My Last Trip to the Middle Fork of the Powder River

We were a couple weeks into the COVID 19 isolation vortex when the weather started to ease and the yearning to fish started up. While the creek we live on fishes nicely year round, I like to explore other creeks and rivers in the Black Hills and the Rockies in the early Spring before the kids are out of school and the crowds start to descend on the public waters. I had a few terrific days close to home but I soon realized that COVID 19 was the answer to prayer for every fisherperson who had spent their Spring days trapped at work just wishing they could go fishing instead. I had never seen more than 2 or 3 cars in the parking lot for one of my favorite creeks. After the “lockdown” started, the parking lot was filled and cars were parked as far as the eye could see on the dirt road that led to that parking lot.

Clearly, I was going to have to get creative. I decided that I needed to head into the heart of Wyoming where nobody is and nobody goes. To my surprise, I found a few articles on the Middle Fork of the Powder River and that stream’s blue ribbon trout stream designation. The articles all commented on the unlikelihood of running into other people because of a steep hike to access the creek. In my experience, when fishing writers speak of a “steep hike” it usually means they are trying to discourage me from going there so they can have it to themselves. Some of the best fishing I have done over the years has been on streams and lakes that some writer said was a lot of work to get to. More often than not, the exertion amounted to little more than a slightly elevated pulse rate.

In early April, I set out for Kaycee, Wyoming and found the dirt road that would take me to the trailhead for the Middle Fork. In the late afternoon I reached a gate with a lock on it and a sign saying that the road was closed until April 15. I walked in a little ways and decided that I couldn’t be that far from the trailhead. I planned on sleeping in my truck that night anyway so I figured I would have plenty of time the next morning. There was one other truck parked at the gate. Within a couple hours, a group of 20-somethings came walking down the road, a couple of them with fly rods. They confirmed that I wasn’t far from the trail and that the fishing was worth it.

I am almost 60 years old. I still backpack with my son in the summers and, while I have never particularly enjoyed sleeping on the ground, I can still do it, especially when there is the potential of good fishing. I figured sleeping in my truck would be the lap of luxury compared to sleeping on the ground in a tent. By midnight I determined that my 6 foot long body could not fit comfortably at any angle in the truck. No matter the position I was in, the length of the truck’s cab appeared to be approximately 5 feet, 10 inches long. Those two inches were the difference between comfort and cramps. For those wondering why I didn’t just get in the back in the bed of the pickup under the shell, that’s where the dogs ride and the odor is not real conducive to sound sleep either.

Around 6:00 a.m. exhaustion finally caused me to fall into a deep sleep. About 6:30 a truck pulled up. I sat up quickly. To be honest, I was committing a mild form of trespassing and was worried that the rancher who owned the land on this side of the gate was coming to inquire as to what I thought I was doing. I was relieved to realize it was just another fisherman.

But then I was a little annoyed. After spending the night out here, a guy who slept in a bed was going to beat me to the creek. He introduced himself as “Chad” and he seemed nice enough. He doubted we would see anyone else all day. He set off and I told him I would be along soon. I ate something awful for breakfast, put on my waders and boots, strung up my 6 weight rod and headed for the trail.

It turned out to be about a mile to the trailhead. It was mostly uphill but not bad. The trail itself, however, was a different story. It did not appear that it was that far down to the river but, unfortunately, I surmised that when a Wyoming writer says “steep hike,” he means “steep hike.” The river was in the bottom of a fairly deep, narrow canyon. I could see the water just fine and, from where I stood, with a running start I could have probably landed in it after about 10 seconds of flight. Think of Butch Cassidy telling Sundance “The fall will probably kill you!” I started downhill with more than a little trepidation.

“Steep hikes” are a challenge but I have done plenty of them. What I have learned is that steep hikes that still have several patches of snow on the trail are an excellent way to speed your descent in ways you had not planned. The trail down to the Middle Fork was just such a trail in early April this year. Despite resorting to sliding on my rear several times, both intentionally and unintentionally, I was down to the river in about a half hour.

Chad waved to me and gave me a couple generous tips on flies to use. The river was not that high but it occupied most of the floor of the canyon. That meant that there would not be a lot of sitting by the side of the creek. Instead, I would be wading. A lot. I am OK with that but I am definitely not the wader I used to be, particularly on rivers with lots of big boulders and pocket water like the Middle Fork of the Powder River. Suffice it to say that I did not conduct a Master Class in grace that day. Whenever I stumbled though, I noticed Chad a discreet distance away. I was more embarrassed than relieved.

I fished for about four hours. And I caught a lot of fish because there are a lot of fish in the Middle Fork of the Powder River. Nice fish. Pretty fish. Wild fish. Fish big enough that if you lose your angle in the tight quarters of the canyon, they can snap a 6 weight fly rod. I know. I did it. Fortunately, my rod’s demise occurred after I had satisfied myself that the Middle Fork was as represented.

Chad was waiting near the place where I first entered the river. I sat down to break down my rod (further) and steel myself for the “steep hike” out. Chad started up before me. As I climbed I noticed that he would stop and wait for me to come into view before continuing. Going up steep canyons is hard but not nearly as dangerous as going down them. When I reached the top and started walking down the road back to my truck, I saw Chad just disappearing around the bend below me. When my truck came into view, Chad’s taillights flashed on as he started his truck. He waved out the window as he drove off.

My quest to “get away from people” and fish on my own turned into a lesson on my limits and my assumptions. I am glad I went and explored the Middle Fork. I wish I had gone 20 or 30 years ago when I was closer to Chad’s age and still had something resembling agility. It’s a young man’s creek. I’m in good shape. But I am not young man.

