For the last year I have been building a home in SE Idaho. I didn’t want to do it. It would take too much of my time away from fishing. It would be too much work—work that I had been doing for a living for decades and that I was trying to get away from. But after a seemingly never-ending run of RV camping, my wife Jan had finally had enough. It was time for us to find a shelter that didn’t require a license plate. And, admittedly, the thought of owning a home, surrounded by mountains and with great fly fishing nearby, did sound appealing. Unfortunately, there was not a reasonably-priced house for sale where we were looking and the only viable option was to build new.
In the ensuing months, we purchased a two-and-a-half acre lot, located in a hay field in Swan Valley, Idaho—one of the most beautiful places we had ever seen. Prior to the start of the project, I had planned to hire a good part of the work done so that I might focus my time on what had initially brought us to the area: dry fly fishing. I hired a contractor to frame the house and in passing made an empty offer to help out if he became “desperate.” Big mistake. Before I knew it, I was working 13-hour days along side him while his construction crew suffered absences that included everything from sickness to vacations and even cattle drives. Several weeks later, we finally had the house framed and dried in, protecting it from the approaching fall weather.
Fast forward to today, the home is mostly completed. During the last year I have had to divide my time between working on the house in Idaho and taking care of obligations back in Minnesota, where I am from. But with Idaho house now in livable condition, I can return to what I had come here for: dry fly fishing.
Our new home is located an hour southeast of Jackson, Wyoming, in an area blessed with tremendous trout fishing opportunities. Bear Creek, Palisades Creek, Elk Creek, Indian Creek, the Palisades Reservoir and the famous South Fork of the Snake River are all only a few minutes drive from my front door. Rainbows, browns, hybrids and of course—the star of the show—west-slope cutthroat trout, are abundant and of an above-average size.
One of my favorite times to fish here is in August. But in southern Idaho, August can be hot—really hot, like fry an egg on your truck hood hot. The grass covering the fields and mountainsides that was once lush and green only a few weeks earlier is now dried brown and rough. Just breathing the air will make you thirsty. The daily temperature changes are also extreme. During the day you may dunk your hat or sun shirt in the river to cool off, but when the sun sets in the evening, a sweatshirt or coat will be required.
This time of year, grasshoppers will be everywhere and into everything—small hoppers, medium hoppers, huge hoppers colored brown and green. They are uninvited guests in the car, house and garage. Walking through grass, they leap noisily from you in all directions. This is an exciting time. Trout are looking for and eagerly eating any hoppers that mistakenly fall into the water—large trout that may not show themselves the rest of the year. It’s time to head to your favorite creek or river to catch them. One of my favorite places to fish is Big Elk Creek, and I’m planning to go there today.
Big Elk Creek flows into a west arm of the Palisades Reservoir, south of the town of Irwin, Idaho, in the Caribou-Targhee National Forest. Fishing is excellent, with good numbers of trout and with great public access. Kokanee salmon, colored bright red, will dot the river in the fall as they make their way upstream to spawn (harvest of them is strictly prohibited). There is a hiking /horseback riding trail (non-motorized) that follows along the creek, and at the trailhead you will find ample parking and a campground.
The brown grass in my front yard crunches under my feet as I walk to the truck from the garage with the last load of gear that includes the following: a four-weight rod, a reel with floating line, 5X leader, a dry pack with various dry flies, extra tippet and a forceps. Footwear includes wet wading boots, neoprene wading socks and a pair of hiking boots and socks for the long trek out at the end of the day. On every outing, regardless of weather, I will always bring a rain coat, a few granola bars and a lighter in the unlikely event that I’m stuck somewhere. And, of course, plenty of water.
The mid-day heat today is oppressive. It gives the feeling of being blasted by a giant hair dryer, and I’m already sweating with minimal effort. Common sense would say that going early when it’s much cooler would be a more intelligent decision. But fishing in the morning is not an option as the hoppers are inactive until the sun warms them into motion. Somehow, the trout are well aware of this fact and will show no interest in a hopper pattern until later in the morning.
I climb into my sunbaked truck, start the engine and notice that the outside temperature gauge on the dash reads 101 degrees. Damn, this is hot! The cool air coming from the dash vents provides much-needed relief during the short drive to the creek.
At the bottom of a hill on the west side of Highway 26, I turn off on Elk Creek Road. It follows along a peaceful arm of the beautiful, aqua-green Palisades Reservoir and the bumpy, gravel ride will occasionally rattle your fillings loose in the places that are wash boarded and in need of grading. I roll up my window to keep the dust out when I pass other vehicles. Behind me, the clouds of dust combine with bright sunlight to form strange shapes that hang mysteriously in the air. Soon I arrive at the parking lot that is located just past the camping area. It’s the end of the road. Two other vehicles, one with a horse trailer in tow, are the only ones parked there.
I start getting ready, assembling my rod and reel, and I tie on a reliable fly, a number ten Rainy’s Hopper. Minutes later, a dark SUV pulls up next to me with its windows rolled down. It’s followed lazily by a thin cloud of dust.
“Hey, neighbor!”
I turn around to see two guys sitting in the cab—the person in the passenger seat is grinning. I had no idea who they were but soon noticed that the vehicle had a license plate from Minnesota, just like mine, and I now understood the joke. They exit the vehicle and approach.
“Where in Minnesota are you boys from, “I asked.
“I’m from White Bear Lake and he is from Forest Lake. Name is Logan and this is my brother Mychale.”
Mychale looks my way and nods his head in agreement. The both of them appear to be in their thirties—Logan is of average height with a stubbly goatee while Mychale has a full, dark beard and is a bit taller. Their attire and gear suggested that they were ready to do some serious hiking and that this was not their first fly fishing trip.
