Tough Country Cutts

The approach of Fall gives many fishermen an itch to get back on the water. Dog days of summer have passed and the trout are bulking for winter. Rico and Bow knew the time had come to get back out. Sweet creek seemed feasible, but recent rain blew out all creeks with clay. It wasn't quite time for The X, and Uintah lakes were too busy.

Earlier that season, Bows neighbor Greg explored the area around Scofield. Greg previously fished a stretch of creek full of 12"-16" browns, but didn't get to explore it entirely. One night after a few beers and reminiscing over lost fish, Greg invited Bow to his spot. That next day they packed up and headed down.
The remoteness gave Bow a good feeling, along with the lack of cars. As they walked down to creeks edge, rocks were littered with dragonfly nymph casings. Looking closer, mayfly casings also spotted the ground. Bow tied on a size 18 PMD emerger and sought out shaded pocket water. Greg pulled out a few 12" browns; Bow only managing a few missed strikes. He moved up and saw the occasional rise, but no major hatch. Unsure what to tie on, he turned a few rocks. Squirming scuds and  wriggling mayflies dripped off every stone. Bow had a simple realization: almost every stream and river he fished had scuds or sow bugs. It can be easy to get caught up in mayflies, stoneflies and caddis, as they are featured most in magazines, photos and spend part of their lives in the anglers' view. Scuds receive less attention but comprise a large part of a trouts diet. Accordingly, he tied on a size 20 rainbow scud and worked a deep run. 15 minutes passed without a strike. Everything in Bows body said this stretch held fish, he just had to figure it out. Putting on one piece of shot, Bow also lengthened his indicator and kept casting. Moments later, Bow hit something that seemed to simply drift downstream. Putting pressure on, the line darted up, giving him a much needed shock. A speckled 12" Cutthroat soon tired and greeted an eager Bow.

With a little more reassurance, he headed upstream. A few hours and a few more fish, Bow met back with Greg, keeping two for dinner. That night Bow was unhappy he couldn't pull more fish with the abundant insect life, but relaxed knowing he would figure it out with time.

Bow mentioned the trip to Rico and they both got excited for further exploration. With only two days left of summer, they started the trek.

They were a little hesitant as local fly shops said both sections would be blown out. Staying optimistic, they spent the two hour trip focused on the unknown stretches of stream. They rolled up to a creek filled with clear, slow moving water. The storms hadn't adversely affected it, and no others were fishing. Those present were readying for the elk hunt, but had information on the stream. Most bigger fish were caught well upstream, not near the mouth of the reservoir. Rico and Bow took note, but decided to fish near the inlet anyway. After four hours and Rico sticking only one solid Cutt, the two were surprised. With such good looking water, they wondered where the fish were. They retired back to camp, sipped some Wild Turkey and tucked in for the night.

Pouring rain, bugling elk and a chill greeted them early. Inching out of their sleeping bags, they hoped the weather wouldn't create muttled conditions. Due to yesterdays limited success, it was decided to hike well upstream. Many appetizing stretches tempted Bow, but Rico had patience to keep them both on trail. After a half hour of hiking over rocks, snakes and muddy trail the rain started coming with fervor, eventually accompanied by chest-rattling thunder. Minutes later the rain subsided to return as hail. With extra speed from the wind, hail took its toll, forcing them to hide their hands and face. Another half hour, rough weather subsided but the chill became more severe. Traversing became exceedingly treacherous due to slick mud, loss of coordination, and shivering. The only upside was an increase of good holes as they trekked further along. Beaver ponds spanned the entire length of the creek: one to four feet tall every hundred yards. A little after an hour into the hike, the creek split into two different canyons: this was the place they were looking for. Rico took right and Bow took left, a spark of competition putting extra speed in their step. Rico stopped Bow, pointing out a slow bend. Bow thought nothing of it, but cast to satisfy curiosity. A few short strips later he hooked into an 11" Cutt.

