As I write this the North Fork is ripping at about 17,000 cubic feet per second. That’s about three times higher than flows that result in decent fishing up there. We’re nosing up against a new record for rainfall in June, but – again as I write this – things seem to be drying out and with most of the mid-level snow gone this is probably the final spasm of high water.
I’ve had plenty of fun harassing grayling out at Rogers Lake the last month, but I’m ready for real fly fishing to begin, and that requires moving water.
“As I write this” is actually the first day of summer, which is not usually all that great of a day for fly fishing rivers in Montana. The long-term average flow on the North Fork for June 20 is about 9,000 cfs, still double where I like it. I once floated the North Fork from Big Creek to Glacier Rim at 8,000 cfs, but the fishing was poor and about halfway through we had to take on a passenger. The very wet and cold dude was running the river in a canoe, which swamped in Fool Hen. We found the canoe downstream in the long pool where Canyon Creek empties into the river through that jumbo-sized culvert.
I’m playing the waiting game. Rivers will come down; they always do. In the meantime we’ve got to bide our time fighting crowds on the Thompson River – maybe the only fishable moving water in western Montana this time of year – or enjoying more contemplative activities, such as reading about fishing.
Just the right bit of reading material popped up on my Facebook timeline the other day. A friend shared a link to the essay “Older Fishing,” by The Man, otherwise known as Jim Harrison. It comes from a new anthology “Astream: American Writers on Fly Fishing.” Anything by Harrison is worth the read, but especially so when he zeros in on one of the four pillars of human existence: fly fishing, bird hunting, gastronomy and sex.
The old man is in his early 70s now, but still chasing big browns on the Yellowstone. There’s more at work here than I can fairly summarize in 700 words, so I’ll just share this. In “Older Fishing” Harrison questions whether or not he’s a good fisherman.
I haven’t fished with him, but I’ve read enough of his stuff to know that he’s got to be good. As he points out, sometimes we define “good” by the quality of the salami eaten for shore lunch. And since Harrison has a pipeline to the Batali family you know he’s eating some top-of-the-line cured meats. While he’s probably right in stating that that is a better way to measure “good,” we know that’s not what is usually intended by the question.
I’ve asked myself this probably a thousands times. There are days when I think I’m good. I once lost count at 35 fish on a four-hour float of the Middle Fork. Yes, I realize that’s nothing epic on the Middle Fork, but that day as we put in at Moccasin I knotted on a No. 12 Chernobyl Ant that I tied the night before, and that was the same fly I clipped off my leader when we took out at West Glacier. I really ought to get that ratty old fly bronzed.
But I’ve had plenty of days when I’ve lost my entire stock of the “hot” fly before I’d hooked a fish. Days where my backcast wrapped my leader around not just every tree, but every limb of every tree. Days where I fumbled through the routines of terminal tackle assembly so completely I couldn’t pass a 4X tippet through the eye of, well, a No. 12 Chernobyl Ant.
Those are the days I question whether I’m worthy of calling myself a fly fisherman.
But I think I’m down with Harrison on this one. Give me a 12-pack of properly chilled pale ale, a loaf of Ceres sourdough, some cured meat and cheese, add just the right company, and I’m the best damn fisherman on the planet.
So long as the North Fork is running somewhere on the sane side of 8,000 cfs.
Rob Breeding writes, teaches and watches his kids play soccer
when he’s not fishing or hunting. He lives in Kalispell.