July's Last Casts

As the years go by, I get a little bit more saddened as each season passes.  The long, almost two-for-one days of June and July go too quickly.  Each walk to the river is equal to a typical full day window in the fall.  I get a long full morning and a long full evening every day, even though the days have become more tiring.    Management is the key, with a nap between sessions if possible.  But now another summer season in my favorite places is nearly gone.  

It seems like the right time to head home, but feels like I just started this little trip.  It never feels right driving down off the Island Park caldera, no matter when or the circumstances.  About 320 more days until I pull up that hill next June, when the caddis, drakes, and PMD's will be waiting.  Sure, I'll see it again in less than two months, for shorter days and more layers of clothing.   But both waits seem like an eternity right now.  I'll be running the heater, not running from the heat.  Baetis, not PMD's.  Mahoganies, not drakes.  So many contradictions.

The dog days are definitely here, and they came early this season.  You could say, mid-June.  

The Fork fished well early, but not as well later in the month.  That low water on the MO was a beautiful thing.  I've seen it fish better, and it got tough this month, but I'd take another 300 cfs June without hesitation.  The creeks were consistently good every day, as they always flow cold.

My explorations into northwest Montana were a little mixed, but worth the effort.  The Thompson area in June was beautiful with its clear skies, open vistas, and crystal clear water.  The July swing to the Blackfoot, Swan Valley and Flathead side of the Bob was sort of marred by the thick smoke that filled the skies everywhere starting on my last day on the Creeks.  I know that would have been stunningly gorgeous country, and it was nice even with the smoke, but I had to use my imagination a bit.  

The post-creek journey into the NE park went about as expected.  Crowded, smoky, and average cutthroats.  The best fish I saw were rising on the Yellowstone, where caddis, drakes, and salmonflies were flying and floating.  The river was still closed to fishing though.

So now I'm back where it all started 40 days ago, on the Fork, overlooking millionaires pool with nothing going on.  Gray, waterless clouds hang above the smoky skies, and a typical afternoon breeze keeps it tolerable with temps in the high 80's.  They've dropped the water back to around 1,200 again after dumping for irrigation most of July, but its higher than June and the weeds make it deeper.  Nobody is around, not a voice to be heard.  It's sort of eerie, like the end of a trip, and seasonal window.  I need to try ad get a couple more eats from some big lower ranch fish before I leave.  Next time, it will be mahoganies and baetis, and cold hands.  Now its a desperate attempt to hang on to what I look forward to more than anything all year.  Just a bit longer.  Just one more wade out.

Mo runner

Wolf camp

Creeks camp

  

  

Blackfoot camp

Armstrong barn