  Almost.  Actually because of the length of the tube, Tom had to let go of the rod.  It kind of floats, fortunately.  It was like passing the baton in a relay.  When I saw that rod come through the tube, I grabbed it, lifted it skyward, and was enormously relieved to see tension on the line still.  Cool.  The fish basically conceded at that point…it was kind of like, that was my best trick…your turn.  My turn was a net, a picture and a clean release.  About an 18-inch brown…real fat.  A football.   A beautiful fish.  Life is good up in Wyoming.

After driving over to the Flaming Gorge area from Fontenelle (use highway 191) and staying the night in units G and H at Red Canyon we were set to fish with Hank and Tom for three days on the Green River below Flaming Gorge reservoir.

We met them at about 10:30, a very civilized hour that they said was appropriate because the river didn’t turn on until about 11:00 or so.

Mike and I went with Tom; Bob and Sam with Hank.   Bob had the first fish out of the boat—on the dry just below the ramps.  (Mike had opened the day with four trout from the pond at Red Canyon.)  Tom rigged Mike and me up with a dry/dropper deal…cicada above with a tungsten-headed brown pupa thing below.  About 30 inches below.  The lower fly is very basic, a little brown wrapping and some wire over it.  Probably size 16 or 18.  We began catching fish, early and often.  They really went for the bead.

We caught fish steadily all day.  About midday, we switched to dry flies…the new-to-us-foam-post (pink post) parachute adams, size 18 or, when we could, 16.  Gray or green body.  Tom liked the gray, thin body flies.  Bob and Sam fished the party ball (large griffith’s gnat) and the “pink” all day.

We took some fish wading over lunch at Pugmeier’s Pocket.  All on the dry.  Sam netted one for Mike that ended up getting landed about a hundred yards downstream of our lunch place after hooking it above the spot.

Later, Mike and I had a memorable stretch of four classic dry fly hookups against the bank in the afternoon…Mike took a fish with a nice presentation under a tree overhanging the stream.  I took a couple against the rock wall.  Nice fish.  A nice, quiet-water spot where the takes were classic.

One time, I was fishing to a rising fish, had the fly drifting at an angle when the fish rose for a natural exactly where the fly seemed to be heading, literally all by itself.  I couldn't figure out how it was floating, drag-free, seemingly at a 45-degree angle across the current right at the fish.  But it was.  And the fish's "eat" of the natural was when my fly was about 24-inches above the fish…perfect timing for this fish's tempo.   I was so sure the fish was going to take this fly on this supernatural drift that I reached for the video camera to film it.  I was too slow, though, with the camera.  The fish ate the fly and Netboy scooped up the fish a little later.  Cool.

That was child's play compared to Vineyard's act following that deal.  He had a fish pegged and had a fly heading for the "zone".  Mike was so sure of his deal that he started a count down, from 5!, when the fly was well above the fish…

5…4…3…2…1…Boom!…the fish ate the fly but Countdownboy was so intent upon his effort of counting backwards that he MISSED THE FISH!

It was a trout.

Chortles all around.

It was a pretty big number fish day…steady all day.  No fishing after Red Creek…it was really blown out and discolored all the way down to the take out.  I did take a fish just above the rapids…one of those “just-one-more-cast, please-fish”.

We got off the river about 6:30 for our hour or so drive back to our vehicle at Little Hole.  In the future, we ought to leave our car at the Conoco in Dutch John when we fish B.  It saves having to drive (two ways) the twisting five miles to Little Hole from 191 at the end of a long day.

We then headed over to Red Canyon for dinner and mirth.  A good day.

Time to do it again.  B.  This time Sam and I teamed up with Tom.  It was a slower day for all of us.  Steady again but we didn’t catch fish at the same rate as we had the day before.

Fishing the dry fly during lunch at Grasshopper Camp was probably the best fishing we had all day.  The fish were really eating the baetis that were coming off.  We all caught fish.  I videoed a bunch of fish feeding voraciously in a pool above the lunch spot.  (The video is outstanding.)

