Not Again

A peaceful start to a beautiful morning.

Seems like every time I come here the last few years, a moose wants to kill me, either physically, or from a heart attack.  A couple years ago, two scared the bejesus out of me on the bank right above Loving Creek.  A summer ago, I heard a huge splash and turned to see one right behind me straight below the conservancy building on the cliff.  A few years back, a small herd moved straight across from me at the junction of Grove and Stalker creeks.  That was mutual respect. 

But this morning, a horny and aggressive bull comes tearing through the brush, head down, snorting and making all kinds of racket.  What the hell?  He's breaking through the willows with his antlers, chasing a cow, both ranting and raving like I've never heard.  He apparently doesn't appreciate me and two other fishermen in his creek, or around his woman, or that we even exist.  After coming straight to the bank directly in front of me, 40 or so feet away, I hunker low in some grass on the edge of an island behind me to make myself look small.  I am, compared to this bull.  I sure as hell aren't going to out run or out swim him standing waist deep in Silver Creek muck.  The cow is just downstream of me on the same bank, right between me and the downstream angler.

Then the bull runs straight down stream and turns toward the fisherman 150 feet below me.  The guy exits to the bank, and the bull splashes toward him.  Better him than me, but I thought he might be toast.  He did too.

I figure, might as well have documentation for next of kin.

After passing on that guy, the bull stomps back upstream again, passes me on the way to another fisherman just around the bend 150 feet upstream of me.  That guy backs off to the island I'm squatting next to, and then starts coming my way, with the bull following.  I guess the bull had enough, because he turned away mid-stream, and went back upstream to wherever he came from, in pursuit of the cow that has now also made her way up above all of us.

Him?  Her?  Me?  I'm screwed.  That's what he's probably thinking too.

He decided to go with the cow.

The wind had been up for about 30 minutes prior to all of this.  I found my way to the trail and decided to head back to camp for lunch and a change of drawers.  When I came back for the evening bite, the bull and his girlfriend were still on the little island I had last seen them on.  Ironically, its where the trails from both parking lots meet at the creek.  Both appeared to have settled down considerably from noon, so maybe they were all finished and having a cigarette.  I'll probably go further downstream tomorrow.

Oh, the fishing?  The hatch starts about when the wind comes up, and then I get out of there.  Once the wind stops around 4, the late afternoon and evening bite is decent.  I get a few eats from some nice fish but don't keep any hooked.  I think I'm in the right frame of mind now though, in a different game from the big rivers.  The fish are eating my #16 dark soft hackle well.  The actual food is blue wing olives with a dash of mahoganies and the odd callibaetis.  Not a heavy hatch, but enough.  The bigger fish are infrequent, but seem grateful for something suggestive on a perfect drift.  Carefully!

The warm autumn evening is simply beautiful.  The fish really did take a back seat to the splendor.

Love this little run

Easy walking here, not much muck.

No moose down here.

Perfect.

One

 

I know, same shot of the same big pool at roughly the same time this morning.  But that's one thing about this pool, its never the same two days in a row, or two mornings in a row.  And its the closest I get to being a millionaire.  Actually, I'm richer than a millionaire by just standing here.  Its looks good and feels right again this morning.  There's nothing doing though.

I finally locate a couple of rising fish on river left up below the pelican side channel.  I get a couple of eats from the smaller fish.  The wind associated with a dry cold front starts howling at 11:30.  About 1:00, and I finally start seeing a stray mahogany back down at the cliff, the only place out of the wind, kind of.  Once in a blue moon a fish rises.

4 1/2 hours into my morning, this one eats as I walk my mahogany down the middle of the slick at the very bottom of the rock island.  A freebie.  All I can find over a foot long.

Seems fitting it eats the hares ear soft hackle, the best mahogany match ever, and probably my favorite fly these days.  

It could very well be my last Ranch fish for 259 days.  A good one to remember for all that time.

I messed around at Vernon for an evening and a day.  Mostly small fish with a pretty good bwo hatch.  Went up to the box one evening and messed with a few with the leech.  Time for the move.

Evening bwo's.

Morning run

Box at 150 cfs.

A Chance

Its just a trickle now at 150 cfs.  As low as I've ever seen it, and that's what all the other old timers are saying too.  I don't know what the hell they're thinking, "saving water" in the lake for winter releases, or later, or whenever.  Nobody's here 'cept a few regulars and I have to clear the waterfowl so I can see any disturbance on the water that signals a pig Millionaire rainbow.  I take the riverside grassy trail up, occasionally ticking the lava rock with my wading staff to make a little noise.  The sun pops from behind a thin cloud and I see little mayflies in the air as I stare into the glare.  Tricos, likely the last.  No wind yet, and its 9:30 sharp.  I even see a couple of hoppers, a sign I might still throw one of those, even though its the end of September.

The current here barely moves now.  The pace is slower, easy to see and feel.  Its what this pool is about anyway.  There's no sign of life other than two remaining mergansers on river right as I approach the sweet spot just below the little island in front of the ranch houses.  The rest of the 200 or so birds are center river in all the weeds and moss.  No trout life.

A little after 10, little blue wings start to hatch.  I tip toe down the run.  She's low, low.  My knees never get wet.  Neither does my net.  I catch a couple of small fish down at the cliff, and nothing down below on the deeper bank.  This is still my favorite place to not catch a trout.

