Small Stream Extreme

I took a back road to the city of 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 the change of pace 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.

The stream passed under the road through a corrugated iron pipe and 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 was curious, so I rigged up my rod in the silence of the gully, punctuated occasionally by bird song. A small Royal Wulff which (unintentionally) sunk on its first drift attracted the attention of a little rainbow trout.

I added some floatant to the Royal Wulff which then rode high, but failed to garner any further interest from the pool's inhabitants. I replaced it with a Prince Nymph, which caught the eye of a little cutthroat (or cutbow hybrid perhaps).

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 sated, I continued on, and when I came to the end of the mountains I sighted Dillon in the distance. The Beaverhead awaits...