By the way, camping at either Pugmeier's Pocket or Grasshopper Camp would be very fun.  Lot's of good, accessible fishing at either spot.

Sam and I enjoyed a few doubles.  Generally I would hook up first, being in the front of the boat, and then the pressure was on Sammy.  He responded well.

We exited the stream a little later than the day before making a pretty long day of it.  Same routine, drive back to Red Canyon, eat, play cards or whatever and turn in.  We didn’t have dinner with Tom and Hank this year as we had in the past.  We got off the river a little too late and we were all too tired, I think.

It’s becoming routine, but today the weather at the outset was horrific.  Gray, cold, rainy, sleeting, thundering with a bad forecast.  It ended up sunny and still.  Unbelievable, but getting predictable.

Here we go.  Last day of fishing.  We planned a short day on A section so we could get down the road a ways.

In honor of the last day (I guess) Vineyard shows up in a tie, sporting an English accent through which he informs us he will only be casting a dry fly and only upstream today.  Good, Mike.  Whatever.  The tie does look nice.  What didn't you pack so you could bring that?  Perhaps the ONLY tie the Green River will see in 1999.

We met Tom and Hank at the parking lot at about 8:00 or 8:30.  After the normal messing around we got on the river…in rain and darn cold.  My new SST fishing jacket was getting a workout.

I fished with Bob with Tom.  I really should fish with Hank next time.  Anyway, we and about fifty other boats headed down A, racing to spots to fish.  Tom hates crowds and it showed.  He was stressed.  As per usual, he started us out on the dry/dropper… cicada/tungsten bead.  Kinda like the day before…the fish weren’t really on but we caught enough to make it enjoyable.  Tom and Hank were both surprised we didn’t have a super hatch of baetis, given the great weather conditions for hatching.  It never happened.

Right above Mother-in-Law rapid we took a number of fish.  I threw right at the warning sign, pretty close to the bank and fished upstream from there (from the boat) and hooked about three or four in a short amount of time.

I did take a nice cutthroat in there. It slipped out of Tom’s grasp before I could photo it.  Oh well.

We had a shitty lunch below the rapids (we had told Hank and Tom to just buy some sandwiches rather than cooking lunch as we (we?) they normally do), caught a fish wading and throwing upstream, switched to dries and headed off to find some heads.  (Mike and Sam had been fishing dries all day and had taken a few isolated heads—we also noted that one could raise a fish on the dry fishing blind over good lies.)

Thus began a somewhat frustrating afternoon.   Bob and I caught a few fish but conditions were tough…windy.   I wish I had not gone to the four weight and Bob to the three
weight.  I had a shitty leader (stupid) and it was hard.  We tried a few “drive-bys” on our way to places Tom wanted to fish without overwhelming success.  We did ok at that one shelf where we’d hammered them the year before but it was a high-stress, boat-swirling, people-jammed-in-hard-to-see-the-fly experience.  But through grim, set-jaw determination, we were both able to take fish.

Hey, Tom.  Mend this!

We drifted down to the hotspot above Little Hole (on the far bank across and up from the ramps) where I’d had the run-in with the snake two years ago.  We got pretty well there.  Lot’s of fish feeding.  We did a number of boat trips through there and each caught a number of fish.  These were great takes and it was fun.  Two doubles.

Bob had a particularly great take…the fish looked at the fly as it went over, let it go by, then circled it and sucked it in.  Bob lifted the rod tip and was fast to a slashing hen brown.

Tom and I continued to want me to fish to different pods of fish.  On the first day we almost flogged each other because I wanted to fish to a pod of rising fish while he wanted me to cast “forward”.  I finally generally did it and, to his everlasting credit, each time I caught fish.  But I wanted to fish to MY fish.  Whatever works.  And it all worked out in the end.  Listening to the guide is generally the best course of action.

However, as I recall, it seems that “my guide over on the Madison” always let me fish to fish that were “rising up like birds” right below me.  If'n I wanted to.

We drifted down a little further before heading over to take out.  I hooked but didn’t land “one last one”.  Off the river at 2:11.  A good day.  Not a great one.  Still, infinitely better than the office.

