A Small Stream At Last

What Americans call a 'small creek' is nothing like what I'd call small. Everything in America tends to be oversized. I mentioned this to Zac, who thought for a moment, and then gave me directions to a small creek in the mountains (plus another interesting tip about a lake perched atop another mountain with voracious grayling). Zac needed a week to repair my Orvis rod where a ferrule had split, so he loaned me two of his hand made 'Montana Rodsmiths' rods to use in the meantime. As I wrote in my previous entry, meeting Zac the day before had been an extremely fortuitous moment.

The following day I charted a course to Zac's hot tip in the mountains. I drove to where the tar became gravel, and there the road gradually ascended the hills, following a narrow river valley, until the road crossed the river and departed the valley. There was a parking area near the bridge, with an information board and toilet facilities on account of a trail which followed the river for several miles upstream into the mountains. The valley was only around 50 metres across at its widest, and there were fairly steep hills on either side. The slopes held forests of spruce, pine and fir trees. What I would call a small creek (well done Zac) flowed swiftly down the middle of the thin gully, but was mostly enveloped by willows and other bushes. 

Looking back down the valley from the trail in the trees: there is a river down there!

The headwaters of this little creek are found very close to the great continental divide of North America. Nearby creeks and rivers flow westwards for a relatively short distance to the Pacific Ocean, but the waters of this little creek are destined for a far more extraordinary journey. They will tumble and fall to join the Big Hole River, then become the Jefferson River after being joined by the Beaverhead River, then become the Missouri River after being joined by the Madison and Gallatin Rivers, then becoming a truly enormous river after being joined by the Yellowstone River at the eastern edge of the state, before being joined by the Platte River, until, many thousands of miles to the east, it will be devoured by the even larger Mississippi at the city of St Louis. Here the waters of the Mississippi River will flow thousands of miles due south until they discharge into the Gulf of Mexico at New Orleans. The magnitude of the journey is truly jaw-dropping. The rivers mentioned are also a veritable who's who of the blue ribbon trout rivers of Montana and Wyoming. 

I hit the trail and walked upriver for less than half a kilometre until the river's banks momentarily became grassy and clear, when I decided to leave the trail and look at the water in detail. I couldn't resist casting a fly in this open, boulder free section of the valley. Zac's 7' 4 weight rod proved to be ideal. A slow to medium action rod, it was light and presented big, bushy dry flies well, and was responsive at the time of the strike when at first a brown trout and then a rainbow trout took the fly, neither longer than 10". It was an encouraging start to the day.

I entered the really thick growth and had little choice but to wade up the river. The mountain water was clear and icy cold up to my knees. The river's gradient gradually increased as I went, and the water became more turbulent. Large boulders were strewn in the river's course and I had to clamber over several of them whilst also avoiding the overhanging foliage. 

I cast my dry fly into the pockets and runs as I went, and caught pleasing and generally equal numbers of brown and rainbow trout. At times, the verdant foliage presented a significant challenge, but I took it in my stride, accepting that my wish to fish a truly small stream had come true - and no true small stream is without challenging casting!  

When I'd had my fill of eager trout, I rejoined the trail in the trees and walked back down the valley, passing several hikers going the other way. The hikers were all polite and we exchanged greetings. Before reaching my car I decided to try a final flurry of casts in the compact meadow section and enticed two more rainbow trout to take my fly. They had prominent parr markings and with most small, wild rainbow trout, they possessed a profusion of spots like raisins in a Christmas cake. Their flanks were daubed in hues of yellow, peach and red, dazzling jewels, even if nature hadn't intended them to be on the eastern side of the great continental divide.  

This was a brilliant recommendation by Zac. I spent a handful of hours buried deep in the willow bushes, my escape from the world complete, with a little rod in hand, little trout to tempt, and little space to cast.