The Drift: A Death March

It’s early November, so I should’ve known better than to think a high-country stream stuffed with cutthroat trout would fish well. Even with the mild weather, fish at certain elevations slide into their hibernation-like state, eating just enough to stay alive as the water temps drop to frigid levels. They leave the riffles and runs for the sanctuary of deep pools, and once the water is colder than about 36 degrees, getting them to eat is almost an exercise in futility. That’s why winter fishing is done on tailwaters, and some spring creeks. They’re the few rivers with warm enough water that the fish will eat year-round.

But anglers are optimists, even dyed-in-the-wool pessimists like me. Casting your line in any body of water is an act of hope, so it doesn’t take much to hope that the fishing will hold on a bit longer in the high country. That the water isn’t too cold, that since the elk haven’t come down yet, the trout are still finning in the riffles, waiting for a nice elk hair caddis to drift their way.

So, when a friend told me he’d take me to explore a section of river I’ve had my eye on since I moved here, it didn’t take much for me to agree. We loaded into the truck at 7 a.m. and set out for a steep canyon that’s surrounded by a patchwork of private and public land. Here in Wyoming, it’s your responsibility to know where you’re at, so landowners don’t have to post their property. That makes navigating these patchwork lands a pain, so I was happy to have the help of a native of the area.

He also knew one of the few trails that led from the canyon rim about 800 feet down to the river. Most of the canyon is sheer cliffs, but in a few places it mellows out just enough that a properly motivated person can get in and out. It’s not easy, but it’s possible, and far too often, that’s the line I find myself blurring.

The drive to the canyon rim was longer than I expected, and we spent most of the time making our own road over the rough terrain. When my friend stopped the truck just yards from a line of juniper, I hopped out for a look at the sweeping landscape. It was that sort of quiet you only hear in the high country.

We loaded up rods, water, and my requisite Diet Coke, and set off for the death march to the bottom of the canyon. My friend had never fished the creek this late in the year, but we both assured ourselves that there’s no reason it wouldn’t fish well (even though, deep down, we knew this was a huge gamble).

I’m a fella who loves food too much and drinks too much Diet Coke. I’m not in awful shape, but I’ve got enough of a gut that I get to order my waders and jackets in XL. By the time I made it to the canyon floor, I was sore, my head was throbbing, and I wondered if I’d make it out.

My friend took off downstream, so I went upstream, exploring a river that was a few inches deep in most places.

The holding water didn’t really exist, and it wasn’t until the first deeper pool that I found a fish. The cutthroat swam in the crystal clear water, completely aware that I was there, and completely uninterested in eating. It finned around with the single-mindedness of a critter waiting out the coldest part of the year.

In the next hole, I found a half-dozen fish glued to the bottom. They only moved when I finally gave up on drifting a nymph in their face and walked through the run. Those were the last fish I saw, too, because the further upriver I went, the lower the water got. Even the deeper pools were devoid of fish, and I made the guess that they’d moved down the canyon, where the water is deeper and provides better habitat for making it through the winter.

The upside was that I wasn’t behind my desk, and I was exploring a fishery I’m sure very few people ever visit. Even without catching fish, there’s a sense of accomplishment in stomping through country that rarely sees people.

My friend didn’t catch anything either, so we decided to hike out of the canyon early. There’s no trail, and the deadfall is thick, so we spent more time climbing over logs than we did actually gaining elevation. The hike that took a bit more than half an hour on the way quickly became twice as long, and I regretted the gas station breakfast sandwich I’d downed that morning.

Like all hard things, though, the hike ended. We crested the canyon rim, saw the truck, and immediately dumped our packs. I cracked open a fresh Diet Coke, we waited for the sweat to cool, and eventually started the long drive home.

It’s been a while since I did such a death march for no fish, but it’s one of those experiences that’s universal to the world of fly anglers. That we’ll put in this much effort for nothing more than the hope of catching fish is indicative of either fanaticism or faith. The older I get, I’m not sure if there’s much difference between the two.