From that point on every hole was productive. Large leeches were the pattern of choice, veering the Cutts across current to hit them. They leap-frogged each hole, one spotting trout for the other. Fish kept getting bigger as they moved up, stretching into the 18" range. Bow anticipated trout every hole and took caution during his approach. One shallow pond didn't seem to have activity; Bow still walking slowly, looked well ahead. A large black spot caught his eye behind a sunken boulder. There sat a robust, rosy-cheeked Cutt, still unaware of Bows presence. He took two steps back, slowly pulled line from the reel and made a few false casts. He plopped the leech well above the Cutt and let it drift. Two subtle twitches and the trout turned to swallow the leech. Bow made the all important pause for the hook set and drove the point deep. Six strong runs and a few head shakes the trout laid over to come in. A twitch of adrenaline and a smile smeared over Bows face; this trout made the everything worth it.

They kept moving, Rico sticking seven from just one stretch. Bow came up to one hole with an overhanging bush and cast. Unhappy with the presentation he brought his fly back, skimming it over the surface. A gold flash shot from the depths but disappeared. Casting again, he stripped through the same area. The flash came once more, this time connecting Bow to a beautiful Cutt.

He picked it up for the picture and noticed what looked like a partially digested fish hanging out. Bow tried removing it only to have more and more expose itself. This wasn't any fish; this trout had eaten an at least eight inch snake. Browns get notoriety as the "eat-anything" carnivores, but this Cutt had eaten a snake over half its own length.

Several hours of solid fishing took the two well into the canyon. They noticed the distance traveled only when rain pounded so hard they couldn't hear what the other was saying. Assessing the numbness: they decided to bushwhack back down. The rain sent them into trees, and the cracks of lighting kept them there. Piles of bones were also found, giving them an extra incentive not to stay too long. Soaked but not spooked, they continued on to the other canyon. A few fat Rainbows were pulled, but the biting cold made even their retrieve difficult.

Further up the activity tapered off so they decided to call it. They hit a few pockets and ponds on the way back, but none held neither size nor numbers of the upper canyon. To their right, a dead pine cracked and slammed down, showing them yet again the country they were in.Finally making it back, there was no better feeling of long sweats, soft slippers and heat from the car. One of their most intense adventures, it was also one of the most satisfying. Working hard paid off with beautiful country and even more beautiful fish. Rico even found a lone Tiger, which would have traveled 4 miles up to get there. They still wonder why those trout were in only one area, reminding Bow of a quote from his grandfather: "Fish are like gold, it's where you find 'em."

One Week at The Ranch

Spring in Utah marks the peak of fishing in many waters. Temperatures increase, insect activity picks up, and waters have had a break from pressure during winter. 

During one of his first spring outings, Bow thought about throwing midges on the Middle, or dawning his waders to fish low water on the Weber. One Saturday while driving through town, Bow noticed a fair amount of snow on grassy expanses in parks, fields, and golf courses. One course had a stream flowing through. Bow instinctively pulled over, looking for activity. Sitting a few minutes, he saw many head and tail rises at the end of a long run. Generally speaking, Bow experiences difficulty obtaining permission fishing golf courses. He looked across the way to see a familiar car pull into a driveway. After further investigation, the car belonged to a girl Bow attended college with, and her dad was a member of the golf club. Fortunately, Bow was able to fish the snow-filled course as a guest and not worry about golf balls coming his way.

He began at the edge of the course, working his way upstream using a size 18 Copper John and a size 20 Beadhead Peacone Midge dropper. His excitement began on the second cast as his indicator dipped in a deep hole. He pulled an 11" brown, and proceeded to pin two more the same size. He moved upstream, watching trout bulge and sometimes burst the surface after midge clusters. Even in steady success, Bow was tempted to tie on the first dry of the season.

Sticking to what worked, Bow dead-drifted the double rig, picking up fish in a 50/50 manner between the two flies. After fishing only a few hundred feet through the course, the sun began to disappear. Sticking 20, landing 12, Bow marched through the snow with a smile firmly cemented on his face.

That night Bow stayed in a hotel with some friends by the river, and was able to hit it again the next day. Over night it had snowed considerably and Bow feared turbidity. As he drove down to rivers edge, his concerns were apparent. The water had clarity of chocolate milk, thus techniques would have to change. He first threw the nymph rig from the day before to see the degree of murkiness. After a few flat drifts, Bow changed his approach to a size 12 White Crystal Flash Bugger. He stripped it across, swung it down, and ripped it through every deep run and hole to be found, but with no result. After 6 hours wading through knee deep snow, Bow walked upstream to find a bend with feeding trout. Focused on activity rather than terrain, Bow slowly crept around a tree until he took one small step off the bank. Slipping feet first, he found the river bottom with a loud splash. The activity quickly stopped. Already soaked, he decided to continue wading up. He finally pulled one out of principle, released it, and headed back for the day.

