It’s anathema to guides and serious fly fishers for people to reveal/talk about/publicize their favorite place to fish. If asked about specifics, often the fly fisher answers with some variation of the “I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you” semi-joking line. Inquiries at fly shops about where to fish are usually answered with pointing out nearby Fishing Access Sites on a tourist map. When someone suggested I write about my favorite fishing spot, it got me to thinking “Do I have a favorite, ultimate place to fish?”
I thought about the many places where I’ve wet a line over the years—and the more I pondered it, I realized that for me, there’s so much more to it than just the physical location and the water itself. To me, it’s about the experience, and there are so many intangible factors that go into determining the experience you have. I’ve had magical moments in unassuming-looking spots. I’ve been skunked in the “troutiest”-looking water imaginable. I’ve caught fish in epic quantities within spitting distance of an Interstate highway. I’ve flown to the other end of the world from here to fish in streams and be surrounded by scenery that looks just like home. So, yes, I’m going to tell you about my go-to fishing spot. Try as you might, you will not be able to figure out where it is—because it’s an amalgam of what makes somewhere a good place to fish, to me.
My Spot is not difficult to get to; it’s less than an hour by car away from home. Part of the trip is state highway driving, but then I turn off onto a gravel road, which turns to dirt.
There is no parking lot, no boat ramp—no formal Fishing Access Site. I just know where to pull over at a wide spot in the road. Once I’m geared up, there is some hiking involved (oh, and some bushwhacking, which is why I’m in long pants if it’s warm out, waders if it’s early or late in the season.) Not a lot of hiking, but just enough effort to weed out the easy access-seekers. Once I reach the stream (probably more aptly described as a creek, rather than a full-blown river,) I take a few minutes to observe: the water depth—if it’s running high or low, any insect activity (or not,) and what’s going to be my most viable wading route. I decide whether to fish upstream from there, or walk downstream and fish back up to my starting point. The super-clear water is clean and cold, perfect for the native trout species, the cutthroat. As I maneuver my way back and forth across the stream (sometimes having to clamber over boulders or back up on the bank,) I cast into each little pool, slack water behind a rock, shallow riffle and deep hole next to the bank—every place where I know there’s got to be at least one beautiful trout.
About an hour into my wading, the mayflies start to hatch, and I cast to rises. I admire and thank each fish as I remove the fly and release it as quickly as possible back into the ever-flowing water. Mother Nature has been quite generous in sharing her bounty this day, and I am fulfilled. I find my way back to my car—and don’t see another person until I pull out onto the highway headed home.