Tangled lines and lost gear

Wednesday, August 05, 2009

By Matthew Irwin

Jackson Hole, Wyo.-My phone took a swim, four of my flies snapped off and, out of three of us, only one caught a fish – in other words, I became a fly-fisherman on a cloudy day in early May.

The trouble with telling a genuine fly-fishing story is knowing which details to omit– there is a sense that additional anglers make a stretch of river as worn as Jackson Hole Mountain Resort by 10 a.m. on a powder day. On some fishing holes, one can be sure that if someone else is there dropping lines, he told them about the hole.
However, I’ve also found that walking the river is less about the fish than it is about the walk. Finding someone else on the river isn’t as much a concern of scarcity as of lost solitude and the sanctity of the quest.

Wyoming Game and Fish said that Wyoming sold more than 300,000 fishing licenses in 2008. They haven’t divided the number, yet, by county or by type, meaning day-use or annual, out-of-state or resident. Though, the numbers have fluctuated only slightly over the last 10 years.

More than 4,200 resident annuals, nearly 2,300 nonresident annuals and almost 35,000 dailies went out in Teton County in 2007.

So for the most part, anglers keep quiet about their favorite fishing holes.

That’s the official story. My experience is that fisherman also like to talk. They like to be recognized for their finds, and have someone with whom to share their wins. Hang around a shop long enough, and one will learn about a few secret holes. Shop employees will call the game warden by name, tell stories about rogue fisherman who try to stay one step ahead of him. They’ll give directions like, “Drive 10 miles south to the bend – you can’t miss it – then ask Harold – he’s always there – and tell ‘em I sent ya.”

Teton River
The elation one feels when a friend hooks a four-pounder is not unlike jealousy. But if one wants to change his luck, he must summon the courage to say, “What you fishin’?”

On a trip last Friday, the answer was “hoppers,” short for grasshoppers, or flies made to look as such.

We were in Tetonia, Idaho, on Teton River.

Aaron Davis and Troy Kavanagh had been coaching me over the last few days on how and where to cast. The three of us had lived together for a year from ’01 to ’02, though Kavanagh had since moved to Laramie with his wife. He was on vacation.

The river moved quickly, gorgling and thumping as it fell downstream. Davis caught a cutthroat off the bat. I crossed to the other side, slowly, leveraging my legs against large rocks to keep from slipping on algae. First cast, I caught my fly in a tree.

A few more casts, and I caught a cutthroat trout. Then, a 15-inch rainbow that flew straight out the water to attempt unhooking himself. I caught another by accident, dragging my line as I moved upstream.

Clouds rolled over us, cutting the glare and making the fish more adventuresome. They rose on flies in the choppy stuff, not so much the softer pools, as rainbows are known to do.

When a sixth fish took my fly with him, I hoped that he would quickly spit it out, as I had seen them do, the reason for which the fishing regulation manual suggests flattening the barb on one’s hook. The fishing manual also says that the hook will decompose.

Judging my success, Troy and Aaron said that my lessons were over. I was on my own.

As far as I?could tell, I had paid my dues. The Teton River walk was the last of four trips and the end of countless failures.

SNAKE River
Back in May, Davis and I floated 11 miles of the Snake River from the Wilson bridge boat launch to the South Park pullout (a.k.a. Von Gontard’s Landing) with Shannon McCormick. Both happen to work at JH Weekly.

McCormick is also a one-time valley guide, with as many stories as flies in his box. Among them is a memory of the time when guides walked around town with flies on their hats – until Playboy made fun of the practice in a story on local fly-fishing.
“They all took the flies off the day after the story came out,” McCormick said.
Late snow and cold nights had kept the runoff at bay, but the temperature was climbing. McCormick and I met at the Wilson bridge around 8 a.m. to judge the quality of the water.

It was clear enough, though we knew we’d better hurry.

McCormick scored us a South Fork Skiff, a low-profile fishing boat made by a local company. Creekside Deli provided lunch – sandwiches, chips, water and fruit – sealed in large plastic bags to stay dry. And High Country Flies lent me waders and a fly rod.

When we launched at 10 a.m., the river looked a little green, though the temperature had dropped, and rain clouds loomed in the north.
Before I was (mentally) ready, McCormick was instructing me to cast. “There,” he said. “Now, cast there.”

Lock your wrist, he told me. Don’t swat. Keep a rhythmic motion, forward and back. Pause briefly at each end to let the line catch up. Keep your arm up. Bend your elbow. Keep your wrist straight. And move your whole arm. As you let out more line, slow down, but keep it steady. Wait until the line straightens before you cast forward. Don’t swat. Straighten your wrist.

Crap.