After leaving for almost a week, Bow returned Thursday to light snow and stained water. Trout were rising steadily, again keyed on emerging and mating midges. This scenario was similar to the first venture Saturday, so he threw the same double nymph rig. Bow cast to the run, without getting so much as a sniff. He knew these trout didn't get much pressure, surprising Bow in their selectivity. He reeled up, snipped off, and sat back to observe. Some midge clusters were picked off and others ignored, puzzling Bow. Location didn't seem to matter: many trout moved well out of their feeding lanes to sip clusters. Bow focused on a smaller sipping Brown, looking for any pattern to its rises. Bow took note of every cluster. He found those ignored were moving on the surface less so than others. Bow thought for a moment and tied on a size 20 Griffith's Gnat. He tried a few times with a dead drift but couldn't move any fish. He switched to an across and upstream presentation, occasionally stripping a few inches, imitating natural movement. First cast a Brown darted and Bow finally hooked up. Using this technique, Bow pulled three more from the hole, even landing an uncommon Cutthroat.

Bow continued up, only stopping to tie a fresh Gnat. In one bend, a seam was made between a deep run adjacent to slack water. The Gnat was cast with a wiggle of the rod tip to the slack water with the rest of the line taken in by the run. This made the fly swirl in an "S" shape. Coming through its second curve, a 17" golden flash enveloped the fly. Quick on the trigger, Bow felt the fish's weight only a moment before having it spat back. A bit disappointed, Bow chuckled at his inability to pause for the full take. He pulled a few more in redemption and headed home.

The next day brought overcast skies, silty water, and no visible hatches. Bow went from the Griffith's of yesterday to the original double nymph rig. Fishing through a few holes without success, Bow reeled up and scoped things out. He picked up a few loose golf balls and saw an object darting in his peripheral. Looking over, there was a small Sculpin sifting through silt. Intriguing Bow, he tied on a feathery Sculpin and slung it to a deep hole. First cast, an abrupt jerk bent the rod but didn't hold. Second cast Bow let the fly sink deeper, stripping in slow twitches. He made a slight pause when the rod tip darted and line went taught. Bow cocked his wrist quickly for a solid hook set. Line peeled from the reel as Bow angled his rod around bridge pilings and loose brush. After a few tense minutes the fish tired and Bow caught a glimpse. A speckled golden Brown made one final dart for the brush; Bow luckily turned the Brown on it's side and brought him in. This was the only trout he managed that day, but a solid trout it was.

Bow knew he was on to something and returned the next day. Fortunately the sun was out and the silt disappeared, unfortunately the snow did as well. This would be the last weekend open to fish the course, so Bow dialed in quickly. Sporadic hatches, few fish rising, and harsh sunlight drove the fish deep. Bow knew aggressive trout would hit a swung streamer, so he dead-drifted along the bottom, stripping the end of each run. He skipped riffles and seams to focus on deeper runs and holes. His first attempts snagged bottom, but after a few adjustments he gained confidence. Casting to a run, he saw his indicator stop again. This time he pulled back to have his indicator shoot downstream. He made a second hook set and followed the fish. Bow brought the trout in sooner than was ready, getting splashed in the face as it bolted back in. Bow continued to power-fish far up the river as he pulled at least one 17" or better per hole.

He finally came to a rocky cascade pouring into three separate, deep runs. With the same dead drift, Bow pulled another brightly spotted Brown. Casting into the middle run, Bow's indicator stopped just as thefly entered. He pulled tight with excitement only to be stopped dead. Not wanting to lose this pattern, Bow walked above the snag to pull from a better angle. Bow continued to pull until it slowly gave, as if dislodging a log. Moving slowly downstream, Bow was unable to bring it to the surface. With as much force as his Winston could handle, Bow pulled the fly to the side until it suddenly popped out, flying onto the fairway behind him. Bow reeled up and inspected his fly, finding something surprising stuck to the hook point.  Bow looked at his fly, then water, then back to his fly, in awe of what the snag actually was.

