There's something alluring and deeply personal about the rivers and streams we fish.
by Todd Tanner | Jun 18, 2020 | FISHING, FRESHWATER, Slider
There’s something alluring and deeply personal about the rivers and streams we fish.
We all have our favorite streams. For some folks, it’s a pristine mountain creek dropping down through a remote, forested valley. For others, it’s a pretty little stretch of water just past the edge of town, a place where they’ve fished a hundred times and, with a bit of luck, will fish a hundred more. Easy access helps breed familiarity, and familiarity builds intimacy; it’s all about that personal, ongoing connection with the landscape. And then, of course, there are the myriad anglers who enjoy famous waters such as the Bighorn, Beaverkill, or Madison. There is something special about those legendary rivers that keeps us coming back year in and year out.
I also know a handful of people who will say their favorite streams are whichever ones they’ll visit next. That can sound a touch glib, but like as not, it’s accurate. Some anglers just love to stand in the water and cast, and the spot they’re fishing is far less important than the fact that they’re out of the house and wading deep into life.
I do have a couple of prerequisites for any stream on my list of personal favorites. First, it has to hold trout. I don’t begrudge bass lovers or their liaisons – as a wise man once said, “to each his own”– but if I’m going to fall in love, it’s going to be on a trout stream.
Second, those trout have to be wild. Stocked fish just won’t do, which rules out all those famous eastern rivers where a hatchery truck turns what would otherwise be a fine smallmouth fishery into something akin to Trout Central.
Just so you know, I’m not overly picky when it comes to the species. Browns are great, as are rainbows. So are brookies and cutts and bull trout. I love them all. Steelhead, too. But wild is key. And because I’ve been doing this fly-fishing thing for a while now, I like it when the fish are challenging. There’s nothing wrong with eager trout, at least not for the first hour or two I’m out on the water, but a fish that pushes my angling envelope is ultimately way more interesting than its easy-to-catch cousin.
I also have a soft spot in my heart for spring creeks; in part because they’re ideal habitat for trout and in part because genuine, honest-to-goodness spring creeks are awfully rare. If you live within a half-day’s drive of a spring-fed stream with plenty of trout and some degree of angling access, consider yourself incredibly lucky.
Oh, and there’s one final requirement: natural beauty. Depending on where you fish, this could include snow-capped mountains, or meadows lit up with wildflowers, or majestic pines or cottonwoods or redwoods or maples – all of which are a gift to the eye and a balm for the soul. Heck, as far as I’m concerned, at least half our on-the-water experiences involve drinking in the sights and sounds and smells that lift our spirits and restore our connection to the landscapes we cherish so deeply.
Last fall, with the temps just upstream of freezing and gunmetal skies kicking out the occasional shot of light rain, I parked near an old gravel pit and picked my way through a quarter-mile of scratchy, clinging sage down to the river’s edge. It was a gloomy day, and for a second or two I looked back up toward the darkness of the surrounding forest and wished I’d brought my bear spray. There wasn’t another angler in sight – in fact, there wasn’t much of humanity in evidence and the late-afternoon overcast seemed to hold the promise of grizzly bear cubs and unhappy sows. Of course, a friend of mine had been attacked by a griz not more than a couple miles from where I stood, so maybe that bit of not-too-distant history was coloring my perspective.
Regardless, I didn’t have any bear spray in the rig, and with the river calling, there wasn’t much point in worrying about it. The sage, rough-barked and low, gave way to tall, slender grass close to the water’s edge, and I turned downstream and followed a well-worn angler’s trail toward a series of pristine springs that pool together and feed into the river. The water upstream was insect-free, and I wanted to see if the moderating spring-water temperatures might not precipitate an early October mayfly hatch.
When I finally stepped into the river, the bottom was gravel – clean and bright – with the occasional weed bed waving silently under the surface in the slow current. The water wasn’t deep, just over my knees, and it stayed that way as I waded downstream and out toward the middle of the river. I wanted to be well clear of the north bank, which is where I thought I might find a few BWOs floating on the surface below the springs and where I hoped to find a nice rainbow or two rising and filling its belly.
They were harder to see than I anticipated – or maybe it’s just that my eyes aren’t quite as good as they used to be – but the hoped-for insects were there, and so, thankfully, were the fish. Some of those Idaho rainbows were small, maybe eight or ten inches, while others were twice that size, or more. They were in a pod, 20 or 30 wild trout sipping and slurping mayflies in between the raindrops, feeding in water so clear that it took the dimples of precipitation and the slow rises of dozens of trout to give the surface texture and to make it all seem real.
In case you’re wondering, it was real, and the fishing for the next few hours was truly outstanding. Of course, that’s the Henrys Fork for you.
We all have our favorite streams. If there’s a blessing to being a fly fisher, it’s that, as time passes and our memories build, we begin to see the world around us more clearly, and we come to appreciate the ever-shifting natural rhythms that infuse our angling. Freestone or tailwater, quick or slow, shallow and open, or dark and mysterious, there’s something very special, something alluring and deeply personal, about the places we fish.