A strange noise woke me up around midnight. It sounded like a stampede of six or more horses running past my tent towards the coral and then off into the distance. But there were no pack animals spending the night there. They weren’t deer; those are a little more graceful and they tend to bound rather than run. I couldn’t grab a flashlight and get outside fast enough to see anything, so I just went back to sleep. It did make me curious though.
Today would be a big day. I had finally mustered the energy I needed to make a significant hike upstream. The map showed some wide open flat spots on the river a few miles south that I wanted to investigate. I figured I could only walk for a couple hours because I still needed to get back before dark, but that should allow me to cover a lot of ground. I could have taken my tent and just camped further south that night, but I would have to bring it back on Thursday and I really hate packing that up. I was still debating whether to hike out on Friday or wait until Saturday, but I didn’t want to put in an eight mile day followed by the eleven mile trek to Meadow Creek. So I decided to travel light. I only brought my Loomis rod, fishing vest, Gus, some water and a lunch. It’s amazing how much easier the trails can be without sixty extra pounds of gear!
As I was packing up after breakfast I saw four fishermen come across the bridge and follow the trail behind the cabin. They all had fly rods and packs so I guessed they had the same idea I did. The Flathead is a very big river, so I wasn’t worried about overcrowding. They waved to me and disappeared into the forest. I didn’t leave for another half an hour, which turned out to be a good strategy.
The west side trail led inland away from the river far enough so I couldn’t hear it anymore, which was the first time since day 2 that had happened. It was a beautiful clear day and the weather was still in the sixties which made it a very nice walk. I couldn’t get over how green everything was! We don’t get much green in California after April; it’s all golden or brown for lack of rain. I wished I had read up more of the edible plants in that area because I’m sure I passed several along the trail.
After about 75 minutes I caught up to the four hikers I had seen earlier. They had stopped to take a break and estimate their location. They asked me if I knew which way led to Starbucks. Without missing a beat, I pointed south and said “85 miles that way”. We all laughed and they let me go ahead of them. This is where I learned about the strategy of not being the first one to hike down the trail in the morning. The plants on either side of the trail varied from knee high to head high, which made perfect anchor points for spider webs and those little buggers had all night to work on them. None were very big, but there were a lot of them. If you don’t see them in time to knock them down, you end up constantly peeling silk off your arms and face. I found a one meter stick and waved it up and down in front of me to clear the way as I walked. It helped, but it was a lot better hike when the other four guys were ahead of me!
The trail stayed high and away from the river, which didn’t offer me fishing access. I didn’t mind too much because I knew my target was still further south. At the two hour mark I came around a bend and got a breathtaking view of the plain below, which met up with the river a quarter mile away. The river turned into a delta branching into six different tributaries before converging again five hundred yards downstream. This was a fly fisherman’s dream because there were no trees in sight, nothing to get snagged on, just a bonanza of casting opportunities.
The trail was still 80 feet above the river so I needed to follow it all the way to the top of the delta before I could get access. Surprisingly, there was no broad trail that led to the river so I had to blaze my own. As I stood there contemplating my route, the four fisherman caught up to me. I told them this is where I was going to do my fishing. They were heading another mile and a half down to Little Salmon Creek which runs between the river and Big Salmon Lake. I hadn’t heard that there were actual Salmon in the creek, but it did seem possible. The Lake is home to cutthroats and bull trout along with some warm water fish like northern pike. It’s definitely at the top of the list for my next trip!
A couple of the guys were from the San Jose area. I didn’t learn where the others were from. Maybe they were fraternity brothers somewhere. I talked to some outfitters later who were hosting a big group of lawyers from Stanford on a weeklong wilderness trip, so I guess it’s a popular destination for male bonding. The fisherman asked me how far they were from Little Salmon Creek. I checked my GPS and quoted 1.1 miles. We wished each other luck and went our separate ways. I walked across a long, flat field to the river.
It was one of the most photogenic scenes I’ve ever witnessed. A better photographer probably would have done it better justice. I couldn’t capture the breadth of the horizon in my little lens. I tried a mode that helps line up panoramic shots but I haven’t figured out how to produce them yet.
The advantage of the river branching into tributaries is that the volume of water gets distributed, making each ‘mini-river’ a smaller, more fishable stream. The disadvantage is that the streams are wide open with no overhead cover. I saw an Osprey cruising the river looking for fish, so I didn’t expect trout to be near the surface in the middle of the day. But I checked out each of the streams anyway.
The water was crystal clear. My camera is waterproof so I took a couple underwater photos. It doesn’t do so well beyond a few feet, but it still did a good job of capturing the clarity. I could see my boots just as clear underwater as I could on land! I was tempted to drink the water right from the river (and I did in other places) but I saw some signs of beaver activity near the bank. Beavers are known to be carriers of giardia, a microscopic protozoon that infects the small intestine. Getting sick in the wilderness is a whole new kind of miserable. My water filter will strain out giardia, so I filtered all the water I drank from the river.
