Fishing Report #1 (Salmon, Idaho)
At the outset of a seven day solo excursion, fishing and writing and camping my way through the wilderness of Idaho, I began in the quaint town of Salmon on a scorching summer day.
*This is the first post in a series that will be titled, “Fishing Reports.” The series will include reflections each time I go fly fishing.
Aug. 17: At the outset of a seven day solo excursion, fishing and writing and camping my way through the wilderness of Idaho, I began in the quaint town of Salmon on a scorching summer day. Let me interrupt myself for a second, I’m not exactly flying solo. I am accompanied by my second best friend, Maia Dog, the loyalist of adventure buddies for the last 14 years. On this day, I drove from Salmon up to North Fork. From there, passing up the fishy looking waters of the Salmon River, water stalked by birds of prey, I rumbled on toward P****** Creek. About a mile up the creek I couldn’t wait any longer. Maia and I pulled off the dirt road. After scoping out the water, forcing myself to resist the urge to rush right in, I hopped in the stream… purple chubby and pheasant tail tied on. Within an hour I had caught 15ish trout, and a couple in the 12in range.
It’d have been silly to stay there all day, so I kept driving. A couple miles upstream we stopped again and had the same result. Fish on! Not all days are like this, I reminded myself. As it continued to heat up, I knew I needed to find a campsite and give the fish a break.
Blessed be the day. We found an amazing spot, streamside and a downhill plunge away from the road. Seeking out the shade, I waited for the sun to move. Once pockets of the stream were shaded, I checked the water temp and got back to casting. For the next three hours, to finish out the evening, I caught another 25 trout of all sizes. Plenty of rainbows in the 8-12in range. What a day! Figuring out percentages, I’d surmise about 35% of the takes were on my dry fly. Kept the chubby all day, but also toyed with a prince nymph and a Poundmeister as my dropper.
The heat failed to relent, and I laid down in a pile of my sweat. I hardly noticed as the trout leapt in my dreams.
Aug. 18: It was a hot night under the stars and it didn’t begin to cool until around 3am. Maia and I slept in until 8am as the sun was slow to rise from behind the canyon walls. Caffeinated and cooled down, I was on the water by 10am and fished for a couple hours with the same set up and similar result as the day before. After fishing late afternoon and into the evening, my fish count for the two days was easily near 80. Nothing bigger than 13 or 14 inches, but that’s because the bigger ones got the best of me, not because I didn’t have a chance. It was an epic couple days and I was certain the luck would run out soon.
The day concluded with another dreamy streamside campsite far from the road. This site was almost too peaceful, as I spent the evening clutching bear spray. The sunset reflected off the gentle ripples of the creek and I whispered a final thank you before I crawled into bed.
Aug. 19: The morning began on a new stretch of P****** Creek, jumping boulders, and seeking out pocket water among the steep cliffs and rapids. This adventurous pursuit did, however, offer one hard fall that sent my rod flying (wrong kind of fly fishing!) off a rock and into the water. I managed to snag it before it could be swept into the current of the raging water below. Thank goodness nothing, besides my ego, was damaged.
The labor of big boulder hopping was worth it as I found a bunch of fun holes along the way. Just when the morning was coming to a close, I hooked one big rainbow on the far bank only to be flummoxed again as it eventually slipped the hook. Elusive big fish for little Chris.
After a couple hours and 20 fish later I needed to get back to Salmon to meet my dad who was making an impromptu trip over from Bozeman to spend some time with me. Maia and I piled back into the truck and headed to greet my dad.
A few hours later we were back on the road to P****** Creek, the productive water always whispers for a return, so I could show him the epic camping spot from my first night. We hung out beside the creek for awhile, talking and enjoying the sounds of babbling water and swaying trees.
The call of the stream was too much to resist, and I hopped back in the water. Here, I engaged in the toughest battle of the trip so far and I fell on my ass chasing the fish downstream. Eventually, breath heaving and soaked to my chest, I landed my biggest fish yet. You guessed it, the most coveted Whitefish giving me its classic pucker! At least it was fun.
As the dark was setting in and rain was on the way, the three of us packed up and headed back to Salmon. After a late dinner I dropped my dad off at the motel and went in search of a camp spot for the night. Who doesn’t love looking for camp in the dark? Maia and I fell asleep to the sound of rain on the roof.
Aug. 20: It rained all night. All morning. All afternoon.
After a convo with the good people at Salmon River Fly Box, I set out to find some fish on the P*********. After driving in the rain and trying to find river access, I staked out the water as the drizzle drizzled on. To fish or not to fish? Turns out, anglers gotta angle, and I waded in for a couple hours under the eerie gray rain clouds.
Once the drizzle turned to a downpour I booked it back to the truck. You might be wondering, was it worth it?
After getting spooked by an otter (you know they can be vicious mother effers!) I ended up finding three rainbows for a TOTAL OF 10 INCHES worth of fish! Didn’t get skunked and an otter didn’t take off my ear. Totally worth it.
Next up? Time to take a gander at the E*** F*** (as the evening of rain barreled on), then tackle a stretch of the Main Salmon where famous fishing guide Scott Morrison recommended I try to catch a cutthroat, and finally, some backcountry work along the Y***** F***.
