When I lived in Twin Bridges, I often drove by a
small spring creek that looked interesting enough to
fish some day. It was a small stream without much
volume, eight to twelve feet wide, and, in most
places, lined with willows and birches. A pool had
formed above the road I drove over as the culvert
held the water back, and below the road the stream
dumped into a small pool. Below this pool, the stream
ran swiftly along with willows on the left bank and a
well-grazed pasture on the right. In this area, the
stream was shallow, unlikely to hold fish, and the
stream bottom was entirely covered with silt wherever
the current slowed as a result of many years of
over-grazing along its banks by livestock.
Occasionally, I would stop to look for fish. Several
times, I spotted fish above the road and once in a
while a few insects on the water surface, but it
didnt look very promising as a fishery.
Despite the apparent lack of the stream appearing to
be a good fishery I thought that someday I would
explore it. When I decided to explore the stream it
was a bright mid-summer day late in the morning, when
the sun was high so the visibility into the water
would be best. Because it was a small stream, I took
an eight-foot, 4-weight Winston glass rod, my
favorite rod at the time. Wearing only hip boots, I
began walking upstream, and where it was open, I kept
well back from the stream in hopes of spotting fish
before they saw me.
The stream meandered slowly back and forth and was,
in most places, almost completely lined with willows,
which made fish spotting nearly impossible. When I
could see the stream, the bottom continued to be silt
covered with only a small amount of aquatic
vegetation showing up here and there. After walking
nearly half a mile, the stream started to open up on
my side giving me much better visibility into the
water. It had been a pleasant walk through an almost
manicured pasture that had been closely cropped by
sheep.
So far, it had been a big disappointment for fish
spotting, for I saw only a few small ones. Walking a
little farther, I finally saw a nice brown, weighing
perhaps two pounds, holding under some overhanging
brush. Carefully watching the fish as it held gently
in the current, I tried to figure out if I could make
a presentation. There was just no way, the brush
prevented any cast or drift I could imagine, so I
reluctantly continued on.
I rounded a bend and saw ahead of me a low dam that
was four or five feet high. I slipped up on the dam
and carefully peered over it. The dam made a small
pond that was shaped like a question mark with the
widest portion of the pond at the bottom. It
gradually narrowed as it reached the top where the
stream ran in. At its widest, it was probably forty
feet and its length maybe one hundred feet. Behind
the pond from me and on the right side was a steep
hill about twenty-five feet high sparsely covered
with low grass. Running along most of the pond at the
bottom of the hill was a line of willows and alders.
Just to the right of where I stood was a large clump
of willows.
As is my habit, I stood and watched the pond for
perhaps ten minutes to see if there were any feeding
fish. None. When I had rigged up my rod, I had tied
on my favorite attractor fly, a size 16 Royal Wulff.
I made eight or ten casts to different parts of the
pond with no success. I eased up onto the dike and
looked into the pond. I was looking south with my
Polaroid sunglasses and could easily see into the
pond. The water was clear with very little vegetation
on the bottom giving me a clear view. I saw three or
four small fish, but nothing of real interest. A good
part of the pond was too far away to see so I headed
for the hill to gain some elevation to get a better
look.
The dam had been put there to raise the water level
high enough to feed an irrigation ditch that flowed
out of the pond to my right. On the far side of the
ditch were several small-sized poplar trees. Walking
towards the ditch, I noticed one of the trees had
been cut down by a beaver and had fallen across the
ditch just as it left the pond. At this point, the
ditch was eight or ten feet wide, and a pad of moss
about four feet high had built up in front of the
downed tree.
Approaching the ditch, I glanced over at the moss and
froze. The water under the moss was only about
eighteen inches deep and clearly visible on the
bottom was the shadow of a pectoral fin as big as
three of my fingers held together. There was a huge
fish hanging right under the moss! I couldnt have
been more than fifteen feet from the fish, but,
fortunately, the pad of moss prevented the fish from
spotting me.
I stood frozen to the spot trying to figure out how
to cast to the fish. With the poplars on the right
and willows on the left, my only chance was to cast
over the moss. Carefully, I crept up to where I could
make a short cast and knelt down. Im sure that I
couldnt have been more than fifteen feet from the top
edge of the moss. My hands were shaking as I unhooked
the fly from the keeper. I knew there would most
likely be just one chance at the fish. It would be
almost impossible to pick up the fly without hooking
the moss and spooking the fish.