Many of the streams were shallow and barren. They offered no cover, no structure, no plant life, and no reason for fish to hang out. I threw a few casts in each stream just to be sure, but nothing was happening. Spots where two streams merged offered more promise. The surface was usually broken enough to provide cover and the water was deep enough for fish to feel safe. It was also well oxygenated and offered a natural funneling point for food. But I would have to fish under the surface to reach the fish; no way would they come up at this time of day.
I tied on the prince rubberleg I had success with a few days earlier and approached the convergence point at the downstream end of the delta. The water was very fast, so I needed to put heavy weights on to get it below the surface. I also needed a big indicator that wouldn’t get dragged under by anything other than a strike. The conditions were perfect for casting; a strong wind was at my back and the current river curved so I could stand on the bank and cast exactly downstream through the merge point. I landed a nice 12 inch cutthroat at the end of a drift in about four feet of water. I thought I was hitting pay dirt, but that was the only strike in that run. I caught a couple smaller fish off to the sides of the mainstream, but didn’t get any more action in the deep parts. This was the ideal place for a streamer; and 95% of all fly fishermen would have done well with a wooly bugger or leach. But I’m in that other 5% who can’t seem to throw a streamer that trout like. I was getting some perfect drags right through the middle of the channel and six feet down. I could see the streamer as I reeled it in and did my best imitation of a wounded minnow trying to get to shore. Usually I can at least get a fish to take a look out of curiosity but not today. The trout weren’t impressed. I suppose that would have frustrated some fisherman, but I was intrigued by the challenge. I was positive that fish were there but I just wasn’t reaching them, kinda like trying to talk to your teenager through the bedroom door. Streamer fishing will be my off-season project this winter. I’ll study some techniques and maybe get some pointers from some pros.
I sat down to eat lunch next to the river. It was beautiful country. The sun was bright and high but the wind and water kept me from overheating. Every once in a while one of those big white cotton-ball clouds drifted in front of the sun to provide a few minutes shade. I saw a campsite in the meadow about fifty yards from the river that would make a great base camp. I’ll keep that in mind for future planning. As I sat there a couple rafters drifted through the main stream of the river and bypassed the maze. It looked relaxing, but they weren’t getting as much time to soak in any one place for too long. It definitely looked like an option to consider for next time as an alternative to packing my gear in on foot. I may look into hiring a guide to float me down to a spot and pick me up a week later. It wouldn’t be free, but I also wouldn’t need two or three days to recover before I could start fishing.
I finished a leisurely lunch and went back to fishing. I had one tributary remaining before making a complete circuit through the delta. The bank was lined with trees, which made it distinctly different than the other streams. The water was also slower which meant longer drifts and more tactical fishing. It looked like good water, but it all looked good. I watched for a few minutes to study the area. All of a sudden, I saw a 12 inch cutthroat double porpoise out of the water in the middle of the stream. It was on now!
I crossed over and approached it so the wind was at my back. I could stand far enough back so my shadow wasn’t over the water and I sized up the stream in chunks. I was throwing seventy foot casts like a world champion and landing them on the far bank. (That wind does a lot for your fly fishing ego!) I got a few strikes at a royal coachman but didn’t set the hook in time. Still, I was in the right area with the right fly. I slowly worked my way upstream where the water was not only deeper, but a fallen tree provided some excellent trout cover.
I still had the rubberleg prince on under an indicator but I hadn’t got anything on that since the morning. I clipped it off and tied on a big mayfly. I hadn’t tried fishing with two dries at the same time before, but what the heck, right?
I was getting lots of attention with my casts. I could see trout rising and a few made strikes. I had worked my way into the sweet spot of the stream where the water was fast and deep and the cover was best. All at once, chaos erupted. I instinctively set the hook and something strong started fighting. It felt like the heftiest catch of the trip! I set the drag and kept the fish from retreating under the log. As I made slow progress reeling in, I strained to see the fish. At first I couldn’t make out what I was seeing due to all the splashing. Then I realized that I had hooked not one but two trout at once, one on each fly! Once before I hit a double – hooked two fish at the same time – but it was with a nymph under a dry fly. These fish both hit on dry flies and were fighting each other as well as me. I have to say it made me feel good about my knot tying that neither one broke off with all that strain. I eventually got one fish near enough to net and left the other in the water. I carefully removed the royal coachman hook from his upper lip and lowered him out of the net into the water.
