The Henry's Fork of the Snake River is world-reknown for the quality of its fly-fishing; folks travel from all points known and perhaps some unknown to cast into its waters. This last weekend, Glenn and I took a much-needed respite and traveled to the Island Park, ID area for four days and three nights of camping with fly-fishing tossed in for even more fun.
Even though I can not yet say I actually caught a fish at Henry's Fork, I did get five rises at my dry flies in my three days of attempt. My fly-fishing technique will always be punctuated with ineptness, and if and when I do catch a trout out of the Snake, it will be more an example of dumb luck than actual fishing skill. But, I did have those five rises, and I'll not be despondent over missing them.
How could I be? Fly-fishing involves cast after cast while staring and studying your feeble attempt to imitate whatever insect hatch bug is floating by naturally, hoping to mislead a trout to its demise. Time passes quickly as the fisher is always engaged in the activity, yet at a place like Henry's Fork it is so easy to be distracted.
I won't bemoan missing a strike at my fly because my attention turned to a flight of five white pelicans winging overhead against a cloudless blue sky. They traveled so low and so gracefully, I could hear their flapping wings oaring the air. It was at that crystalline moment that a trout nipped at my bait!
Cast over cast with no action can cause mind numbness to set in and the thought process roams across a mental field with nearly unlimited boundaries. At one point, I watched in amazement as my chosen fly drifted past me with its natural cousins on each side. As I marvelled at how closely my pretender resembled the real thing, a trout apparently felt the same as it rose and took a chance at it. I missed again, but the memory remains.
And sometimes, the fisher just stops attempting to lure the wily trout and watches in awe. Sunday evening, during our last foray at the Fork, I motioned Glenn to move nearer me downstream. He'd been about 70 yards further up, but I was seeing evidence of feeding fish in my area, so called him over. Just a moment before, I heard one of those noises that causes a person to look up and around, but seeing nothing, imagines the silence and mind played tricks on the ears.
Glenn moved downstream near me, and within two minutes we heard a splash. The female moose in the photo above waded into the river at the exact spot where Glenn had stood just a moment before!
We both lay down the fishing rods and watched in awe as she waded the Snake, dipping her snout into the water to retrieve errant bits of weed and other food. She stood so close to us, we could hear her chew. When she shook her head to get the water out of her ears, we could hear them flapping against her head. For a full 20 minutes we just sat, alone but for one other fisherman, in one of the most beautiful spots in the country . . . watching a moose who watched us in return.
I took the photo of Glenn that same evening. My poor little Olympus camera does not do the backdrop justice. But how lovely, the Snake River flowing past and between the stands of pines, the Grand Teton Mountains glow in the evening sunlight.
Miss catching my trout? Oh, but so many other rewards instead.
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