Hoping for another opportunity, Bow stayed at the falls; casting repeatedly to similar currents. Picking up a few more Browns, Bow moved above the falls for an aggressive approach. He cast across and swung the Sculpin downstream. First cast resulted in a spriteful Cutt, followed by two more in the 14-16" range.

Putting in a few more successful hours, Bow called it a day and walked back down the course. He stopped for a few at the falls, hoping he would somehow see the fish he stole a scale from. To no surprise the river kept its secret, and Bow continued on.

That week at the ranch gave him the most diverse set of circumstances in which to fish. From weather, to water clarity, to fish activity, Bow was thrown something new every day. One almost getting skunked, and the next hooking fish every five minutes. Although the course is now inaccessible, he felt lucky to explore, and satisfied with his adaptability. Beyond soaked jeans, Bow took home two very important principles: Never judge the river in a day, and always make a solid hook set; that log might very well turn into a hog.

Supporting the Spawn

If Bow can think of one time of year he dreads running into other anglers, it's during fall spawn. It both surprises and intrigues him how much variance exists with fishermens' feelings. Spawn is a time where many trout move into shallow water to reproduce. They are fixed in one position, acting aggressively towards anything threatening the nest. The easily visible, "strike anything" trout are quite vulnerable and thus more appealing to some anglers. Others however, find it immoral.

Bow started fishing at a young age and remembers different phases he went through where certain habits were slowly outgrown. At age 9 he dreamed of such a situation. During that stage, even a glimpse from a fish would have made Bow's day. One spring day when he was 12, Bow walked to a familiar fishing hole in Oregon. To his amazement it was filled with pairing trout. He hid behind bushes upstream and swung a Wooly Worm. He was astounded when all 30 swarmed to slam the fly. While unhooking the first, the trout milted, Bow having no idea what happened. He caught many more from the hole, careful to not repeat his actions from last time. He went back home, did some research and found what the trout were doing. He knew of this behavior, but didn't think trout would brook so much risk in doing so. After hitting them hard, Bow let the stream rest a few weeks until the trout returned to their old runs. He moved to Utah at 18 and fished throughout summer, hearing blue-ribbon promises at The Provo. Although the river was packed and fishermen not always cordial, Bow had a great time watching and learning. Summer transitioned to fall and Bow noticed a change in both fish and fishermens' behavior. Trout paired up shallow, and other anglers seemed more interested in the end of Bow's line. Most walked by, happily discussing the good fishing. A few others looked at Bow's egg patterns, threw a caustic glare and walked down the bank. Puzzled by the negativity, Bow asked the boys at Western Rivers to explain. They described spawn as a good time for fish to rest from heavy pressure. People become very defensive about the fly, location, and methods used to "pick the low-hanging fruit". This defensiveness is derived from the stark difference in catch ability trout exhibit. Bow initially wondered why other upset fishermen were out there to begin. It was explained these anglers believe trout can be fished for if certain flies/methods are used. For example: those anglers used everything except egg patterns, not fishing anywhere near beds. When asked, everyone at Western had a different take: some believed only the use of Glo-Worms was wrong. The hook of a Glo-Worm is so large it can easily snag trout, even penetrating the brain when hooking smaller ones.

Fishing behind beds was acceptable to some, whereas others believed in staying clear of any spawning activity. A few found egg patterns acceptable, others stating the only moral way was fishing a dry fly. Hearing so many viewpoints from wiser fishermen than Bow, he wasn't sure what to think. Rivers like the Provo are grossly over-populated, so sticking these trout all day wouldn't be of detriment to the population. Bow instead focused intrinsically, reflecting on a quote, "fishing for trout on their spawning beds is like you making love and getting slapped in the face with a cheeseburger". This made him think of all other times during the year these trout are available, and provide a greater sense of accomplishment when caught. Bow discussed the issue with Rico, looking for a less disdainful perspective. "Being a bass fisherman, each year around mid April I headed to a small pond near town several times a week. I walked around the pond scanning the shoreline for bedded females. As the weather and water temperature warmed, I began to see more and more bass. The first I saw in the shallows were small males preparing nests. A few days later I saw the same males guarding their nests, accompanied by large females in three to four feet of water. During this period bass were easy targets. I simply took a large jig and crawled it through the bed, imitating a bluegill/crawdad attempting to steal eggs.  Both male and female bass did their best to pick up the jig and move it out of their nest. Much research has been done on taking bass from their nests, and whether or not it disturbs their mating cycle. It is believed pulling a bass from its nest is harmless, often times tournaments are held around this period. Years passed since I fished bedded bass and am beginning to feel guilt for my actions. Simply put: the large female makes herself vulnerable for the good of her young. Laying them shallow maintains proper temperature and sunlight, and she stays with them until they can survive on their own. I now feel out of respect to the fish, nests should be left alone."