Maybe that spooked the other fish, because he bolted. The problem was that I was still holding on to the hook and it jammed right in to my little finger all the way up to the hook shank. I’d like to tell you that as a seasoned fisherman, I’ve taught myself to ignore pain and focus on the mission at hand. I’d like to, but I can’t. That hurt. A lot. And it didn’t get any better because the fish was still tugging and struggling with his own fly and each flop sent the hook a little deeper into my flesh. This isn’t a situation you practice much, so it’s not obvious how to remedy it. I had tension on my rod that was pulling the hook one way, and the tension from the fish was twisting it another way. If I dropped the rod to grab my clippers it would surely rip another hunk out of my finger. I grabbed the remaining tippet and tried to reel in the other fish by hand. Fortunately it was only about four feet down so I didn’t have to manage much line. It was a juggling act to hold a flopping fish, remove the hook from its mouth, keep my rod from floating away and keep tension off the hook in my finger. But somehow I managed to get him free and he swam back to the hole. Now I had some surgery of my own to do. I couldn’t see the barb; it was buried in my finger. I tried to push down on the hook to make room to back the barb out but it wasn’t working (except to hurt a lot). Finally I realized I just had to grit my teeth and pull it out. I think I yelled, and I think the trout laughed, but I with one strong jerk I pulled it back out. It bled some, but didn’t rip out as much of my finger as I thought it might. Once out, it really didn’t hurt anymore. I rinsed it off and didn’t think too much more about it after ten minutes. After all, I had found the hotspot of the day!
I caught a few more in that spot before reaching the turn. It was definitely the best fishing so far and a lot of fun. This will be high on my list of spots to return to for my next trip. But I had delayed my departure until six o’clock which was later than ideal. I had a two hour hike back to camp and still had some work to do before dark. I broke down my rod, filled up my water bottles and hit the trail. I still had good energy and a bag of honey roasted almonds kept me going. I was about 4.5 miles from camp according to the GPS, and maybe another mile of actual walking. But I was making good time. I hadn’t seen any pack trains go by, but the tracks on the trail were an unmistakable sign that one had. Bill told me he might be coming back that way on Wednesday, so I suspected it was him.
I got back to the cabin at about 8 pm. Sure enough, Bills horses and mules were wandering the grounds grazing. I’d like to think they recognized me because they were so indifferent to my attendance, but I suppose that’s just their nature. A trail crew was also spending the night there. Trail crews are mostly made up of college kids who volunteer to clear trails, spray weeds, repair gear and other odd jobs that keep the forest service functional for the rest of us. Most are guys in their twenties, but there are a few females. These are girls who are willing to give up hot showers, pink slippers, air conditioning and lattes to spend the summer in the wilderness. I suppose we have to cut them a little slack about looking stylish.
I got my bath, washed out some clothes and strung them up to dry on a line I had stretched between trees. I was getting organized for the morning when something caught my eye. On the other side of the coral some animals were grouping together. They were much bigger than the deer but clearly weren’t pack animals. A quick study showed they were elk! I counted at least ten, but there were a few more still in the trees. They were far more skittish than the deer and stayed huddled together surveying their neighbors. I didn’t see any bulls, but I also didn’t get a good look at all of them. The most distinctive feature was the round white patch on their rumps. I took a few steps toward the coral to get a better look but I was still at least eighty yards away. That was close enough for them. They turned and ran as a herd back through a small patch of trees and to the meadow. The sound they made was like a stampede of six or more horses…hey, that must be what I heard last night!
I looked through my ‘pantry’ to see what I had for dinner. Turkey Tetrazzini was the winner. It’s pretty good, but you have to make sure you cook it long enough to make the green beans soft. I ate the whole bag but I really wanted some munchies. I grabbed a can of salmon and walked over to knock on the cabin door. Bill was sitting on a chair against the wall with his feet up. “Hi! C’mon in, Mark!” he said, like he was greeting family visiting from out of town. “We’re just listening to a good story!” Three young guys were sitting around the cabin and one was telling about his encounter with an outfitter and his six year old granddaughter. He was a good storyteller and I can’t make it as funny as he did, but he described how she walked up behind a mule and began jerking its tail like a church bell. He thought he might actually witness the death of a child right there on the trail. Then later she emerged again from camp carrying a .22 rifle with her finger on the trigger. It was especially funny when he described how a colleague took cover behind him, hoping someone else would disarm the situation. Everyone emerged uninjured, but they concluded that the most dangerous creature in the wilderness was not grizzly bears or mountain lions, but six-year –old girls who were spoiled by their grandfathers!
When we all finished laughing, I held up the can and said:
“I have here a can of Gourmet King Salmon, which makes an excellent lunch. But I will gladly trade it for some cookies”. My words had barely hit the far wall of the cabin when one of the guys jumped up and said “OK!”. He snatched the can from my hand and walked over to a foot locker full of goodies that they had stocked. I’m sure the cookies were community property, so they guy was making a good deal by trading them for his own personal can of salmon. He handed me about six Chips Ahoy Soft Bake and we called it a win-win trade. Bill excused himself and left to check out the meadow before dark. He wanted to make sure none of his animals were getting into mischief. I asked him if they got along with the elk. He said sometimes the mules chase them around for fun, but otherwise they don’t mind each other. An interesting code of brotherhood exists among wilderness animals.
The cookies were gone by the time I got to my tent, but they hit the spot. I had put in about ten miles but didn’t feel nearly as tired as when I was hauling my pack. Tomorrow was going to be a low impact day so I could save my energy for the hike out. I decided I would pack out on Friday. This would give me an extra day if I really needed to stop before the trail head, and I could always fish the Spotted Bear River or one of the larger creeks on Saturday if I got out early. It was a good day. I fell asleep quickly.
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