I transfer the late afternoon shift up to the log jam.  After a walk down to the lower foot bridge and back, seeing nothing, its time to call it a day.  6:30.  I'm here though, and its sunny and just right.  I enter upstream a hundred yards from the jam and work down through all the tiny rising fish.  Three good ones, and I turn a couple more.  One just up from the log jam, one dead even with it, and one just below it.  Is this where all the big fish that want to play are hanging out, in plain sight of the platform?  7:30 and its getting pretty dark.  Fun final hour.

I'm trying that again this morning.  Five casts into the slick right in front of the platform, and I have one on.  A little later in the riffle just below, a good one.  One more, and that's all she wrote.  Nothing but babies rise to a mostly-nothing hatch of mostly-nothing.  Midges with the occasional olive?  I really don't want to keep fishing this spot anyway, but it was fun for a few.  

Normally too fast, now holding fish.

I've caught so many where there is no water now.

Transfer to Ashton.  Vernon specifically.  That run I fished in June is full of blue wings this evening just before sunset.  Heaviest hatch I've seen all trip, but only a few fish rise, and none steady.  The bugs are thick in the air, with a few on the water.  Maybe tomorrow morning?  I'm staying to see.

It's a Lock

Always is, this great river.  Come to think of it, if Montana didn't have this place and Livingston, I'm not sure I'd fish the state as often as I do, especially in the fall.  Idaho has three or four pretty good ones closer to home, not to mention Wyoming.  But they ain't this.

Upon late arrival around 11, there's a few caddis skittering about, the last of some tricos, tiny midges, and assorted mayflies about the size of the midges. A random fish rises, here and there, and once in a while one comes up in range to cover with a big generic soft hackle.  I take a couple fish, and wait for the 1:30 blue wings that never come.  Too early?  Too warm?  Just fishing?  After a late lunch, I swing the wet into the sunset and take a couple more fish to stretch the tippet.  Hmmm.  Is it tough here too?

The trailer rocks from the wind on Sunday morning.  Its day six, fifth on the water, and the show is still not really on the road.  I think I know how to fix that this morning, even in 20-30 mph winds, no exaggeration.  I go up to the big island channel with the high bank and some willows, and wade right down to the lower part of island where the pig flat always produces.  It does, on the wets. The wind is blowing down river off my right shoulder, so with the right timing I'm making hero casts.  I work down the flat and finally around the corner into the deep drop, where the wind is still favorable, if there's such a thing.  I cast between gusts, and they're chomping the swing.  Really chomping in the bucket.

By 12:30, the gusts now have some short breaks in between.  I see a rise, and then another in the same spot.  Revolutionary!  It does happen!  There's a little pod of fish on one little semi-protected flat less than a foot deep and no more than five feet off the shallow bank.  I add some 5x and start to play.  I can't see what they're eating, and don't see any bugs on the water.  Midges?  I don't know.  They don't refuse the mole though.  

Mid afternoon, and I'm hurting everywhere from casting in the wind and pulling on fish.  I . . . leave rising fish for a late lunch, a walk and dinner for Norman, and a nap for both of us before evening.  Back up at Lone Tree for a quick 90 minutes at sunset, there's a few fish working just down the hill.  Easy access for the weary.  A couple more line stretches, and that's a wrap.  Lock.

Next morning I'm back in the same run.  I mean, its a lock, right?  Yep.  Down the lower skinny-water bank, and out in the bucket, the fish are rising.  No wets today.  I get humbled a little in the calm sunny conditions, but still manage some good ones fairly steady.  There's enough bugs to keep it going through early afternoon, when some riff-raff decides to fish, float, and have lunch on the 100 feet of bank I'm working. The clown rowing (I won't call him a guide) offers me a bratwurst.

The last 90 minutes or so before sunset have some fish up back in the same area too, though I don't really get to where I want to be, and am not going to be "that guy" just because I want to fish there.  Fish still come up to the big dry soft hackle.  They actually like it!  Maybe some remembrances from summer, or just opportunistic eats.  Hey, I'm ok with size 14's in late September.  Low 80's in the forecast for two more days.  I'm all in.

Time for a change of scenery and fish this morning, so I'm walking down from the barb wire pullout.  I turn a fish early on a leech, and see a couple of one-timers, but its no lock here.  The wind is up and I search the protected high bank extensively, but there's no bugs and no fish up.  I need a town run for some tax-free trailer tires, and I win the lottery and get the call to go pee in a cup.  (Is the US Government's DOT the last people on earth that do this?) Seems like a good afternoon to do it.  I get back in time for another quick evening check on things, and there's nothing worth checking on.

One more pleasant morning finds me walking up from Lone Tree to the bottom of the little magic island.  All looks hopeless, but now there's two fish rising every few minutes on the bank below a big weed patch stuck to a rock.  Speaking of weeds, its seems more weedy than ever this morning, with floating salad everywhere.  The flow hasn't changed.

Its rough positioning due to depth, and I just can't get out very far from the shore they're rising on.  Down and just a hair across is the angle, and I finally get the lower one to eat twice.  No hookup either time, and that's that.  I go up above the island to the only place I can cross the side channel, and then back down to the bottom where I can walk down on the big shallow gravel bar and fish the bucket.  A fish rises once in a while there, and I manage to catch a couple of "regulars."  

Four full days plus a little extra, and the only place that's any good is the bottom of the big island.  At least I found that, but I'm not really wanting to fish it over and over again, nor compete for it with boats floating down from the dam and merry-go-rounding on river right.  No Missouri River magic this visit.

Bucket full of 'em

Sweet spot

That last spot of risers

Weedy