After reflecting on thoughts of his own and others, Bow found middle ground. Instead of retiring the rod for a few months, Bow decided to target Cutthroat and Tiger trout. Cutthroat are active during fall to fatten up for winter, and Tigers go through spawning motions(including severe aggression)despite sterility. Bow personally doesn't mind fishing non-spawn trout in a large river as the Provo, but instead chooses the path of least resistance. If Rico and Bow can impart advice to assuage any guilt, it would be: fish however you like, whenever you like, and wherever you like, maintaining respect for others, the land, and of course, the trout.

Tyrannosaurus Tigers-Part 2

Rico and Bow settled in after a remarkable day of fishing. The sun was settling in the trees, and the two made their way back to set up camp. As twilight set in, Bow noticed gentle dapping at the surface and the occasional swirl. Rico was still paddling back in his tube, and also noticed the commotion. He tied on a size 24 green midge pattern and began casting to the rises. He was first ignored, but tweaked his presentation until he started steadily pulling in youthful Cutts. Bow still had his Spider tied on, and focused on larger swirls. It was difficult to anticipate the direction, as the bulges and splashes were random. He cast to vegetation edges, bringing the fly back with slow twitches until he noticed a wake from behind the fly. He felt a hard jerk and set the hook, only to have it whip past his face. Collecting his mistake from the bushes, Bow tried again, desperately wanting to see how big these cruising fish were. He saw another swirl and cast a foot next to it. The wake turned in the flys direction, but again Bow put the Spider back in the bushes. Rico was doing well not laughing at Bow's behavior, pulling in even more Cutthroats. By the time Bow got his gear out, the sun was down and the activity had stalled. Admitting temporary defeat, Bow walked back and set up camp. The two relaxed in the usual fashion: seasoned rice cooking over a camp burner, sipping wine from the bottle, and enjoying the inevitable discussion of religion. With full bellies and a solid buzz, they retired to their sleeping bags for the night.

                                         

The next day came with frost on the tip of Bows nose. He arose to see the lake again bubbling with activity. Putting on his slippers, Bow grabbed his rod and crept to the waters edge. Minutes passed with only rings from smaller trout rising. Keeping a close eye to the weed edge, he noticed a bulge and cast beyond it. He brought the spider back with a few small strips until another bulge came, and Bow's line went taught. Instantly, the fish buried itself until Bow could only feel a faint tug under the amassed weight. Trusting the 0X fluorocarbon and hopping out to a few rocks, Bow managed to free the fish enough to turn its head into open water. Expecting an exhausted Tiger, the trout instead ripped line from the reel, fighting a few more minutes. Surprised by a solid fight, Bow wasn't sure what to expect. A colorful Cutt greeted him, flashing its bright red slits with each breath. Bow cleared some of the weeds and let the fish back to recover. A quick high five, and the two started up the fire for breakfast.

They relished the last of their bacon fried rice and prepared for a promising day. Rico hopped in his tube, and Bow down the bank. Fishing a few minutes, the two noticed a bit of murkiness in the water. With the absence of excellent morning fishing, Bow walked over to the outlet and saw a great deal of detritus built up, blocking much of the water. Bow began removing it, instantly noticing an increased flow. A few minutes passed and the flowing water began to clear, bringing with it rolling snails, wriggling chironomids, and a few fat scuds. Bow continued, pausing to loose the scuds into the water. As he grabbed a large, dripping heap, a wave of water splashed his face and the entirety of his vest. Falling back, Bow was in shock with what happened. He looked in front of the outlet grate: three wide Tigers and a Cutt were picking up food as it came, completely ignoring Bow. Occasionally one would turn and attack the other, creating bulges and splashes in the shallow water. With the amount of work Bow had put in stalking these fish, it took some time to get used to a herd of 22" trout two feet from him.

