Part IV: The Biggest Damn Cutthroat Ever
Retrace and Remember:
Don’t forget to try those same pools on the way back and remember to take notes. Write down where you caught your fish and all the details from weather to specific gear and presentation. If nothing else it makes you remember better for next time and gives you something tangible to consult when you invariably forget.
One warm August day I was fishing a small lumber-laden stream perhaps 12-feet across at its widest. The massive stump of a drowned ponderosa pine jutted out of the water about four feet creating a pleasant shady area for a trout to hold while feeding on emerging insects. I watched the area intently as the trout moved into the current its nose sneaking up to inhale a mayfly before gliding back into the shade. I settled my Tom Thumb into the seam six feet beyond the mass of roots then watched as it bobbed through the zone. It disappeared in a splash.
The trout was heavy and tore line upstream 30 feet before resting under a tangle of sunken branches. I buried my rod tip in the water and strained the leader to the breaking point. The trout wavered, drifted back and forth, and then rocketed toward me. I stripped frantically, regained tension and slowed another run. I kept my rod down and made the trout fight against the current and the line. Eventually it tired and came to hand. It was by far the largest cutthroat in the world. I admired it profoundly as I slipped the fly from its lip. Then, as I watched the trout swim away, I noticed a small tuft of deer hair extruding from the upper side of its mouth like half a moustache.
I waded downstream and continued fishing still kicking myself for committing the cardinal sin of leaving my camera in the truck. A few hours later I returned to the drowned pine and the large stump. When I cast to the same spot another splash greeted my offering. As I played the trout, I could tell it was large but not as strong or heavy as the former whale. It came in with fewer objections as well, but when I bent to liberate my fly I noted a small tuft of deer hair extruding from the side of its mouth – It was the same fish caught at the same spot twice in one day - just a little more resigned the second time. I extracted my own fly then the tuft of hair from his upper lip. It was a #16 Elk Hair Caddis lost by a less fortunate angler. I stuck it on my vest as a souvenir and proof, though insignificant as it may be, of the biggest cutty in the world.In the end, I cannot tell exactly what a perfect stream is, but I know it
instinctively when I am on one. It is an old stream that twists and bends back on itself as it meanders through alpine meadows and crashes down steep canyons. Looming rugged mountains encircle it, the water flows lively, clear and cold, the air fresh and clean. I know it because I have spent many hours exploring small streams, I understand its habits and moods, and I have discovered a few of its secrets and hold on to them, or share them with a select worthy few. In the quiet times between fish, I try to look around and enjoy its unique beauty and the wildlife that inhabits wild places. I tread softly and leave no trace except maybe the odd fly stuck in a tree top, deadfall, or root ball. Many times I have lost large fish, but as the years unfold the lost trout seem to diminish along with my youth. When everything is right, the cast effortless, the drift good, the tippet holds, and the fly the perfect shade of whatever is hatching, the world explodes and for a brief moment stream, trout and I are connected in a delirious throb. It can’t get more perfect than that.
