out of Hebgen: 851 cfs
at Kirby: 959 cfs
Two days ago I guided the wade stretch and we had one of the best days of dry fly fishing I have seen all season long. Spruce Moths and Spinners in the morning and then there were BWOs and PMDs all afternoon. Each large boulder had 2-5 trout rising around it eating, gulping if you will. Oftentimes, on days like this, I dream of being able to fish myself. I watch trout rise and wish that it was I who was holding the rod, striking the rise and feeling the tug. The tug is the drug, so they say. Most of us do what we do because of our love for the rise. That may sound a little girly, but it is the honest truth.
Yesterday, I remembered why I love to fly fish with dry flies. My roommate, Drew, who is an outiffter as well, and I had the day off. Normally we don’t get to hang out unless we are drinking beer and catching up from the days guide trip at 11 o’clock…pm. We headed down the Madison below Quake after breakfast and coffee….I won’t say where, but those who know me well can probably figure it out.
We walked down stream and found a huge slick out in the middle of the river. For shits and giggles we took turns shooting 50-60 feet of line with a reach cast to see if we could raise a fish. 4 fish, 4 drifts, but nobody was counting. As we worked up stream with a single dry fly it seemed as if there was no place a trout wasn’t going to rise. The big water, the skinny water, above the boulders, below the boulders – they wanted to eat our hoppers, spinners or moths and did with regularity for almost 6 hours. There were a few tough fish that wanted to count legs and see the fly under a scope, but they did finally rise too. We both missed a bunch of nice fish, but also landed more than our share of 16+ inch trout.
By the days end, we were tired and sundrenched and made the long walk back to the car in silence. The only word which was spoken was regarding the cold beer in cooler. The first one didn’t even count.