 

Resisting temptation, Bow slowly backed away, knowing the inevitable guilt would overwhelm him from high-sticking these trout. As he walked along, there was a distinct dark stretch in the bottom of the lake, appearing to be a creek channel. With the improved visibility, Bow also noticed a submerged log-roughly two and a half feet-resting on the side of the creek channel. Seeing it as good cover, Bow cast the spider and let it sink in front of the log. As it was stripped past, the log proceeded to turn and slowly fade into the dark of the channel. Bows heart stopped, the reality hitting of what that log actually was.


After fishing a few hours with no success, Bow headed over to the inlet to fish the same area the Tiger was caught yesterday. Fishing up and down the length of the bank several times, Bow got strikes, but couldn't seem to pick up any fish with his spider. He switched to a still-fished chironomid and midge emerger presentation. Scoping for rises, Bow tried to lead the fish about 10 feet. He picked up a few small Cutts, but nothing big arose. He put down a long cast, at this point aiming randomly. As the flies landed, a huge splash erupted and Bows line went tight. Surprised, but not caught off guard, Bow applied pressure and prepared for a long battle. Spitting line off the reel, the trout dove to deeper water. As each second passed, Bow became increasingly nervous: the big Tiger from yesterday bent a 2/0 hook to a 90 degree angle, and today he was pulling against size 14 and 20 light wire hooks. He let up on the drag, giving the trout another 20 foot run. Fortunately the fish tired soon after, giving Bow a chance to close the 60 foot gap. As it came in, he could clearly see the vibrant transition of green to orange: another gorgeous Tiger. Bow removed the flies and noticed the tippet connecting the two had snapped, leaving only the chironomid stuck to a small piece of skin on the outside of its jaw. He took a quick pic and released the Tiger, hands shaking from adrenaline.

At this point the sun shone well above the peaks, and the fishing slowed thereafter. Bow rendezvoused with Rico at the outlet cove, still tubing and with fair success. Rico missed one as he was talking to Bow, shooting the length of line behind him. As he prepared to cast, his rod bent and a trout jettisoned to the surface. Both laughing, they decided that was good fish to tie up the day. The two headed home feeling accomplishment, pride and knowing: if there is a meaning to life, that trip was it.

Tyrannosaurus Tigers-Part 1

    Around the fly fishing community, Autumn is peak time to hit some of the best, most controversial fishing across Utah. Water levels are lower, fish are fattening up, and many have started the spawn. With productive fishing everywhere, Rico and Bow wanted to hit somewhere with larger fish. With the desire to avoid crowds, they headed out in search of Tigers. This subspecies of trout/char is known to become extremely aggressive, brightly-colored, and kype-jawed during the spawn. This, coupled with faster growth rates and sterility creates the perfect scenario to hunt Fall fish without coming under scrutiny of other anglers.
                                  

    4am came quickly after three hours of sleep, but no coffee was needed. Bow packed his gear and headed to pick up Rico. The sun was far from up, but Rico's smile could be seen from his driveway. Rico decided to bring his float tube this time, anticipating the trout to be deep most of the day. They headed on their way, discussing what they heard from fellow anglers, and speculating where the Tigers would be feeding.

    A few long hours and dirt roads came and went before they finally pulled up to the lake. The sun was barely creeping over the mountain top when Bow and Rico were able to make first cast. Throwing big streamers, Rico and Bow imitated the smaller trout present in the lake. Within the first ten minutes Bow hooked into a Cutt, and shortly thereafter heard an odd noise followed by Rico's laughter. Focused on his own fishing, Bow headed down the bank looking for a rise. Nothing seemed to be active, so Bow headed to the inlet to meet up with Rico. Upon asking about the laughter, Rico pulled out his phone to show a fiery, long-jawed tiger he hooked on a brown bugger. This was Rico's first big Tig, and Bow was happy to see the excitement he felt when he landed his in May.  

