The INCREDIBLE EMERGER
That spring morning we were first to launch from the 3-Mile Access of the Big Horn River at Ft. Smith, Montana. The time was 6:30 a.m. My daughter Melissa and I pushed our Water Otters pontoon boats hard downstream to beach them below the elbow curve of Crow Beach. (Crow Beach is a big-riffles-then-bend hole.) We got out our nymphing rods to fish the regularly-productive drop-off shelf. Trout in the deep waters below the shelf come into this holding spot all day long. Here they feed on the bugs coming from the wide shoal above. As we loosened our rigs, we noticed the overcast sky, the swishing sound coming from the eddies, the occasional call of a pheasant, Widgeons flying up the river (later down it), paired geese waddling on Pelican Island across the shoal, and black cows munching new green grass on the north shore’s red bank. We were on the south side with the sun coming up on our backs. Lovely April day. It was cool but we were not cold.
My first cast was close to the shoreline, in but a foot of water, and it got a take and a fish, a healthy Big Horn Brown of 16 inches. He took my top fly, an Orange Scud #14. Melissa came in next and was quickly connected to a fat Rainbow liking her Rootbeer Midge #20. We worked our way out a little deeper in the water and soon doubled on Rootbeers. This was great fishing.
Upstream a big, black Angus steer came to the edge of the water and let out a loud bawl. The cows on the bank across the way responded plaintively. Our animal then entered the water on the shoal to cross over, but after a dozen steps into the strong current retreated to the bank, clearly frustrated. He looked at us, we at him.
“Sorry, Bossy,” Melissa empathized.
Then I looked in the river section below the steer, along the shoreline and…voila!...there was a string pod of trout rising, taking flies on the surface, probably midges. They were feeding vigorously. I told Melissa excitedly, “It has been twenty years on this river since I’ve seen such a feeding line, clear back to 1985 or so when Ron Granneman found such a string for Bruce and me in the old Snaghole.” There they were: as close in as three feet from the shore, out to about fifteen feet, and strung out upstream for forty feet. Beautiful! Heads were coming up here, there, in tandem, two feet away from one another, in swirls, splashing, moving to take bugs, strong action, maybe 40-50 fish.
With Melissa still nymphing in the deeper water, I ran back to the boats and grabbed her already set-up dry rod, it loaded with a Hi-Vis top fly Baetis #18 and a Griffith’s Gnat #22 on the point. Two casts to the back of the pod, and I had a fine 15” Brown who peeled off downstream. After I landed and released it, I handed the rod to Melissa and went back to the boats to string my own dry rig. As I hustled back, I heard her give a squeal and turned to see “Fish On!” She netted and released a 19”er--and took still another--as I loaded up my dry fly rod with a white-post parachute Blue Winged Olive #16 and a poly-wing Brown Midge Cluster #20. Then I was back in the game.
We had enough casting space that we could both stand in the river and fish upstream side-by-side…and, side-by-side, we doubled, the fish taking either the top or the bottom fly indiscriminately. It seemed not to matter, though no Baetis were on the water yet. O my, what father-daughter delight! Fish up to 20 inches on dry flies. It doesn’t get any better.
Then trouble. The big steer, who earlier had tried to cross, headed our way. I was landing a fish downstream, so Melissa went up the bank to shoo him off. She succeeded and reported him to be “Cow #520” by his branded butt number and ear tag. Happily, the fish did not spook.
By now we had worked our way about one-third the way up the pod--but no more than that. Almost as soon as we had landed a fish downstream and got our flies reinvigorated with Frog’s Fanny, the fish returned lower in the stream line. So it was like starting all over. Perfect. We doubled again.
I thought, “This is going to take a wonderful while.”
Wrong.
Steer #520 reappeared. He decided again to try and cross, this time closer to our pod. He went out deeper into the current, well up to his belly. He hesitated, looked back, looked across, bawled, seemed to shake his head, the yellow ear tag flapping. Another step or two, and I fully expected him to be launched in the current, swept off his feet and swimming downstream. He was steady, though, and turned to come back. He came with the current, down river, right into and through our rising fish! Eight hundred pounds of black blubber lumbering into and through our pod.
Melissa exclaimed, “It’s an emerger!”
“A FatNelson!” I cried.
We could not help but laugh…and laugh. Too funny. That wet, giant, dark Wooly Booger tromping through the school, throwing off water as he moved landward. Would that we had the camera! What a priceless picture we could have taken. Still, Black Beauty #520 has been indelibly imprinted on the memory.
Sad to say, our fish refused this emerger and spooked to deeper water.
