So we set off in search of four subspecies of cutthroat trout. The third one was hard. This was a case where the third time is definitely not a charm. Rather, it’s a curse. It was a long day. We started the day on our very own home water. It took us a while to get on to catching those fish, but everyone had Cutt Number One by noon. When I asked if they wanted to shoot for Cutt Number Three, they were game. And I knew a pretty good creek.
It was a long drive. We didn’t even hit the bad road until maybe 4 PM. And the bad road was really bad. My father usually described something really distasteful as being like “nine miles of muddy road” but that would have been an improvement here. We didn’t get on the water until after 5 PM. We tried fishing the
It’s hard to say why this creek is such a special place. It’s remote, that’s for sure. It’s a great place to fish, that’s for sure too. But not long ago, I was going through my grandfather’s diary for the year 1918 – less than two years before his untimely death. He had been riding to check several bands of sheep far over the divide when he apparently decided to take a day off to fish. He bee-lined it straight for the creek. Like the grandson he would never know, he was a man of few words when he talked about his fishing that September day: “Went fishing on the creek. Had a pretty good day.” For almost 100 years, it’s been a pretty good place for a pretty good day.