the drift

The Drift: November 2002

By Scott Richmond

Compleat-ness on the Henry's Fork.

he ducks set me to thinking. I was on my stomach beside the Henry's Fork, having crawled there through tall grass and desiccated cow manure, when I heard the whistling, whirring sound of a large flock of ducks moving from left to right. They cut loose as they passed me, and duck crap raised geysers in the water like machine-gun fire. No small amount landed on the back of my legs.

With excrement above and below me, I wondered: why would anyone do this?

The short answer was simple: because it's the Henry's Fork. The real answer is more complicated, because the real question is: why does it matter that it's the Henry's Fork?

Bank-to-Bank Blue-wings

The seven-mile Ranch section of the Henry's Fork is only two-to-three feet deep, sometimes shallower, and so clear it makes gin look murky. The river is 100 yards wide, and on this day it was bank-to-bank with size 22 blue-winged olives.

A few trout pods dimpled the surface. The rises were leisurely; with millions of insects on the water, the trout could take their sweet time. With time, a superabundant hatch, and clear water on their side, they could scrutinize every detail of your fly, including your 7X leader, and compare it to the real thing. Further, hopeful anglers had pounded on them since June (it was now mid-October) and they were spooky as hell.

The latter fact you'd have discovered if you'd walked up the far bank, as I did. You couldn't get within 100 feet of a bank feeder before it saw you coming and shot for midriver like a scalded dog.

So I hung back until I spotted a single fish in the distance and crawled to it, first on hands-and-knees, then commando-style on my stomach. I was within 10 feet of this fish when the ducks strafed me.

I wondered if it was worth it, decided Yes, because it's the Henry's Fork, then wondered why that made a difference. Pondering that question lead to Isaac Walton, Martin James, and Rene Harrop. And to being compleat.

Walton and James

In 1653, when Isaac Walton used the word in a book title, "compleat" meant to be skilled in all aspects of something. A dabbler or even a specialist wasn't a "Compleat Angler." That honor belonged only to those whose skills were so broad and deep so that they covered all phases of the sport.

My English friend Martin James is the most compleat angler I know. He uses every legal and moral method of angling to pursue everything that swims. From catching chub on bread crust to bonefish on flies, he can do it all with consummate skill.

Martin once told me of observing a big chub on an English river, a record-sized fish of more than six pounds. He crawled up the riverbank until he could watch it closely. He wanted to know everything about it--where were its favorite holding spots, how did it feed, what it was feeding on, how did natural food tumble in the current, and what was the best drift to reach that fish.

Martin watched that fish for two hours before taking a cast. He made only one cast, and the fish was hooked. And soon broke him off on an underwater tree root.

Martin would not have felt "compleat" unless he'd used every skill he possessed, from observation to casting. And that's why anglers come to the Henry's Fork. They don't feel they're compleat until they've been tested by the river and hooked a fish in seemingly impossible conditions. Meeting the challenge of difficult situations makes us compleat anglers.

Watch a Lot, Cast a Little

Before tying on a fly, I watched my trout for 45 minutes. I wanted to know whether it was taking duns or emergers (it looked like emergers). Was it a rainbow or a brown (rainbow). How big was it (I'd like to say "trophy-sized", but it was a typical 13-15 inch fish). Was it a male or female (probably male). How often did it rise (every three to five seconds). How did it act when it fed (move a few inches to one side or another, a slow sip with only the nose poking through the surface, then a languid return to its preferred lie). Would it spook when bombarded with duck crap (it stopped rising for ten seconds then resumed feeding).

I'd picked up some flies at Jon Stielhl's Trouthunter fly shop in Last Chance. The shop is the headquarters for the House of Harrop, and I had four size 22 CDC emergers of Harrop's design. I tied one on, crawled backwards and rolled quietly into the river about 20 feet behind the trout and cast from my knees.

After a few false starts, the fly drifted over the trout. He rose. I couldn't tell if it was to my fly, there were so many bugs on the water. But after the rise the trout moved in a way I hadn't seen in my 45-minute vigil--quickly, with agitation. So I tightened. And I had him.

The Real Heroes

The real heroes of the spring creeks are not the anglers, compleat or otherwise. It's the tyers. We'd all be dog meat without the Rene Harrops, Mike Lawsons, Craig Mathews, and their ilk. They tinker with patterns until they've designed a fly that not only looks like the natural, but is actually more attractive to a trout than the real bug.

Why would a trout rise up and prefer my fly to the dozens of others that surrounded it at that moment? Because people like Harrop don't feel compleat until they've designed a fly that will do that for you. And people like John Stiehl don't feel compleat until they can quickly sort through hundreds of fly bins and tell you which two patterns you should have on that day.

Dreams of Fish

I moved on and hooked two more bank feeders before running out of the right fly pattern. The hatch was winding down anyway. It was getting cold and I was hungry. So I wrapped it up and headed for the truck.

That night I dreamt of steelhead in the Deschutes, not trout in the Henry's Fork; all my fish dreams involve steelhead. In my dream, the fish were thick in the river and flashed with silver brilliance as I skillfully pursued them. But I didn't wake up feeling compleat. You only get that feeling on real rivers and with real fish.

Scott Richmond is Westfly's creator and Executive Director. He is the author of eight books on Oregon fly fishing, including Fishing Oregon's Deschutes River (second edition).

Uploaded 11/20/2002.

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The Railroad Ranch section of the Henry's Fork: 100 yards wide and covered with size 22 insects.

Decisions, decision, decisions.