I took a back road to Dillon where I had a date with the famous Beaverhead River. I didn't see much other traffic, in fact none, but in several places I was slowed down by cowboys and cowgirls herding cattle. I didn't mind at all.
Along the way I passed through a narrow gully which looked like a set from a Spaghetti Western. I half expected The Man with No Name to come galloping through it to a score composed by Ennio Morricone.
Through the gully flowed a little stream.
As it passed under the road through a corrugated iron pipe it drained into a pool of some substance. That's relative to the rest of the stream, of course.
I parked my car and watched the pool and sure enough within a few minutes there was a splashy rise among the bubbles.
I rigged up my rod in the silence of the gully, punctuated occasionally only by bird song. A small Royal Wulff which (unintentionally) sunk on its first drift attracted the attention of a little trout.
The Royal Wulff had some extra floatant added to it and it then rode high, but failed to garner any further interest. I replaced it with a Prince Nymph and its first drift caught the eye of a little cutthroat.
Suspecting that the little pool had not yet offered up its finest the Prince nymph was given one more drift. A dark and spotty rainbow trout, a fraction bigger than the other two, obliged.
The whole process took less than ten minutes.
My curiosity satisfied, I continued on and when I came to the end of the mountains I sighted Dillon in the distance. The Beaverhead awaits...