I had two or three casts per hole, before he pointed to a new one. I cast on the east side, then the west, then back, all the while afraid that Davis or McCormick would end up at the end of my line. Inevitably, I tangled my line.

When I dropped my phone in the river, he said, “You know what’s good about that, don’t you?”

(Clarification – I didn’t drop my phone, so much as fail to understand that the little pouch at the top of my waders isn’t waterproof.)

“No, Shannon. I can’t see anything good about that,” I said.

“Well, you’ll never do it again.”

gros ventre
This lesson Kavanagh has learned well. Last Wednesday, he took me to Davis’ favorite hole on the Gros Ventre River – home to his “pet fish.” It was a cuttbow trout – hybrid cutthroat and rainbow – which, along with purebred rainbow, Wyoming Game and Fish has been shocking and pulling. Seems the Gros Ventre and the Snake are home to a rare cutthroat species, known as the Snake River Fine-spotted Cutthroat Trout.

Kavanagh caught cuttys, and I some willow branches. The water was shallow and slow, forming a nice pocket behind the bend.

I hooked two fish, purely by accident, the line dragging downstream as Kavanagh gave me instructions. As we hiked upstream, we saw two fellas hitting a hole that we had planned on. Kavanagh stared perplexed. He had never seen anybody on that stretch of river before. Later, as we packed up, the two men approached, and it turned out Kavanagh knew them – had in fact, told them about the hole.

Before we left, he inspected the area around the car and the roof before we drove off. He had lost enough small, but expensive items, he said, to learn his lesson.

GREY’S RIVER
The next day, Kavanagh and I went down to Alpine, to Grey’s River, bringing along his wife, Carolyn, and Davis.

Davis and Kavanagh moved ahead, while Carolyn and I picked up the rear. Each time I got closer to her, she pointed to a slow moving spot in the water and said, “Try there.”

Each time I got closer to Carolyn, I caught a fish. In fact, with her help, I caught my first fish, intentionally. I dropped the line, followed the fly and tugged when I saw the fish’s mouth surface.

“Hold your rod up,” she said.

I was scared. I forgot everything I learned about reeling in and letting out line.
“Up,” Carolyn said, “so it’s harder for him to fight.”
Fish, when humans speak of them, are always male.

Eventually, I was able to pull him closer to shore, and Carolyn netted him. A cutty. Looking at him, I wondered if I had hurt him.

The Right Fly
Back in May, McCormick worked hard to land me that first fish. If he thought my fly was too wet, and therefore sinking, he tied me a new one. If he thought the type of fly was the problem, he tied me a new one. If he thought that the water was too murky for fish to hunt on the surface, he tied me a nymph with a strike indicator, also known as a bobber to lake fisherman. All this, while also rowing the skiff.
We fished toward shore – him daring me ever closer to the bank, and when I snagged a tree branch, he rowed back hard, trying to help me loosen the hook’s grip, but the line snapped.

“That won’t be the only time,” he said. And it wasn’t.

Though Davis pulled in a small cutthroat, nothing worked for me, and as we rounded the last bend to the South Park pullout, it began to rain.

We agreed that we had probably gone out a day too late, which I found upsetting, as I wouldn’t have another chance to catch a fish for months. McCormick said that I was “hooked.” I’d go again until I caught a fish, and after I did, I’d never stop. I’d become an angler.

I learned last week that there’s no such thing as a typical fishing day – that each river and each fish demands a different approach. As soon as it feels natural, the conditions change.

Fishing different rivers means learning new tools and techniques. I caught nothing that first day on the Snake, using a nymph. On the Gros Ventre, a PMX attracted two cuttys; same on the Grey’s. Using my hopper down in Tetonia, I caught five fish, by then thinking I had it all figured out.

The next day on Flat Creek, however, I reverted to catching willows and tangling line. It was opening day on the creek, and the fish were wise.

“This is one of the top five places in the country to get schooled on fly-fishing,” Davis said.

He tied a brown drake, a tiny fly, which made the line lighter and more difficult to manage. He told me not to bother tying my own – we would only get a few casts each on these holes before the fish stopped biting.

Walking back to the parking lot, Davis pointed to a red truck that he said he saw just about every time he drove by during past seasons.

“I don’t know what he does,” Davis said, “but for me, fishing is also about getting out and seeing places I wouldn’t otherwise.”

We took off our gear, discussing the next time we’d meet up, and I placed my sunglasses on the roof.

Just before Davis pulled away, he honked to ask me when I’d be leaving for an upcoming vacation.

Then, I drove back into town, the night warm, but breezy, thinking about what I would have for dinner.

On Sunday, I bought new sunglasses. JHW

Photo by Aaron Davis
Hooking up

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Tangled lines and lost gear | Planet JH News Article: Cover Stories

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