 I started the day slightly disappointed that I would have to share the creek with someone. I finished the day thanking God that He sent Chad to look after me. Some days the trout humble me. Some days the trout are incidental to learning something more important. I love those days.

Stan's Gift

When I told my first boss Stan that I was going backpacking in Wyoming with my father, Stan said, “There should be good fishing up there. Take this fly rod with you.” With that, I was on my way to being a fly fisherman. 

The backpack trip happened sometime in the late 1980s. I took the 5 weight Orvis rod with me and tried it out on a high mountain lake. I grew up with spinning rods and did not know the first thing about how a fly rod worked. In both law and fly fishing, Stan was big on providing opportunities for experience but not particularly enamored with providing instruction. Just as he would send me into court or negotiations as a young lawyer with little idea about what I was doing, he did the same with the fly rod. My mental image of that first time is standing on a rock with fly line tangled about my feet. My first few trips to court were not that different. 

I landed a few fish that afternoon, all by retrieving line hand over hand like a longshoreman hauling rope rather than using the $200 reel that clearly had a function that I had yet to discern. But, I did notice that when I could get one of the flies that Stan supplied me with to rest on the water, the fish readily gobbled them up. I was intrigued but not sure what to do next with the fly rod (this was before one could pull up a Youtube video to show what people actually did with a fly rod). 

I told Stan that I appreciated the use of the fly rod when I returned it to him. I fudged a bit and said it worked great and I really enjoyed it. I suspected Stan was pleased to think he had a new convert. He told me to keep the rod and reel. I protested but ultimately thanked him and sheepishly took it home wondering how long it would be before he discovered that I was a less than deserving recipient of his largesse.

Not long after that, I received an offer to join a company as an in-house lawyer and had to tell Stan that I was moving on. A few days later Stan said he was going to take me out with a fly fishing guide as a going away gift (even though I wasn’t “going” far since my new office was just across the street). I responded enthusiastically while silently pondering the fact that Stan was about to find out how hapless I was with a fly rod.

A couple weeks later, Stan and I joined a couple other lawyers in the firm, some clients and two guides on the Colorado River. Todd was the guide assigned to me. By the end of the day, I not only understood the mechanics of the fly rod (and reel!) and had caught a couple fish, I began to grasp Stan’s passion for fly fishing. Like so many trout guides I have met since, Todd was both a marvel of knowledge and patience. And he cooked the best stream-side lunch I’ve ever had.

I knew that Stan would welcome fishing with me but not until I reached a reasonable level of competence. I did a very small amount of research and was told that there was great fly fishing in Cheesman Canyon. The Canyon was about an hour and a half drive from where I lived at that time in Golden, Colorado. I started going to Cheesman Canyon at every opportunity, often leaving the house at 3:00 or 4:00 in the morning so I could be first on the trailhead leading into the river. 

My first few times in Cheesman Canyon were not exactly successful. I used the techniques that Todd taught me on the Colorado River to no avail, despite being able to see very large fish in the water. After a few trips I mentioned to my new boss Gary that I was trying to learn fly fishing but I was finding it harder than expected. It turned out that Gary had recently decided he wanted to learn to fly fish as well and had purchased equipment to that end. We started meeting in Cheesman Canyon from time to time or reporting in to one another when one of us would go solo.

We quickly discovered a few things. First, what works on one river rarely is of much relevance on another river. Second, starting one’s fly fishing career in Cheesman Canyon is a bit like trying to learn piano by playing Rachmaninoff. To this day, I have yet to fish a more technically challenging river. We learned to use leaders that made thread look like cable and flies that were best viewed through a microscope. 

Gary and I were clearly in over our heads (not literally, that’s dangerous in waders) but we persevered. After a couple years of regaling each other with alternating stories of victory or stupidity that was only revealed with the clarity of hindsight on the drive home, we began to consider ourselves quasi-experts on Cheesman Canyon. Feeling emboldened, I worked up the nerve to ask Stan if he would like to go fishing. He readily agreed and said to meet him at the Colorado River to fish the stretch he took me to with Todd a couple years before.

I found that the Colorado was less challenging than Cheesman Canyon. I held my own just fine with Stan, even catching a large rainbow near the end of our day. Stan showed me how to do a reach cast that day which helps manage slack in the fly line when the fish you want to catch is on the other side of the river, but there is fast water between you and the other side. Now that Stan knew I was committed, he gave me many more valuable tips on fishing trips in the ensuing years.

Stan was a man of few words right up until the subject was trout and their ways. I was never sure whether he was happiest on the river or talking about the fishing over a beer at the end of the day. But I knew those two options outranked everything else by a wide margin. 

Ultimately life took me away from Colorado but I have been blessed to continue to fly fish in some incredible places. I rarely fish when I don’t think of Stan and how, as both a fly fisherman and a lawyer, he gave me tools but knew that the passion would have to come from my own effort. 

When Stan died a few years back, I went to Iowa for his funeral. A few of us from the old firm were there along with some of Stan’s family. Stan had not stayed in close touch and I was struck by how little his family knew about him. I flew home feeling a little melancholy. I regretted that none of Stan’s family had stood knee deep in a river and watched Stan chuckle while he played a trout with the sun reflecting off the water and his aviator sunglasses. We’re all capable of moments of beauty. Those moments were Stan’s. 

Last summer, my son and I backpacked in Wyoming and did a little fishing. At the end of the trip, I gave him the Orvis rod that Stan sent me into the backcountry with three decades ago. My son does quite a bit of backpacking. There should be good fishing up there.

Stan with a big pike in Canada.