The Long and Treacherous Road to Fishing Fame

            The mountains glowed a fiery orange as the sun slowly slipped away from the Madison Valley. Caddis flies fluttered about, spent mayflies made their final flights, and trout slurped anxiously. The evening hatch was reaching climax against an epic western background, while some 50 miles up the road I sat on an Ennis, Montana emergency room table wondering what had gone wrong.

The day had gotten off to a memorable start. Our boat was one of the first to launch on a particular section of river that morning. We had hoped to beat the heat and the crowds, which had flocked to the Madison after fishing restrictions ruled out most of the popular area rivers. The plan had paid off; we took a handful of chunky browns by pounding the banks with terrestrial combo meals. The weather was perfect, the bugs were buzzing, and we’d even seen a bull moose plodding around on the opposite bank.

As the early part of the day had gone so well, we decided not push our luck and opted to spend the afternoon resting in camp. The consensus was that the evening fishing would be as good if not better than the morning had been, and the plan was to head to a popular access point on the upper river for some boulder hopping after dinner. This was fine by me, and I spent the next couple of hours tying sparkle duns, rusty brown spinners, and caddis patterns in anticipation of what was to come. Images of picture perfect pocket water holding hungry trout were enough to send me into a deep afternoon slumber that lasted through dinner time.

Around 6:00 that evening my internal clock told me the bugs would soon be stirring. I jumped from my chair, snapped up the gear and threw it in the truck. The excitement was too much to bear, and I left without even thinking about grabbing a bite to eat. I did manage to remember the camera, not wanting to forfeit photo evidence of the 20 inch trout that I had assured myself was waiting for me.

The gravel road leading to the access lot had its share of dips and dives that managed to sneak up on the unsuspecting out-of-towner, much to the delight of the locals I’m sure. The bumpy ride sharpened the edge on an already anxious mood, and it took my stomach a few minutes to calm once the car was safely in park. As the dust settled, I saw that the horizon was dotted with anglers on both sides of the river. My shoulders sank a little, but I did not give up hope. Alas, a few sacred pockets remained, and I reminded myself about the big trout that had called to me in my dreams. I hastily adorned my pack and bolted for the spot.

Just as I’d hoped, the fish were sucking down caddis patterns left and right. I managed a few small fish right off the bat, and as the hatches grew in size and intensity, so did my smile. But as the bugs became more available, the fish seemed less and less interested in what I had to offer. Cast after cast failed to draw a look, and I wondered if a new item on the menu had garnered the affection of my finned friends. Reluctant to abandon my size 16 elk hair caddis, I attached another 18 inches of tippet to the bend of the hook and tacked on a rusty brown spinner, hoping that the exhausted mayfly would be course du jour for the rest of the evening.

On the very first cast, the two-fly rig disappeared and with a slight lift of the rod, the game was on. My 4 wt. rod flexed deeply, and I reached for the camera with my off-hand, confident that the fish of the trip was on the line. From my position on the bank I was able to leverage the big rainbow, and after only a minute or two had him within arms reach. I stooped to the water and slid my right hand under his thick belly. But as the saying goes, big fish don’t get that way by being stupid. This crafty specimen had anticipated my move, and just before I could tighten my grip, he bucked. The next thing I knew, the fish was gone, and a size 14 rusty spinner was buried in my hand.

Suddenly the valley became dark as a cloud of obscenities momentarily blocked out the sun. Of course, the fishing being what it was, hardly anyone even batted an eye at my outburst. I made a few feeble and painful attempts to remove the fly, to no avail. I tried all the old hook-removal tricks, but the situation only seemed to digress. Not wanting to abandon the fishing, but fearing tetanus if I didn’t, I reluctantly conceited victory to the fish and asked my buddy if he minded driving me to the ER. As we left the parking lot, the sun continued to glow over the valley, but that dark cloud followed me all the way to Ennis.

I never did get a picture of a 20 inch fish on that trip. I did however join the hundreds of other anglers whose clumsiness has landed them on the emergency room hall of fame. (picture below)

-Jim Lampros

March 11, 2008

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