Forgotten River, Wyoming

I couldn't tell you the name of this river or where to find it. It's somewhere between the towns of Daniel and Cody in the state of Wyoming, but that's a vast area. The cutthroat trout I caught from the river appeared to be the Snake River subspecies, given their fine spotting, and that might provide a clue to their drainage. But cutthroat trout are famously variable in their features so I wouldn't place much stock in that. I even tracked down the man who sent me there, Norm Crisp, six and a half years after meeting him, but he couldn't recall it. It seems destined to remain a mystery.   

It was neither a small nor a large river, retaining enough intimacy in its scale without ever becoming daunting or downright dangerous in the way of large rivers. Its waters ran clear, but with a faint smoky green hue, and cold, having not long travelled from the slopes of a nearby mountain range. It was a freestone river, using the local parlance, which meant that its currents jostled in intricate patterns, forming sequences of pools and swiftly flowing runs and channels. Freestone rivers never settle on a consistent nature. They constantly evolve, changing from day to day in volume, and from season to season in their course and definition. The river might look very different today if storms and floods have been at work in the seasons since my visit.

It took a fair old drive through sparse ranch lands to reach this river, long enough for me to acquire a tangible sense of remoteness in its venue. The fact that I saw very little passing traffic or other human activity along the way heightened my escape. For any trout water to be perfect, in my mind at least, I wouldn't see another soul on its banks. Solitude can be a rare commodity in the American West because anglers are a dime a dozen. I have yet to visit a more trout mad place, but as I set forth from my car and indeed during all the time I waded upriver, I knew instinctively that this river was mine alone for the day.      

The trout proved themselves to be somewhat testing without ever being unforgiving. They came to my fly at intervals, sometimes only after I had changed to a different fly pattern, having looked for inspiration beneath the river's round stones, or on its surface, or in the air above it. Easy trout spoil a river. These trout possessed just the right temperament between naïveté and fussiness.    

I was free to run through the options in my fly box unhindered by the archaic regulations and elaborate etiquette of the old world. The American West is a place of liberation. I caught trout on dry flies, nymphs and streamers, without the trout showing an obvious preference in their tastes, except perhaps a slight leaning towards a streamer. 

This river also harboured another species of cold water fish. A single mountain whitefish broke the routine of trout by taking a nymph which I had left to drift through the slack water at the head of a pool. Trout and rivers and fly fishing fit as seamlessly together as salt and pepper do, but it's enjoyable when something different emerges from the depths. 

Apart from the fishing and scenery, the lush riverbanks teemed with nature. The trees and bushes in the margins flourished with birdlife. An injection of adrenalin was delivered when, transfixed, I watched a young moose step into the river from the willows growing beside it, and sure-footedly cross the fast current. When I waded upriver, I saw its much larger mother peering at me from within the dense thicket. I was close enough to see its eyes widen in fright. I had heard that moose are responsible for more attacks on humans than bears, so I quickly moved on without turning my back to the animal.    

A well camouflaged moose stands in the river centre of the image

The cutthroat trout varied in size from around ten inches to 2 lbs. Cutthroat trout seem to possess a certain joie de vivre which I think is a by-product of evolving in an environment of harsh extremes. The winters are brutal, so they permit a boldness of appetite when the time allows.

At times I have fastidiously kept written notes of my fishing trips and at other times I have forgone them. On this occasion the fishing was coming thick and fast in the American West. Laziness and contentment crept in. I should have been more disciplined in keeping notes. Still, the knowledge that this river will most likely remain a mystery to me forever adds a certain romanticism to the memory. 

Over the past few years I have wanted to ensure that I captured some words and photos from every substantive fishing trip during my journey around the world between November 2014 and January 2016. That exercise involved some wonderful mind-searching through very pleasant memories of New Zealand, Australia, Japan, Korea and the USA.  I have added over 20 entries to my diary and updated others. With this final entry - the only river I couldn't retrace - that task is complete.  

Perhaps in time a reader will recognise the hurried waters of this river. Perhaps the bare olive green hills on either side of this river will provide a better clue. The mystery might yet be solved.

Post edit (8th February 2023): just over a year on from writing this I came across some long lost notes from my time in America - what a lovely surprise - and solved this mystery! Without the river's name being written down on a scrap of paper I never would've guessed it. And rather than being the Snake River variety, these trout came from the Yellowstone cutthroat's drainage!