Aug. 21: Good morning to whatever day it is of the trip. I woke up to, you guessed it, more rain. Even the inside of my truck shell was wet in places while Maia and I were both cold and a little damp. Why get out of bed?
*dreams in trout*
Eventually the sun came out long enough to make coffee, wring out our gear, and load it all back up. We didn’t know what to do because the rain was relentless, and pulling off the highway for some cutthroat action seemed ominous at best. I hadn’t planned on making it all the way to Stanley but a little birdie told me the mountains were amazing, the fly shop was full of nice people, and somewhere in town had warm coffee.
Off we went, receiving our free windshield cleaning, in search of a revised plan.
It continued to rain into the afternoon and after a couple hours shooting the shit at the Stanley Fly Shop, I jumped in the truck to find a spot to camp and wait for a break in the rain.
Plan busted.
My truck wouldn’t start. It could only muster the dang clicking sound that seems to shout: YOUR BATTERY IS DEAD.
Turned out I was in need of a new battery. AAA (courtesy of my mother-in-law’s insistent payments) could only offer a jump, not a new battery. The nice lady called a place in Stanley, put me on the line, and, in a stroke of providence, he had the one remaining battery in a 100 mile radius for my Tacoma. Better than a trophy fish! The rescue prevented me from having to pay for a tow in the wrong direction or an expensive one back to Salmon. It all seemed like a miracle to me, even if sometimes blessings are frustrating.
And sometimes it’s a miracle every time a trout eats a tiny fly in a big river. A trip of miracles.
It’s now late afternoon - and surprise! - it started to pour. Overcoming the incessant disappointment with all the rain, I settled on driving a little farther west for the potential of some wadeable water in the ever increasing flows. But first I needed a campsite in case the weather broke long enough to fish.
And break it did. Praise God. I was gifted two 45 minute segments in which I caught the longed for Idaho cutthroat Scott promised me and six rainbow friends, one of which was the biggest I’ve ever caught on a solo trip. Using the size of my net as a measurement, I’d put this fella at just longer than 16 inches! Plus, I shouldn’t fail to mention, I wrangled in a few wily whitefish chunkers. Three solid rounds of thunder booms later had me scurrying back up the 500 foot slope, content.
As the sun peaked out long enough to remind me it was setting, we made camp for the night, and settled in.
A day that seemed destined for a bust, from endless rain to stranded vehicles, was a reminder we never know how the story will end.
Aug. 22: It rained through the night and I woke up to a valley view of chocolate milk streams, color for which they do not make a “go to” fly. People will say throw a steamer into pocket water, but I say nature is inviting us to move along.
I moved along.
With a plodding intention to soak up the fresh shining sun, dry out our wet gear, clothes, bed, collars, truck, everything really, I made breakfast as Maia sunbathed with an eye on the milky stream below. Don’t be shy to accept nature’s invitation, I told myself.
After a restful morning, we headed back to Stanley to tell Joe at the fly shop that his intel combined with my fishing prowess proved to be a formidable duo. He shrugged, so I shared more pets with the shop dog, Gus, and then hit the highway toward the Y***** F***.
But first, remembering nature’s invitation, I took one last opportunity to glimpse the Sawtooth range grinning in the distance.
To my surprise, the drive toward the Y***** F*** was filled with sunshine. It seemed like the perfect time to drive ten miles an hour under the speed limit with the windows down. The secret of Idaho is that no one was there to care how slow I drove.
Once arriving at the turn to head upstream, it only took a couple minutes before I was lured to the deep blue pools that seemed to be calling my name. The setting was picturesque and the sun was still shining.
For the next hour I boulder hopped up a short stretch of the stream reeling in cutties and ‘bows, all around a foot long. The hour produced a good 10-12 fish, and while I longed to stay near the mouth, I knew the backcountry was calling.
After driving miles upstream, Maia and I piled out to meander along the flat stretch of water perfect for her old dog sniffing sensibilities. As we made our way along the river rock, casting at small pools, Maia’s ancient paws took one clumsy step after another. A couple fish later and I looked over my shoulder where Maia had been watching the action. She looked back, took a couple steps, and collapsed. Laying on her side, I couldn’t tell if she was convulsing or struggling to stand. I ran to her.
Her eyes had the same look a fish does when I bring it to hand, as if they are asking in fright, “Am I going to be ok?”
She gave a grunt as I lifted her to her feet, holding her up from underneath, in a hug we’ve shared too many times to track.
Maia managed her way back to the truck, dodging rocks, and I picked her up and set her in the backseat.
Taking my place in the driver’s seat, I’m struck. Maybe this fishing trip hasn’t been a call to explore the so-called river of no return, but instead, it’s the type of trip preparing me to accept - Maia will not return.
I’ll never remember the faces of the fish or the joy of the tug the way I’ll remember one last romp in the wilderness with the best adventure dog there ever was. Even as her legs wouldn’t do what they once did, she wanted in on the action. She wanted to be together.
We slowed the day down, pulled under the shade of a tree, and took a nap. It’s like the way Carl Phillips describes silence: it’s the absence of distraction. And when I listened to the silence I heard the sound of Maia breathing deep, that muffled old dog snore, as our trip neared the end.
*Maia is still alive, though not likely to adventure quite like this ever again.
When will we see more “fishing reports”?