My heart was pounding as the fly flew back and forth
as I carefully measured the casting distance. With as
much delicacy as I could muster, I released the line,
and the fly gently settled down not more than a foot
beyond the moss. The fly moved just two or three
inches before it disappeared in a gentle sip. In my
minds eye the take seemed like it was a slow motion
movie. I knew that the worst thing would be to strike
too quickly before the fish had a chance to
completely take the fly. What seemed like forever
passed before I set the hook.
As I remember it, nothing happened for what seemed
like a long time, and then the moss erupted in a huge
swirl as the fish headed into the safety of the pond.
I know its surprise was total. Its doubtful that it
had ever seen a fisherman much less been hooked by
one.
Experience had taught me to get in as open a place as
possible to play big fish so as to better control
their movements. I ran through the ditch holding the
rod up to make sure the line was clear and moved to
the right bank of the pond to get more room.
The fish was strong, but not wild. It made a
powerful, but slow, run towards the narrow part of
the pond, but I was able to stop it before it got to
some brush along the side. I carefully worked it back
into the center of the pond. Luckily for me, there
werent any obstructions in the main pond for it to
find its escape. I was very anxious to get a good
look at it to see how big it was in case it broke
off. After a couple of minutes of tug of war, the
fish began to tire and come up from the bottom where
I could get a good look. It was a brown trout of at
least five pounds!
The big brown continued to fight back and forth, but
my steady sideward pressure began wearing it down. It
would make a better story to tell about wild
thrashings, spectacular jumps, and other narrow
escapes of the big fish, but thats not what happened.
I gradually worked the fish towards me, and it gently
rolled on its side. I laid my rod down and slipped my
hands under my biggest trout ever on a dry fly!
Not only was it big, but it was also beautiful. An
old male with a pronounced kype, it was as perfectly
proportioned as if it had been painted. The sides
were golden yellow color with big red spots that were
radiant. The best part was its size; it easily
weighed between six and seven pounds!
I was overwhelmed by my feelings. This was in the
middle 80s, and I had been fishing for almost 40
years. I had seen a few fish of this size, but I had
never caught one on a dry fly. It just felt so
satisfying to see and hold such a magnificent fish.
After a few moments contemplation, I carefully
removed the fly and slipped the brown into the water
and watched it glide away into the darkness of the
pool. The big brown had given me one of my greatest
angling thrills and, except for my memory of it, that
was all that was left. Only the trout and I knew our
experiences.
I sat down on the bank to reflect on my good luck.
Catching such a magnificent fish on a dry fly from
such unlikely water was unbelievable. You just never
know where you might find such a magnificent fish.
With all of the fabled waters in southwestern Montana
that I had fished for years, it seemed crazy that I
would find the biggest fish in such a quiet,
out-of-the-way place.
It was time to go. The brush along the pond on my
side prevented me from continuing on so I headed back
to the dam where I started. I almost headed back to
the car, but I decided that I would walk along the
pond to see if I could see more big fish. As I walked
along the east side, I scared out another big fish
and several smaller ones. A patch of willows
prevented me from continuing up the bank, so I went
around them. I could see a small stream coming into
the top of the pond and, because it was somewhat in
the direction I wanted to go, I started upstream.
Once again, the stream was shallow with a clear sandy
bottom and was maybe ten feet wide. Along my side,
cattails lined the bank making it hard to get a clear
view of the stream. I hadnt gone more than 20 or 30
feet before I saw through the cattails another brown
lying right out in the open in not over a foot of
water. I was much closer to this fish than I wanted
to be. Slowly crouching down, I very carefully worked
back until I was perhaps 25 feet below it. I quietly
slipped through the cattails, and, keeping my body
mostly hidden by the cattails, I slowly knelt in the
water, blending in as best as I could.
Now that this fish was clearly visible, it looked
even bigger than the first one! I must have knelt
there at least five minutes trying to figure out the
best way to approach it. From my experience, fish
like this that are just lying in the open on a bright
day, not feeding on anything are the toughest. One
strategy that had worked well for me in situations
like this was to cast my fly just to the side and
just below the head of a fish. This way the fish can
see the fly, but the leader doesn't pass over them.
It was worth a try.
This was the most exciting moment I can ever remember
fishing. Right before me was the biggest brown trout
of my life. Even bigger than the one I had just
caught! It was just the trout and I. There wasnt a
ripple on the water or take rings to mask the fly
delivery or any other distractions. Just the fish
sitting there looking out at the world wary of
anything out of the ordinary that would send him into
hasty retreat to the cover of deeper water. It was a
contest between me and the fish to fool it into
thinking that my fly was food. A pure and elementary
challenge.
