Henry's-Last Week of Summer

 I Have the Upper Ranch all to Myself!

 Tricos are Still in the House

 The Last Chance Cripple-My Fly of the Season

Henry’s Fork-The Star in the Center.

From most places on the Railroad Ranch section, I can see my place in the grand scheme of important things.  Looking south, the earth’s crust just drops off and goes away, down into the immense Snake River Valley of southeast Idaho.   The South Fork of the Snake, from western Wyoming, joins the Henry’s for a hazardous journey to the pacific.  The forest of the raised Island Park caldera stretches to an empty horizon.

To the east though, I see the Grand Tetons rising skyward, and envision Jackson Lake and the Snake River Valley just on their other side, birth place of the South Fork.  Afternoon sun shines brightly from the peaks, but they stand quietly in the morning sun.  To the northeast, the wooded plateau of Yellowstone Park looms large.  I picture the valleys, wildlife, and geysers.  It’s often cloudy in that direction.  
Looking north 20 or so miles across the wooded caldera, West Yellowstone is over the first hill to the right, and Henry’s lake slightly to the left.  The lower Madison River flows just over the small hill beyond Henrys Lake, to the left.  Go north and take the fork at the road. 

To the northwest, Sawtelle Peak marks the south side of Henry’s Lake, the birth place of this hallowed trout river, and a great fishery itself.  The peak gets snowed on in June and September, signaling cool nights on the river.

When I look west, I know that just beyond the sparse hills of Kilgore is the highway to Dillon and the Beaverhead River, as close as the Tetons to the east.

So the Henry’s Fork, and Last Chance, Idaho, are perfectly planted right in between all these great places, the star in the center of a fly fishing universe.

On the river, I watch the infant clouds form into cotton balls directly overhead, the weather of the moment drifting in, and the clouds with dark bottoms. All appear closer because the elevated volcanic caldera puts me closer to them.  The volcanic rocks along the river and across Island Park have that Swiss cheese look, and I know the whole damn place could blow at any moment, but probably won’t.

The rivers waters flow beautifully flat, full of weeds, and full of bugs that trout love to eat.  That alone makes it a fly fisherman’s paradise.  The water goes from moving at a fast walk at Last Chance, to hardly moving on the lower Ranch.  Upstream is a canyon with rocks and riffles.  Downstream is fast water and great water falls. No riffles to speak of interrupt the Ranch flow.  Weed patches break the surface.  A rock or log jam creates “character” in a stretch.  Fish feed at any current break.  Fish feed on some of the banks when they’re not trampled.  I seldom see sub-surface fishermen here, and never see bobbers on fly leaders.  The Ranch is a fly fishing only stretch.  Most everyone is casting dry flies to visible rising trout.  I like that.

This “bug factory” usually has dependable daily hatches, and usually more than one kind of bug.  The trout like that.  Larger fish require good casting and fishing skills, but are not overly tough like small spring creeks.  I get in casting range, make a few casts, and catch most rising trout, or at least get them to eat my fly.  Sometimes I hook them.  Often times after hooked, they go into the thick weeds and deposit my fly there.  Or, they just break it off.  All is still well in the center of the universe.  There’s another head of a large fish, eating something that I’ll try and figure out, or just tie on the beetle!

I’m forever drawn here because it’s really the birthplace of my real fly fishing career/passion/hobby/whatever-you-call-it.  It is here in the early 80’s that I learned what a dead drift really was.  Dead Drift U. is what we called it.  Multiple currents pulling at my leader and fly from every which way, and the fly still has to float “naturally” over the trout if I am to get a bite.  That natural drift changes every few inches as the fly floats down stream.  If I can get a good drift here, I can get one anywhere.  Whenever I cast, I thank the Henry’s Fork.

It is here I caught my first “big” trout on dry flies, feisty rainbows from 16-22 inches long that always pulled back.  For a few summers, the opening day of June 15 marked the beginning of a summer of fly fishing for me.  The kickoff planned and anticipated for 10 months.  A couple times I was gone all summer.

Henry’s Fork is the first spring creek I ever fished, though to some, it’s not a strict spring creek, but a combination of a tail water and spring creek.  The rich water flowing from Henrys Lake is spring fed and spring-like.  Big Springs is as spring-fed as you get.  Those two together, with their little friend the Buffalo Spring Creek, form this great river.  A trout river could not have a better mother and father!  No wonder it’s the star.