Friends, Honor, and Good Fishing

I’ve spent the 2010 and 2011 summers on the Bighorn River at Cottonwood Camp: guiding, shop keeping, maintenance working, and grounds keeping- you name it, I’ve done. And the past two winters, I’ve returned to the camp for a Christmas present and get together with my dad. Right now, I’m out on the deck of the fly shop- and it feels just like home.

It amazes me, from personal experience and from working with so many customers over the years that no matter how far you travel from, you always arrive with a smile on your face and leave with one too. This trip was no exception. Dad and I barely made it out west this year and if it weren’t for sheer determination and last second decision making, it wouldn’t have happened at all. We drove west from Minneapolis after picking him up from the airport at 6:00am (he flew all night from San Francisco!) Thirteen hours later we arrived in the dark valley, stars blazing in the cool night, and walked into the fly shop greeted by smiles, laughs, and a ferociously-loving pack of dogs just like so many times before.

The next day we floated all thirteen miles of the river, a tall order with a novice fisherman and short time frame of day light. My dad, never using a shuttle company before, and coming from a large city, had some difficulty wrapping his mind around how we could leave the car unlocked, with the keys in the gas cap, and pay (and trust) someone to drive our car thirteen miles to the take out and leave it there. Also that leaving our boat unattended and anchored on shore wouldn’t result in it mysteriously vanishing behind someone else’s truck. “This place still runs on the honor system, it’s really amazing actually.” And he’s completely right about that. I’ve written about my experiences on the Bighorn for two years now and a reoccurring theme is: trust and honor. I favorably remark time and time again that Fort Smith is still a place where people help each other out, can trust you and others, stick to their word, and a good reputation goes a long way toward success. Good traits to have in this day and age, and a blessing to be a part of I’d say.  

Warm weather had brought more fisherman and hunters (way more than last winter!) The crowd was nothing compared to summer time but, being Minnesota trout fisherman, we like our space and variety of wade fishing. Once we got past three mile the group really spread out and we had a great opportunity to hit some of my favorite spots that, previously in summer, were flooded out due to high water and/or were overrun with other fisherman. Our second stop past three mile was a small side channel called by a few names, but I’ve always know it as, “Rattle Snake."

It’s a small side channel, not even a hundred yards long and maybe forty feet wide and the top third of it is a beautiful riffle that bends along a high bank with a small creek running into it on the bend. At first I thought it was going to be a bust, as we anchored a few shotgun blasts went off from the channel going river left had us questioning our safety, then our first few casts came up with nothing. But as we moved into the middle of the riffle and started casting into the shade along the undercut bank, it was one after another. The riffle was almost boiling with fish as they even came to the surface to strike at our orange strike indicators! Dad also caught the “King-Daddy Trout,” a fish of well over twenty inches and sheer muscle. It took his fly and thrashed like none other and we worked together to and the fish, as it was determined not to run back toward him upstream. He let his line on, keeping tension out as I calmly waited downstream with the net, it was a beautiful sight. Dad masterfully kept his rod bent like a rainbow and let his reel scream out line just the right amount. The riffle was totally illumined by bright sunlight and flashes of golden bronze flickered beneath the crystal clear water like a torch through an old window. A few moments later I waded a little further into the stream and extended the net below the surface, and with a cheer, rose my net with the King himself.  

 

We spent a couple of hours there catching lots of fish (we even trippled up!) and sharing many laughs until the crowd started catching up with us, and we continued on downstream again. 

 

 (Three in one)

We tried a few other places with similar results and with about two hours of sunlight left we tried one last hole that really has no name (I call it “Secret Spot”,) but in summer it was where I witnessed the natural splendor for the great San Juan hatch. I was fishing with my outfitter, Roger, during the high water and came up on this spot fishing a double san juan worm rig. Towards the end of the drift, I was pulling my line up to recast (mind you- I had two flies on that look like worms) and a huge trout came flying out of the water after them! As we rounded the river bend and gained sight of the spot, memories of large fish flooded my mind again. We pulled over and I stormed my way up thigh high fast current to fish well above the riffle along a cut back. A couple casts later I landed a chunky nineteen inch fish. Netted and released and not five minutes later I casted straight up stream from me and let my line drift back through the reflection of the sun, for a little while I was fishing blind. But then, just as my tiny indicator floated back into sight, there was a legitimate tug, a pause, and then one of the greatest fights a trout has ever given me.  It took me by complete surprise when the fish ran straight up stream and even kept taking line off the reel once it had eaten up my sack, it thrashed and pulled and as soon as it got bored of going up, then it turned right around and flew down stream and then across the current toward the middle and back again. I ran or more realistically, slid and stumbled, around the river bed chasing the fish and trying to maintain what little control I had. Finally I managed to cock my wrist and get its head above water, cutting his last run short and just barely pulling him back to my net. It would appear both of us grappled with kings, as my trophy trout greeted me with the largest kype I’ve seen yet. He was shorter than dad’s fish, but bulky, tough, and mean. It was an honor to shake hands with him. 

 (My Trophy)

The next day windy, fifty to sixty mile per hour winds- sustained. We tried fishing at three mile but it was way over crowded. So after lunch, we hiked down from Afterbay to the first island and spent a few hard hours on the first half of the side channel there. We caught some fish, not as many or as big as the day before but we strengthened our bond through the shitty-ness of the weather.  

All in all, it was a fantastic trip. It was short, but it got me back in touch with my passion, as Northern Minnesota is all but frozen over. You know it’s time to go fishing when you’re casting an imaginary rod as you down the hall and row an invisible drift boat as you sit in front of the lap top. It’s good to have a home away from home, a place where you can go to escape, to live dreams, to reignite passion. Fort Smith is one of those places for me, a place where friends, honor, and good fishing still abound.