Normally, I would cast side to side to keep any line
from going over the fish, but here there was no room.
No room to measure the casting distance. The only
thing in my favor was the stream was straight so my
back cast would be easy.
It was time. I gently worked the line out keeping it
well below the fish, made the final presentation and
released the line shooting the last few feet. The
line, leader, and fly rolled out and were on their
way. With the extra long leader, the Royal Wulff
floated down exactly where I intended. If I had
walked up and set it there it couldnt have been more
perfect. The fish didnt budge. Neither did I. Not a
fin twitched or any other outward sign of life showed
itself. The water flowed painfully slowly as the fly
came towards me and away from the fish. Finally, it
was far enough away from the fish so I wouldnt spook
it by casting again.
I had measured the line with the first cast and knew
that the next one would be the right distance. I made
one false cast and shot the line towards the fish
aiming for the same small window just to the right
and below his eye. My years of casting and fishing
this supple glass rod paid off. The rod was just an
extension of my arm, even of my thoughts. The fly
once again settled down exactly where I wanted it. It
was as if the fish were frozen in time. There was not
a movement. Not a hint that it had seen my fly. I
felt really discouraged.
My hopes of catching this fish were almost gone. My
two absolutely perfect presentations had not only
been refused, but actually ignored. The chances of my
making another perfect presentation were not good. I
decided to wait a couple of minutes before trying
once again. In situations like this, it was sometimes
a matter of trying several times to see who would
make the first mistake. If I could help it the
mistake wouldnt be mine. Despite the odds, my next
cast was a repeat of the other two.
The fly settled down and started its journey towards
me. As if coming out of a stupor the big fish eased
over to the fly and gently sipped it in. He started
back to his lie before I struck him. As he felt the
hook his fins shot out in surprise, and, with
explosive force and a flurry of sand he turned and
raced by me towards the pond. As the fish zoomed by
me not more than three feet away, I could feel the
solid throbs of its tail vibrating the water. I
jumped up and stepped onto the bank carefully
watching the line so as to not tangle it. I ran for
the head of the pond so I could maintain as much
control over the fish as I could.
There was some brush and other debris in the water,
but, by staying even with the brown as it moved up
and down the pool and by keeping strong and steady
sideward pressure on the fish, I was able to keep it
clear of trouble. It ran back and forth in the pond,
but it wasnt a dramatic fight: just a strong study
pulling with a few hard, desperate lunges. When it
was tired I eased it over to the bank and slid it
partially into some grass and pounced on it. I
slipped the Royal Wulff from its lip cradling the
huge brown in my hands without removing it from the
water. The color was almost exactly like the first
one as was its overall health and conformation. But
it was at least a pound heavier than the first one! I
looked into its unblinking eye and felt some ancient
connection that has never left me. I let it slip out
of my hands, and it swam to the bottom and sat there
for maybe five minutes before it swam into deeper
water.
What a fabulous day! The two biggest fish of my life
within twenty minutes of each other in the most
unlikely place I could think of.
. . .
As I walked back to the car, I noticed some wild
asparagus plants and made a mental note to go back
next spring to pick some and to see if the fish were
still there. Early June next year found me back at
the pond. Once again there were several large fish in
the pond, but the moss pad was gone, so the first
fish wasnt in the same place. As I carefully walked
the stream above the pond, I saw the larger fish was
in the same spot. I watched him for some time before
walking around him leaving him in peace. The next
year I made another pilgrimage to the pond. There was
my old friend lying in his usual spot. I had observed
this fish that I believe to be the same fish in the
same spot for three years and from my observations it
hadnt changed a bit in size.
Catching these two large browns was one of the most
memorable fishing experiences I ever had. I wanted to
keep and treasure that wonderful moment, so never
again did I try to catch those fish.
Since then, I have pondered many times how old that
fish might have been. The habitat seemed to be very
marginal because the stream bottom was all silt;
there was no vegetation in the stream, and very
little water flow. I believe fish like this are very
old, and, if they are caught and kept it will be many
years--if ever-- before they are replaced.
Although I have told a few people about catching
these two fish, I have returned many times in my mind
and have revisited these two special fish. However,
Ive never told a soul where they were. They deserve
to live in peace and not risk having someone take
them home to brag about. They, or their offspring,
should still be lying there, peacefully waiting for
my Royal Wulff.
fiberglass-rod-history.htm
toms-design-philosophy.htm
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