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.