We headed back for our car (should have parked at Conoco again) and headed for Denver via Rock Springs.  We drove the 425 miles or so by about 9:00 p.m. and found a motel.  (We’d left at 3:00 p.m.)  We drove through a helluva snow storm just outside of Laramie.  There was also a dam about ready to break above Cheyenne which had that area under a warning.  Later we learned there was a lot of flooding on the front range.  We’re getting used to driving in rain.

Bob needs to be home by 6:00 p.m. to attend a black tie deal and save his marriage so we got out pretty early…6:30 a.m. or so.

Now we’re heading down I-70.  In the rain once again.  Whatever.  It doesn’t matter since we’re not fishing.

It has been quite an odyssey.  Nine states.  A lasso around Nebraska and we never touched it.  We caught a lot of fish and saw a lot of great country.  Saw some old friends and made some new ones.  Enjoyed good music, cold beer, old Dickel, and friendly trout.  We need to do this again soon.

It was a lynx.

Equipment notes.

As I noted earlier, we need another set of the magnetic rod holders.  I'll get 'em for Cindy for Mother's Day next week.  We had fourteen or fifteen fly rods.

I went through two pair of forceps and one net.  I know exactly where I lost one pair of Dr. Slicks…in watching video of me using the forceps to get unhooked from a fish, Bob spotted me tossing the forceps onto the bank whereupon they bounced off the bank and into the stream.  Which is right where they are today.  Or hanging from someone else's vest pocket.

I lost the net about the same way.  We were fishing largely without vests on the Clark that one afternoon, so someone would toss me my net when I needed it.  Having it not hooked to me cost me.  It may still be floating down the Clark Fork, off to sea.  Nets are overrated anyway.  And they catch on sagebrush and whack you in the back when you don't need a whackin.  'Bout like a woman.

The SST jacket was great.  As lucky as we were with weather, we endured some pretty wet, crappy stuff a couple of mornings on the Green.  Nice purchase.

Anybody need some Griffith's gnats?  I loaded up on 'em and never used one.  How 'bout some party balls?  Same deal.
 

We need to check the oil more on cars we take up there.  Fortunately, Hank is pretty good at giving minor tune-ups at Cruel Jack's just west of Rock Springs.  Sam's carburetor was horrific and he was a couple of quarts low.  I mean, is checking the oil once every three thousand miles asking too much?  I think not.

The fact the car was running at all is a testament to General Motors.  Same with Bob's last time.

Logistics.

We put on a little over 3,000 miles on this trip.  Can you say coast to coast?  Equivalent.

KC to Rapid City is, as noted above, about 725 miles.  Leaving here at around 1:00 p.m. made it an appropriate place to bunk.  We gained an hour.

K.C. to the Montana border is right at 1000 miles (1003).
K.C. to Bozeman…1252 miles.  Butte's another 80 or so.

Fairmont Hot Springs is exit 211 off I-90, 15 miles west of Butte.

Warm Springs (Clark Fork) to Poncho's (Dillon) is a little less than one hour and fifteen minutes.  A very pretty drive.

Dillon to Ruby Reservoir is an hour and a half or so.  Maybe less.  Via Twin Bridges.  Say hi to the R. L. Winston Co.

Dillon to Kemmerer is about 5 1/2 hours.  Kemmerer to Dutch John is about 2 hours.

Dutch John to KC is 1020 miles.  Dutch John to Denver is about 6 hours (420 miles ?) going north through Rock Springs.  Going east and to I-70 would be interesting.  Denver to KC is 600 miles, about 9 hours (of driving time…10 hours on the clock due to loss of an hour).

Listen to radio station 90.5 out of Rock Springs.  Alternative NPR.  A bit like KSPN and KBUT (Aspen and Crested Butte respectively.)

We made it to the Texaco at Cedar Creek Parkway (where Scott met us so Sam wouldn't have to drive to Bob and my house) at 4:30 p.m. Saturday.  Word has it that Bob's marriage was saved.  For now.