A lot of anglers, in my experience, fall into a similar rut, especially on our home water. We tend to fish the same stretches of river, at the same times of year, rotating as needed to rest the fish and not get too bored. If you live close enough to your home water, like I do, you start recognizing the river’s different moods. You might get so familiar with the water that you can walk outside, take a look at the weather, and utter some sage wisdom like “It’s a bit too windy today, the spinner fall probably won’t amount to much,” with the confidence of someone who knows what they’re doing. Never mind the fact that the river will humble you on your next outing, because as much as we like to think we have things figured out, we never quite do.
All I’ll claim is that I have a general idea of where the fish should be, what they might eat, and the times of day that’ll be most productive. The catch is, I only feel that way on certain stretches of the river—places I fish with such regularity that the beauty of them becomes normal.
I’ve known this about myself for years, but habits are hard to break. This summer, I made it a point to explore water on my home creek that I’ve never fished before. A few weeks ago, I finally made good on that promise.
It was a Friday night when I wrapped up work and headed straight to the river. There was a storm rolling in somewhere over the plains, but in the river’s narrow canyon, the wind wasn’t too bad.
I parked in a familiar pullout, but walked upriver instead of down. The creek flows faster here, throwing itself around boulders the size of my house. There’s little holding water, but what’s there is deep enough to harbor some nicer trout. An average fish from the creek is probably 12 inches, but the first few I caught—all rainbows—were a big larger. My motivation to explore was already paying off.
The Big Hole
The best payoff was after I scrambled up a crack between two boulders and pushed through some willows to find myself at the tail of a pool. Another huge rock split the pool in two, and I couldn’t reach the water on the far side. The pool looked too deep to wade, so I had to fish the side I was on.
I tossed my hopper-dropper at the head of the pool, right on the foam line, and watched it drift quickly through the dark water. Normally, the river is low and clear enough that you can watch the fish as they swim up to inspect your fly. With the low light of evening, the approaching storm, and the depth, however, I couldn’t see anything.
Which is why the 20-inch brown legitimately scared me when it waltzed up to the surface and slurped my hopper like it was a size 18 mayfly.
I was so surprised to see a fish that size in the creek that my hook set was late. I stung the fish for a moment before it wiggled free and went back to the depths.
I’m not prone to huge bursts of emotion, especially not when I’m fishing alone. But I needed help lifting my jaw off the ground after getting a look at that brown trout. It was easily the biggest I’ve ever seen in the creek, and I’ve caught a few fish pushing 18 inches in there.
I floated the hopper-dropper through the pool a few more times, but I knew that big fish wasn’t coming back. I was so obsessed with that fish I couldn’t concentrate the rest of the evening, and even spooked another large trout from a pool, a rainbow that was fat enough to make me feel svelte.
I haven’t made it back to that section of river yet, but I plan to before elk season starts. Whether I run into the big brown again really doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve fallen in love with my home water all over again, all because I pushed myself to go explore a “new” section.