Father’s Day Collection | Noah M.

[flyfusion]

Rendezvous at Sullivan’s Slough

Silver Creek makes me feel as though nothing else matters when I am fishing on the Nature Conservancy property. Nothing else matters except catching those big, fat, and very smart fish. During the past seven years, I have spent every spare moment possible at Silver Creek. My wife will attest to this. Along the way, I have learned a great deal through trial and error, talking to others, and reading about this beautiful place.

I do not consider myself an expert at fishing Silver Creek, if that is even possible, but I usually catch at least a few fish. Of course, some days are more productive than others.

Usually, if I am not having much luck on the creek itself, I make tracks to the slough, otherwise known as Sullivan’s Pond. I have heard more than one person say fishing the slough is more difficult than fishing the creek, but I have always found a fish or two willing to take a nymph or streamer somewhere in the slough.

On this particular day, I was fishing with my dad and my younger brother, Luke. The action was slow, and there was no hatch activity to speak of. This was one of those unlucky days on Silver Creek a few summers ago. None of us had caught anything worth mentioning, so we decided to test our skills on Sullivan’s Pond.

The upper end of the slough is difficult to fish because there is a steep bank leading down to the water’s edge. Trees and bushes hang over the bank, so wading out and roll casting is the best option. Wading in the slough can be treacherous, though. Silt hides sinkholes, and one wrong step can leave you soaked and shaken.

We ended up above a beaver dam at the upper end of the slough around noon. At that point, I think I had caught two fish, Luke had landed one, and my dad was still getting skunked, which was great for us because he usually outfishes us at least two to one.

My dad was standing in the clearing closest to the dam, and Luke was up on the ridge spotting for him. I was getting bored catching weeds, so I climbed out to join Luke above the bank when the fun started.

I was just finishing the steep climb out of the slough when my dad yelled, “Fish on!”

Luke, who was supposed to be spotting but instead was watching me struggle up the bank, looked down toward the water and after a couple of seconds said, “*#@!^, you hooked that huge brown we’ve seen swimming around.”

I joined Luke and made the same observation. Of course, Dad did not believe us during the first couple of minutes we spent trying to convince him. Luke and I then decided we should get down into the water to see the fish up close, or to help our father land it, but mostly to see the fish up close.

Luke started down the steep bank with me close on his heels, a little too close, I guess. He lost his balance but managed to stop himself before falling into the water. Unfortunately, because I was so close behind him, I slammed into his back and knocked him a couple of feet out into the slough, where he landed in a very ungraceful belly flop.

After colliding with Luke, I lost my balance, and my feet flew out from under me. I ended up on my backside in the mud with branches poking and scraping me every which way. I still have not decided which is worse: ending up with waders full of scum-covered water or cracking your tailbone and not being able to sit for a week.

Meanwhile, my dad was still playing the fish and making comments about how agile his boys were. We collected ourselves, muttered a few choice words, and moved to help him land his quarry so we could finally see that huge fish.

My dad grew up fishing the rivers near Klamath Falls, Oregon, so he is an experienced fly fisherman, but he seemed to do just about everything wrong that day. I guess he was following our lead.

For some reason, he did not think it was important to get the fish onto the reel, so he was stripping line by hand while stumbling along the shallows. His next mistake was catching his rod and line in an overhanging bush. I was elected to scramble over and free it, which resulted in several more branches and thorns protruding from my body.

The moment we solved that problem, the brown trout charged straight toward us at full speed. My dad feverishly stripped in slack line while leaning backward. I was yelling at him to avoid tangling the line in the bushes again, Luke was yelling at him to get the fish on the reel before he lost it, and Dad was yelling at both of us to keep our mouths shut.

The fish finally turned and headed back into the slough, but during all the commotion my dad somehow wrapped his excess fly line around Luke’s legs. I remember Luke jumping around like someone had rubbed Icy Hot on his crotch while desperately trying to untangle himself from the line. Somehow he managed to free himself before the fish snapped the 5X tippet, and the rest of the battle was fairly uneventful until it came time to net the fish.

None of us had a net large enough to land it. My net was long but too shallow to hold the beast. Dad had a narrow but deep net, and Luke had managed to lose his somewhere during this entire comedy of errors.

Originally, my dad planned to net the fish himself. After enduring all our mishaps, however, he changed his mind and instructed me to do the honors, mainly because I was the only one who still had a net.

I spooked the fish into another run with two or three failed attempts to scoop her up. Then, when I finally positioned the net correctly and lifted it beneath her, she flexed and flipped right back out.

Naturally, this started another round of shouting:

“You’re going to lose the fish!”

“I know what I’m doing!”

“If you’re so good, get your ass over here and net the fish yourself!”

Luke was still near the dam participating in the yelling while muttering expletives and trying to retrieve his missing net. Fortunately, he found it, because he was the one who finally got over there and landed that fine fish.

Somehow we managed to land the monster female brown trout and gathered around in awe for pictures. Being conservation-minded, we kept the fish in the water while fumbling for our cameras, one of which is still at the bottom of the slough. It does not really matter whose camera it was.

My dad posed with the fish while Luke and I prepared to take the photo. I told my dad to smile. The instant before we snapped the picture, that old brown decided she had had enough of us. With a mighty wiggle and a splash, she disappeared before we had any proof beyond our own word.

The women in our lives say they have a hard time believing this story, but fishermen know the truth.

With all the noise and commotion we created during that extended battle, I am surprised we did not attract a crowd wondering where we came from and why we did not just stay there.

We were blessed that day to encounter one of the larger fish on the Silver Creek Preserve, and hopefully I will cross paths with her again someday. When that happens, I will be ready to do everything right, and I still probably will not land her.

I guess that is the nature of Silver Creek: supremely challenging, infinitely frustrating, amazingly beautiful, and ingenious enough to provide just enough reward to keep fly-fishing addicts coming back again and again.

– Noah M., Twin Falls, MT

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