Fishermen Tell No Lies

It's true. We fishermen tell no lies. Of course, we skirt the truth quite a bit, too, so there must be a big, gray, middle area somewhere in our lexicon and way of thinking.

That being said, before car troubles spooked this whole trip like a poorly presented cast spooks a wary trout, I had me some major plans to fish the West. The Gunnison River. The Flathead. The Clark Fork. The Yellowstone. The Madison. Well, the car started acting up before we reached the Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Park, so a drive down to the river became a moot point. I fished the North Fork of the Flathead with Paul a couple times, but didn't see the Middle Fork or South Fork except from a rental car, really. And the other rivers? It's hard to fish when your mind is on figuring out how to get home.

Primarily, I drowned some flies on the North Fork of the Flathead and out on Spoon Lake, behind the cabin we stayed in with Paul and Melissa and Zadie. And I'm happy that I had some luck.

I caught a total of about eight fish, and each one was a Westslope Cutthroat Trout. The beautiful illustration above by Joseph R. Tomelleri shows one of these fish in its spawning colors. The ones I caught were not nearly so vibrant, but each bore the telltale red slash under its gills, as well as other signs it was a Westslope Cutthroat. And each one made me happy beyond belief. And each one was released back into the wild, alive, and treated as gently as possible.

I caught six out on the river (four in one brief span), and two on the lake (these were the largest, the last one caught on our last night at the cabin was about 14 inches). And not once did I have my camera with me.

But this is all truth. No lies. If I were going to lie about it, I'd tell you I caught 14 each day, some weighing in at four pounds. And I did it with perfectly executed 70 yard casts against the wind. I'd tell you my hand-tied flies fooled even the most finicky of old cutts, and that several other fly fishermen along the river asked me for guidance.

Truth is, I caught just a few. They were not large. My 40 yard casts were sloppy. The wind knocked my flies all over the river. I bought crappy flies from the local fly shop, all of which unraveled after some use. And the only fly fisherman on the river asking my advice was Paul, who listened to my b*llsh*t as if it were gospel. Thanks, Paul.

But more than fishing all those rivers out West, my primary fishing goal on this trip was to catch a Westslope Cutt. I achieved that goal. And I have my good friend Paul as a witness to that.