                       

    The two headed down the bank, seeing subsurface swirls. There were also a pair of tubers cruising along the shoreline. Upon seeing Rico and Bow, they paddled quickly to hit the spot first. Not liking this, Bow prepared to cast at the tubers, indicating space was needed. Rico instead started conversation with the two, getting info, and telling them we would wait for them to fish through. Bow was not happy about this, but kept his mouth shut as he walked down the shore from where they were fishing. The tubers pulled out two smaller Cutts as they passed by, further increasing Bows blood pressure. When all was finally clear, Bow cast a Platte River Spider, imitating a small cutthroat. Retrieving his fly in short strips, he paused, hearing the whoops of the tubers pulling in more Cutts. He began again with an especially hard jerk, only to have the fly hit something solid and unmoving. With an aggravated sigh, Bow tried to free his fly, until the snag started pulling line from Bows hand and breached the surface. Hearing the loud splash as the trout landed, all eyes went to Bows bent-in-half seven weight. Hoping a good hookset was made, Bow fought anxiously as Rico scrambled over. Seeing the fish's size first, Rico told Bow he would jump in at the word. Several agonizing minutes passed until the trout finally rolled over and came in. A long, lightning-sided Tiger greeted Bow, with the biggest teeth he had seen on a trout. The Tiger looked exhausted, so Bow took ten to make sure the fish would swim away under its own power. Reeling up to check his fly, Bow saw the hook bent, sticking out from the feathered body. Retiring the fly, Bow re-tied and continued to fish the rest of the weekend.

     Bow was entirely shocked he hooked and landed this trout. Once the excitement wore off, he realized this trout may not have come to be had Rico not been there to stop him fishing in front of the other people. Maybe good Karma, or just a little bit of luck, Bow holds this trout as testament to polite and respectful actions towards other fishermen, regardless of circumstance.

Big Patience in Little Cottonwood

 There really isn't any discrete way to tell when you've become a good fisherman. One day you walk up and pin every fish in the river, the next, you can't seem to sight fish an eight-incher. So much of day to day fishing relies on variables we as fishermen have no control over. When the day is almost over and there is nothing to show for it, questions start popping up. Was there a cold front that passed through? Did this stretch get hit by someone ten minutes prior? Did that child walking on the path just spend five minutes throwing rocks at rising trout? So much of these unknowns can be all but mentally overwhelming when the fisherman can't seem to connect. Such was the case at Little Cottonwood. Rico had never fished up the canyon, and Bow wanted a taste of gin clear water, tall pines, and big granite boulders. He was excited to see how the runoff changed the structure of the stream, looking for new and different pockets. They tied on size 18 Humpys and Royal Whulffs, imitating the grasshoppers and ants surrounding the stream.  

