The baetis begin to come, one by one, looking like little gray-sailed
boats. They flip and flutter on the surface as the wriggle from their
nymphal shucks and try to break the surface tension that holds them
making them easy prey for the eager trout below. The hatch is on. As
it builds, fly-catchers and warblers gather in the bankside brush, as
the bugs start popping the birds begin flitting and flapping to pick
them out of the air.
The scene stands in contrast from the early morning, when the midges
provide a sporadic snack for the brown, rainbow, and native yellowstone
cutthroat that inhabit Nelson’s Spring Creek —a legendary spring creek
in Paradise Valley— a place so iconic and beautiful it’s the paradise
you might create in your dreams.
But this place is not a dream. For forty-five years my uncle has made the
pilgrimage to the spring creeks of Paradise Valley, and along the way
discovered where the good fish hold, when the hatches will go, and how
to tempt a fish to rise on this most classic and idyllic western trout
water. This standing reservation has remained an unbroken rite of
spring through four decades.
That family connection means I’ve crossed Carter’s Bridge many weekends in
May, each time that first panoramic view of the Yellowstone’s cottonwood
lined river channel hits me, the memories of past trips come rushing
back. They blur, but all seem to color my subconscious with wading out
into a perfectly still creek with my uncle to fish the golden early
evening light as the day wraps — and watching him masterfully work
rising fish while perfectly back dropped by the, idyllic, snowcapped
Absaroka (pronounced Ab-zor-kuhs, I learned early on) mountains.
One of my early trips I recall working fish with my uncle in one of our
favorite runs up from the old duck blind. I observed a couple of these
learned trout suspend, then move in to inspect a bug only to abruptly
move to reject it at the very last minute. Naturals mind you, but in the
friendly confines of these spring creeks fish are treated to the very
best bug buffets, which allows them to be so damn picky.
This ritual and these experiences have become such an ingrained part of my
life and especially my spring, it brings with it the anticipation of
what the rest of the summer holds and it celebrates the first major
hatch of the year, which is why we were here, again, on time.
Then it happens, suddenly but deliberately. A nose breaks the surface and
then, after what feels like an eternity, the tail. That full-bodied
rise is a thing of beauty. That’s a good fish, I think silently, that’s
the one.
As the hatch continues to build steadily everything that’s going on in my
head ceases to matter, I go into a zen-like state and focus every ounce
of energy on the fish. I steady myself, dig my feet into the silt and
mud and try to get into the fish’s rhythm. I have every intention of
feeding him that, painstakingly tied, cdc winged imitator. SET.
I tell myself calmly, lift the rod, and there is a brief moment of head
shaking and tension…. then slack. My heart sinks, and then from the
uninvited peanut gallery I hear the all too common phrase that sums up
this performance precisely and truthfully, as only someone related could
speak. “You Suck.” I look around at my surroundings, the mountains,
the creek, and realize catching fish is only a part of why we do this,
these experiences are what keep us coming back year after year.
My heart lifts when I see another pod of fish feeding, their shadows
undulating side to side as they held just under the surface of the
crystal-clear water inspecting bugs for their next meal, and
occasionally rising up to slurp one up. The cast is perfect, with a
slight mend that allows the fly to drift naturally over the pod of fish.
Then the lead fish moves in to inspect and in act of conviction lifts up
and, in that slow cutty style, he takes my baetis and runs down stream.
I get him on the reel and following some thrashing and splashing, I
corral him into the net. I am mesmerized by the golden olive tone, the
rosy tone of the gill plate, and the sharp orange stripe under the jaw.
