There’s this frenzied energy in the air, this mad dash in trout towns all over the country – get to the rivers, and fish them hard, before runoff hits and we’re confined to lakes until the end of June. Usually, this is right about when that fervor hits its peak. The Mother’s Day Caddis Hatch is the unofficial kickoff of the best of pre-runoff fishing, when every day might be your last on the creek for as long as a month, depending on how the snow melts.
That’s not to say you can’t fish high, off-color water. You can, and some of the best days I’ve had on my local creek are when the water is just on the edge of too dangerous to wade. But there’s almost always a good chunk of time when you either can’t wade thanks to the high flows, when every pocket disappears, and when the water gets so dirty you wonder if the fish actually are eating down there like everyone claims.
In a normal year, we’d be at the peak of the rush to get it while the gettin’s good. With virtually no snowfall, a record-warm winter, and persistent high temps that have melted a ton of snow prematurely, it’s almost like everyone’s holding their breath. I’ve been on the road a lot lately, and every trout town I’ve visited has felt the same. Folks are fishing, but almost as though they’re looking over their shoulder and waiting for something bad to happen.
That’s because there’s little-to-no evidence that we’ll have the usual spring runoff we’re used to, at least here in the West. I took my daughter and parents out for a walk at a nearby stream last week, where you can see some old petroglyphs, wildlife, and get away from the noise of town. The stream was lower than I’ve ever seen it, crystal-clear, and when my daughter wanted to play in the water, far warmer than I expected. This time last year, it was higher, off-color, and the fish were clearly stacked in every bit of calm water along the banks.
Even my local creek, a dependable freestone that tumbles from a lake at almost 10,000 feet, isn’t running high like normal. Places I can never wade at this point in May are almost bare of water.
Then, just yesterday while I was driving my parents to the airport, I crossed a major tributary of the Yellowstone River. It was high, muddy, and looked almost like it does every year at this time – a mess that doesn’t look like the great fishery it is. When we crossed the Yellowstone itself, it was swollen, dark, and angry.
In a normal year, to see the rivers down in the valleys high and muddy, I’d feel a stab of sadness that the pre-runoff fishing was over.
This year, though? I’ve never been happier to see muddy water. Any sign of normalcy amid this drought is welcome.