With the water low and clear, they approached a shallow stretch downstream and away from the bank. Looking for any movement, they finally spotted a slow bulge in the surface: a plump rainbow taking an ant from the surface. Bow made first cast and buttered the Humpy down the middle of a small run. Frozen with anticipation, they watched the bushy dry bob downstream without a single rise. Bow cast again, but still, nothing. On his fourth try he was able to whip it under an over hanging bush, rewarded with a subtle sip of his fly. Reacting just a moment too late, Bow missed the trout and gave Rico a go. Keeping a low profile, he crept a bit upstream to the top of the run, placing his fly in the pocket water adjacent to a boulder. A few anxious seconds passed by, when a plump rainbow came up and snatched his fly. Once landed, Rico and Bow marveled over how fat the trout was, despite hearing the stream was unhealthy. They continued up, hitting pocket after pocket, run after run, but the trout just didn't seem to be there. Looking in the usual and unusual places, Bow took his time walking upstream. He spotted a small hole in the shade of a cottonwood, and sat down to observe. Along the back side, water slowly picked up speed before it cascaded over a few granite stones, making it a smooth, rounded overflow. Bow looked a little longer to see sporadic bulges-but no fish- in this smooth part of the water. His trout sense tingling, Bow went to his knees to get a few casts in. The water below made a drag free drift almost impossible, but once he managed three seconds, a thick, pot-bellied Rainbow swallowed his Humpy. Feeling much better landing his first fish, Bow continued upstream, taking his time. When he took a break to meet up with Rico, his fish count was one, compared to Rico's three. They continued up, but Bow headed into the woods to get a different view. Feeling too much pride to ask, Bow looked on as Rico hit the same holes he had prior. Rico stayed at each hole longer, throwing cast after cast. With half the holes hit, he would end up landing or rising a trout after 10 minutes. They continued on, looking for familiar holes from last season to hold more sizable Brookies. A stretch of three deep pockets appeared, again they looked for signs of trout. A few minutes went by without a rise, so Rico and Bow leapfrogged each pocket. When they met at the final hole, neither had pulled any fish downstream. A little flustered, they joked at their skill, or seemingly lack thereof. They came to the end of their path and spotted a few feeding Brookies under the surface. Staying very aware of their profile and fly placement, they were each able to fool one more fish before calling it a day.
 They headed back, letting intuition and the smell of burning brakes guide them to the road. Despite scratching their heads from seemingly missed opportunities, both Bow and Rico were pleased to see the health of the stream in a stable, prosperous state. Bow read a number of passages on the Little Cottonwood, painting a morose picture. The canyon suffers from the tailings of mining from the early 1900's, as well as hugely fluctuating water temperatures and levels. Despite this, all trout caught that day were exceptionally plump, and spotted in high numbers throughout the stream. It is considered a "put and take" fishery, as it is stocked with smaller Rainbows. However, Rico spotted trout 1.5" and under in some of the slack water to the side of the stream. Trout this size aren't mature enough to be planted, indicating the trout are replenishing their own population. The current condition of this stream is much better than expected, with many tubby trout taking terrestrials with alacrity. However, the nature of the streams size and location make it extremely sensitive to angling. This in mind, Bow only ventures through this area once a year in September. Also being the time of Oktoberfest at The Bird, they wasted no time spending the rest of their day deeper in the Canyon, for a cold stein and a game of Cornhole.

"Rain, hail, sleet or snow, up the mountain I will go."- Bow

The weather was questionable to proceed with Friday's plans for an overnight trip to Red Pine Lake and the idea of heading elsewhere for the weekend briefly crossed my mind after viewing the weather forecast.  A strong storm from the south was scheduled to hit the Salt Lake valley sometime Friday afternoon and remain through the weekend.  I informed Bow of the forecast around noon and asked if we needed an alternate plan but he simply replied, "Rain, hail, sleet or snow up the mountain I will go."  At this response I understood his determination to proceed with the plans to chase high alpine trout.
The weather was clear when we arrived at the White Pine Trail Head but showed signs that things were about to change.  With the nights gear on our back we began our hike to the lake and towards the storm.  The rain held off for most of the hike and the cool temperatures made the trek very enjoyable.  With only 1.5 miles remaining, rain began to fall and continued through our arrival and camp search.  We settled on a site on the east side of the lake with adequate cover and over 200 ft. away from the water as required by the Forest Service and Watershed rules.
Because of our camp's location was higher on the ridge we started the next day at Upper Red Pine Lake.  I had been informed that this lake holds a steady population of large Bonneville Cutthroat and after seeing the lake's depth and large amounts of scuds and caddis I understand how this high alpine lake could sustain large fish.
The storm held off for the period of time we fished at the upper lake but high winds made it difficult to cast and locate fish.  We ventured down the drainage to Lower Red Pine Lake to continue our search.  Arriving at the inlet, our hopes were high and we quickly began casting but the rain began to fall. Our efforts resulted in several strikes but none landed..  With our gear quickly saturating and temperatures dropping we made the painful decision to leave the lake and its illusive Bonneville Cutthroat.  We were a little disappointed with the fact that the conditions kept us from pursuing the trout but we understood the risks when we left the trailhead and continued for the sake of adventure.
On the way back to the trailhead the rain briefly stopped and we noticed a small outlet stream at the bottom of the canyon.  We set down our packs to have a look in hopes of spotting a trout.  As we approached a pool, several scattered and we quickly unpacked our rods and set up to fish.  We split up and Bow headed downstream with a midge pattern and I upstream with a caddis pattern.  Each pocket fished provided a strike and several cutthroats and one brook were landed.