Day 3
I struggled once more to find sleep. The excitement and exhaustion from the day before were of little help in my quest to find some rest. Once again, I was first from the tent and I made the short journey for the bear vaults. This morning, Steve would be making sausage and egg burritos for breakfast. After last night’s dinner, these would be a welcomed treat. The air was chilly at forty-six degrees and I longed for the other guys to wake. Soon enough they would both emerge from their tents to begin their own morning rituals.
Today’s fishing would consist of a much easier hike and for the first time this trip there would be no need for a back pack. This would be a welcome respite from the burden that has seemed to attach itself to my back. Free from the weight of my back pack, I felt as if I were dancing between the rock and along the stream.
After breakfast, we rigged up and headed for the river. We would hike upstream quite a ways before starting our fishing this day. In a promise to my friend Larry, I decided to tie on his favorite fly, an Elk Hair Caddis. He asked me to catch him one of those pretty cutthroats and that is exactly what I did. I am not sure how many I caught on his fly, but it was somewhere between one and thirty.
As the morning warmed, I noticed more and more bug activity around the stream. What wasn’t hatching would have been an easier question to answer on this day. After noticing several large stone flies, Steve suggested that we try hopper patterns. This would be a wise and exciting move. I was giddy with excitement as I watched my large foam hopper disappear at nearly every trouty looking pool. I was amazed at how confidently the fish would take this large piece of foam and hair. The trout in this stream would completely destroy three of my deer hair and foam hoppers. The poor flies looked like they had been used as a puppy’s chew toy.
We stopped for lunch and a quick recap of the morning. We also refilled the water bottles and rested our bodies for the remainder of our journey. As the trip began, I really enjoyed my cliff bar, but lunch would find me only slightly satisfied with my meal. It was soon time to move again.
We hopped from pool to riffle on our way to one of the most beautiful meadows I have ever seen. I felt content fishing that meadow. It was as if I were fishing a painting from some long ago artist. The place screamed western fly fishing to my eastern heart. I was there. I had arrived at the pinnacle of my fly fishing career. I was hiding in waist high grass flinging a grass hopper in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. And, I was rewarded for the effort.
We fished the meadow deep into the afternoon. Along the way, Steve showed us another small lake. Solitude Lake was a marshy, muddy edged pool that seemed to be the perfect setting for moose sightings and smaller trout. I hooked into a half a dozen ten inch cutthroats as I waded through the monotonous mud. We were also blessed with the sighting of a cow moose and her calf. They were on the move and far too quick to get a picture, but they fit perfectly into the picture that I had created in my head many years before.
Our fishing would end here and soon we were on our way back to camp. The two mile hike would take us along the game trails that followed the river. Once again, I danced through the forest like I have so many times before. It was a fun and much less tedious hike than any from the previous days. After a quick clean up and some feet soaking in the river, we headed for camp and another less than memorable meal.
This night would find us in the tents early and no moose were seen. Instead, we watched the lightening brighten out tents as the thunder seemed to rip open the sky from one mountainside to the other, allowing the rain to spill out and onto the earth. It was another amazing experience that made me glad I was there. I would easily survive my first mountain storm.
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