I continued to get ready, and as I did, the two of them began to explain that they were here on an annual trip to the valley that they had been making for the last six years and that during those visits, they had put on massive miles hiking, exploring and fishing several small rivers and creeks in the area.
Clearly, these two were my type of guys.
“What brings you out here?” Logan asks.
“I have a place here in Swan Valley,” I answered.
“So, you live here?”
“No. I spend half my year out here and the other half in Minnesota.”
Logan grins. “Then I guess you can call this place home, too.”
The three of us talked for a bit longer about Minnesota and what we had in common here. Eventually, I ended the conversation and wishing the boys luck, took off ahead of them, hiked up the dusty trailhead and disappeared into the woods. Hiking with purpose, I followed the creek upstream. I wanted to cover some territory this afternoon. Rocks and tree roots litter the trail in many places and you have to watch your step. The narrow path winds up a steady incline through forests, meadows, and rock formations—always within view of the gorgeous Caribou Range Mountains in the distance.
After hiking nearly one-half mile, I saw a small opening in the bushes that looked like a promising spot to fish, and I make my way toward the creek. The run is short and crowded with brush on both sides. Careful of my footing on the slippery rock-covered bottom, I eagerly steped into the water, filling my wading socks and boots with the icy water from the creek. It instantly feels great. The shaded bank across from me looks like it would hold fish so I make a few casts upstream and watch my foam hopper as it floats along the current seam. The fly exits the shaded area and into the sunlight, each time uneventfully. Casting a few more times with the same result, I realize it’s time to move on.
I continue following the trail upstream, eventually bringing me to a bend in the creek. This water looks “fishy.” There are brush overhangs, large boulders and a log jam with a small rapid that spills into a deep-water bucket where the water quickly slows—all great locations for fish to hold.
My firsts casts behind the boulders don’t produce. Frustrating. I know there are fish holding there but I keep moving on. I float my foam hopper under the shaded brush by the bank and a few small fish rose with interest but won’t take the fly. I get the same result downstream where the rapids flow into the slower moving water. Time to try something different.
I take off the Rainey’s Hopper and replace it with a different fly, a Morrish Hopper, and start back up stream to the boulders that I’ve already tried. I know there are fish holding there.
My first cast drops the fly in the flat water behind one of the oversized rocks and immediately, two large fish rise to greet it. In a blink, the smaller of the two eat the fly and it rockets downstream into the fast current. Fighting fish in such tight quarters can be perilous with all the snag hazards, but I got lucky this time and soon was removing the barbless hook from the corner of the fish’s mouth. It’s a beautiful cutty. But this was no time to admire it—there was a larger fish still holding in the same spot.
I quickly gather my line, touch up the fly and drop it in the same place. A large tan shape explodes from the bottom and engulfs the bug—it was the other big one! Like the first fish, it took off downstream, and it made me shuffle over the uneven rock bottom until I could find some soft water to land it. Kneeling in the clear water, I took time to admire the fish. Cutthroat trout are amazingly beautiful, but they somehow seem to be even more gorgeous and colorful when found in small creeks. This was a good fish, on a beautiful day and I’m instantly happy.
As the afternoon wears on and as I move on to the next few runs, my steps start to become heavy, deliberate and even a bit clumsy. The trapped water in my boots sloshes with each step, and it’s no longer cool and soothing. I keep trudging forward along the rugged path—slightly out of breath—past bushes, rocks, fragrant fir trees and through open meadows. The heat is now starting to catch up to me. Not far ahead I recall a nice run, and I’m hoping it’s not occupied when I get there.
Twenty minutes later, upon arrival and to my relief, I discover no one at the run. In the afternoon light the water looks gorgeous and appears full of hope and possibilities. I feel reenergized. After a quick rest, I slide down the bank toward the water and cross to the other side. My first cast is short and the fly is eaten immediately when it hits the surface. It’s a another beautiful cutty, but this one is not nearly as large as the two I had caught previously. With my second cast, the foam fly drifts only a few feet before it’s devoured by another fish of about the same size. Working my way to the head of the run, the action slows, and it’s time once more to keep moving. I have one last spot in mind to fish before the day ends.
At a clearing near a small group of cedar trees, I unexpectedly run into my new friends from Minnesota. They had had a good day, both of them catching some nice fish, and were now ready to hike out.
“The next hole is occupied,” Mychale informs me, foiling my end-of-day plans but saving me the effort of finding out the hard way.
“No worries,” I said. “That’s enough for one day.”
Logan makes mention of cold beer and suddenly, to us all, that sounded very appealing. Mychale suggested that we all hike out together. I agreed, and we made our way back to the parking area, never with a lull in the conversation. Once back, we exchange contact information and make plans to meet up again next year. They then drove off.
It’s truly great to connect with fishy, like-minded people whose values are deeply rooted in conservation. Logan and Mychale are those people. They give me optimism about the future and their presence made a great day even more great.
I hop into my truck cab, still hot inside from the afternoon sun, and start for home. Again, I drive past the aqua-green Palisades Reservoir, follow along the winding Snake River and view the same majestic, tan-colored mountains decorated green with pines that I had admired earlier. I’ll never become bored with this place, I think.
Pulling into town, I turn left and drive down a dirt road that divides yellow fields of dried grass, occupied by grazing cattle and horses, before parking on my gravel driveway. It’s nice to be back. The heat is now comfortable and it is no longer oppressive. Wildfire smoke hangs stubbornly in the calm air. Through the front window of the house, I can see Jan moving about. As I am walking up to my front door, I pause for a moment and smile. Logan was right—this is home.