That spring morning we were first to launch from the 3-Mile Access of the Big Horn River at Ft. Smith, Montana. The time was 6:30 a.m. My daughter Melissa and I pushed our Water Otters pontoon boats hard downstream to beach them below the elbow curve of Crow Beach. (Crow Beach is a big-riffles-then-bend hole.) We got out our nymphing rods to fish the regularly-productive drop-off shelf. Trout in the deep waters below the shelf come into this holding spot all day long. Here they feed on the bugs coming from the wide shoal above. As we loosened our rigs, we noticed the overcast sky, the swishing sound coming from the eddies, the occasional call of a pheasant, Widgeons flying up the river (later down it), paired geese waddling on Pelican Island across the shoal, and black cows munching new green grass on the north shore’s red bank. We were on the south side with the sun coming up on our backs. Lovely April day. It was cool but we were not cold.
My first cast was close to the shoreline, in but a foot of water, and it got a take and a fish, a healthy Big Horn Brown of 16 inches. He took my top fly, an Orange Scud #14. Melissa came in next and was quickly connected to a fat Rainbow liking her Rootbeer Midge #20. We worked our way out a little deeper in the water and soon doubled on Rootbeers. This was great fishing.
Upstream a big, black Angus steer came to the edge of the water and let out a loud bawl. The cows on the bank across the way responded plaintively. Our animal then entered the water on the shoal to cross over, but after a dozen steps into the strong current retreated to the bank, clearly frustrated. He looked at us, we at him.
“Sorry, Bossy,” Melissa empathized.
Then I looked in the river section below the steer, along the shoreline and…voila!...there was a string pod of trout rising, taking flies on the surface, probably midges. They were feeding vigorously. I told Melissa excitedly, “It has been twenty years on this river since I’ve seen such a feeding line, clear back to 1985 or so when Ron Granneman found such a string for Bruce and me in the old Snaghole.” There they were: as close in as three feet from the shore, out to about fifteen feet, and strung out upstream for forty feet. Beautiful! Heads were coming up here, there, in tandem, two feet away from one another, in swirls, splashing, moving to take bugs, strong action, maybe 40-50 fish.
With Melissa still nymphing in the deeper water, I ran back to the boats and grabbed her already set-up dry rod, it loaded with a Hi-Vis top fly Baetis #18 and a Griffith’s Gnat #22 on the point. Two casts to the back of the pod, and I had a fine 15” Brown who peeled off downstream. After I landed and released it, I handed the rod to Melissa and went back to the boats to string my own dry rig. As I hustled back, I heard her give a squeal and turned to see “Fish On!” She netted and released a 19”er--and took still another--as I loaded up my dry fly rod with a white-post parachute Blue Winged Olive #16 and a poly-wing Brown Midge Cluster #20. Then I was back in the game.
We had enough casting space that we could both stand in the river and fish upstream side-by-side…and, side-by-side, we doubled, the fish taking either the top or the bottom fly indiscriminately. It seemed not to matter, though no Baetis were on the water yet. O my, what father-daughter delight! Fish up to 20 inches on dry flies. It doesn’t get any better.
Then trouble. The big steer, who earlier had tried to cross, headed our way. I was landing a fish downstream, so Melissa went up the bank to shoo him off. She succeeded and reported him to be “Cow #520” by his branded butt number and ear tag. Happily, the fish did not spook.
By now we had worked our way about one-third the way up the pod--but no more than that. Almost as soon as we had landed a fish downstream and got our flies reinvigorated with Frog’s Fanny, the fish returned lower in the stream line. So it was like starting all over. Perfect. We doubled again.
I thought, “This is going to take a wonderful while.”
Wrong.
Steer #520 reappeared. He decided again to try and cross, this time closer to our pod. He went out deeper into the current, well up to his belly. He hesitated, looked back, looked across, bawled, seemed to shake his head, the yellow ear tag flapping. Another step or two, and I fully expected him to be launched in the current, swept off his feet and swimming downstream. He was steady, though, and turned to come back. He came with the current, down river, right into and through our rising fish! Eight hundred pounds of black blubber lumbering into and through our pod.
Melissa exclaimed, “It’s an emerger!”
“A FatNelson!” I cried.
We could not help but laugh…and laugh. Too funny. That wet, giant, dark Wooly Booger tromping through the school, throwing off water as he moved landward. Would that we had the camera! What a priceless picture we could have taken. Still, Black Beauty #520 has been indelibly imprinted on the memory.
Sad to say, our fish refused this emerger and spooked to deeper water.