It's easy to say "no." Just focus on work and responsibilities. But, one "no" leads to another and pretty soon, you find yourself stressed out and frustrated. So, when Rod called and asked me if I wanted to take a quick "scouting" mission to northern Nevada to chase big Rainbows, I had to say "yes."
So, on a random Tuesday morning, we left McCall and headed towards Boise and Anglers Fly Shop on Overland Road. Along the way, we drank coffee and game-planned.
"My brother-in-law, Jim, is going to meet us on the way," said Rod. "He's been on a months-long road trip in his truck camper - travelling from his home in Louisiana to Las Vegas to see the Grateful Dead and fishing all over the west."
I sat back and let that marinate. A months-long road trip. How does that work? It sounded like fun. Rod and I made small talk and sooner than expected found ourselves pulling into the Angler. We walked inside, stocked up on some leaders and fly tying material and got the local fishing report for our trip. The guys in the shop were pumped for us, telling us we'd "timed it perfectly."
That sounded promising. We headed out, met Jim at a gas station along the route and eventually turned off the pavement to find a lakeside campsite. We found one – but not till after Jim buried his Ford 550 – yes 550, like 2.5 tons - in a pool of wet, sticky, deep clay.
Rod continued on to our campsite. Parked. Unhooked his trailer then doubled-back with a tow strap. Looking at the Ford 150 rescue vehicle, the tow strap and the Ford 550 mired almost chasis-deep and it looked like a world-class shit-show, one that didn't seem likely to end on a good note.
After a little discussion, Rod ran the strap from his front hook to Jim's front hook and started to back up. With a jerk, the 550 eased forward. Jim hit the gas, spun the wheels and Rod kept easing back – truck in four low, rear differential locked - the mighty Ford 150 pulled Jim's monster out of the muck and back on the road. I'm not sure who was more surprised, Jim or Rod. But, all's well that ends well.
Settled in camp. We pumped up the float tubes, put on our rain gear and tried to get the fishing off on a good foot. We didn't. As the sun started to settle behind the desert butte to the west, we returned to camp, made dinner and sat around a soggy campfire, hoping for the clouds to clear.
We turned in, soggy and tired, but hopeful for a great tomorrow.
Sometimes a good fishing trip means more than fishing.
The next day dawned clear and beautiful. After a quick powwow on techniques, we hit the water. It didn't take long. Rod hooked up with a beautiful rainbow and quickly got into another one. But then, the bite just stopped. It got so bad, I returned to camp, grabbed a couple Coors Silver Bullets and returned to the water. I found myself drifting with the wind, indicator bobbing along, listening to podcasts and sipping beer. It wasn't the most aggressive fishing I've ever done, but it was relaxing.
Dinnertime found us all in camp, cooking up some elk meat for tacos. Rod started a fire and he and I sat around it as Jim took one last turn on the water. Turns out, he was the smart one. As the last rays of sun left the lake, Jim pulled into camp talking about the three Rainbow's he had hooked.
"Should have brought a net," said Jim. "I couldn't get them into the tube for a picture."
Ah, sure Jim. His story sounded, well fishy, but he seemed sincere, so our hope for the 'morrow blossomed again.
That night, sitting around the fire, the sky suddenly lit up with strange lights – moving weirdly across the sky, appearing, disappearing, and appearing again. It was spooky.
"I think we're in Area 52," joked Jim.
We were all a little confused and tired. So, we headed to bed, hoping for a good morning before we had to leave for home.
Our final day dawned clear and warm. We made a quick breakfast, decided we were going to throw streamers, black leaches to be exact, all morning, since that was what Jim had success with the night before.
Turned out, that was a good idea. Jim quickly hooked and landed two lunkers. I finally got into a fish and Rod had fish tugging but not committing all morning. It was a good day.
We floated back to camp, declaring our scouting mission a success. We packed up, drove back to pavement – making sure to steer clear of mud holes - and headed home.
Passing the rancher sign warning drivers to slow down because they were on open range, we laughed at his attempt at humour. It read, "Slow down. Black cows matter."
