Brooked Out
By: Maddax Ball
It is the middle of July and the water is finally turning clear after an eternity of muddy water from the winter runoff. The crackle of grasshoppers flying through the air can make any fly fisherman excited and make them anxious to get out on the water. As an avid fly fisherman like myself, I am too anxious to get out on the water. The faint crackles of grasshoppers and the rivers’ ferocious rapids finally slowing down mark the beginning of the summer dry fly season. The fish are crushing dry flies this time of year constantly making glorious leaps out of the water in an attempt for their next meal. The summer dry fly season is by far my favorite time to fish out of the year. The adrenaline rush you get when you finally get a bite from a big trout slowly appearing out of the depths is unlike any other feeling.
Like I said the summer dry fly season is by far my favorite to time fish. During the summer I am fishing every waking moment that I am not working construction. After a long week of labor, it is amazing to put your feet in the freezing river water and feel the calming sensation of wettin’ a line. On the way to this remote backcountry fishing spot that is an annual tradition for me and a few of my buddies, I catch myself marveling at the natural beauty of the canyon flying by the glass window of my truck. My truck is grasping the asphalt in front of me inching closer to the dirt road that will take us to this spot. The river in the canyon is flowing and is clear. Thank goodness… it had rained a couple of times in the past few days so it was a sigh of relief when we saw the river was clear. Even though the river is usually clear in the late summer months occasional rain or as local Wyomingites may call it a “turd floater” may cause the river the muddy up. But this time we lucked out.
Finally, after a couple hours of driving the dirt road was closing in. We parked near the highway and unloaded our dirt bikes, packed our small bags, and had a bite to eat. The roar of the dirt bikes lasted another couple of miles before the open expanse of the green valley was finally flooded with a clear and slow-moving stream cutting through the middle. As far as the eye could see the slowly moving river winded its way further and further West. I could not wait to finally put some flies out on the water. As we walked through the grass down to the river, the dew from the grass fell onto our uncovered legs as it was still a bit chilly in the summer mornings. But we knew in a couple of hours we would be complaining about the muggy heat so we just took it. From previous experience fishing this river, we knew that the fish were quite panicky of shadows or your stature towering above the water. This made casting difficult, but that just adds to the gift when you catch a fish. Enough of the blabbing, now let's get to catching! Haha! The first fly I tied on was just a simple caddis, fished it for a while, a few bites here and there. No fish landed though, I switched it up to a micro chubby and this is when things got good. As we continued West, the river had better holes and better water. Boom! The surface of the water breaks as a little brookie comes flying out from the depths about a foot out of the water. Every time I see a fish fly out of the water my adrenaline skyrockets and it makes fishing so much more fun. This stream consists of about eight to ten inch brookies, anything bigger than that is pretty rare.
It’s midmorning now and each of us has lost count of how many fish we have caught. To some fishermen, quantity is not as important as the size of a nice trout. While that is true for me in some instances, today I put that thought in the back of my mind. I was delighted with the countless brookies that just kept biting. Every time the line tightens, it causes the same exhilarating feeling; it never gets old. We casted and casted fishing the same flies until they were falling apart, and left unfishable. Every color you tried, the same results came. It seemed like the farther away from civilization, and the harder it was to trek around in the river, the better the fishing was. I have concluded that the colder the water and the higher the elevation the more beautiful the brookies become. From the bright orange underside to the super dark vertical stripes, dotted with yellow and a white outlined fin, what more could you ask for in a trout? You have to realize that these high country streams with water that is so cold it will make your feet ache do not always have big fish but the quantity and beauty of these tiny brookies will stick. You will never be brooked out.