When you bushwhack your way up a steep-sided stream canyon, you don’t expect to uncover the small stream equivalent of the Henry’s Fork (and if I did, I wouldn’t mention it here). The real point of the exercise is the discovery; it’s a peek into a trout-stream-cut canyon that — until this moment — might as well have been on the dark side of the moon.

Small stream rainbow trout

Not big, but definitely unfished for.

Humanity’s pretty good at filling in the blank spaces (though we’re not all that good at doing so accurately), and I’ve heard people suggest the world was explored out decades ago (and that was before Google Earth).

From a great distance, it might seem that way, but on a personal level — and given a less-than-geologic time frame — big chunks of the world are still practically new.

wildflowers

It's not always about the trout

Last Sunday, when I finally fought my way past the cliffs and scree slopes and willow thickets that defined the upper bounds of my fishing experience on a little-fished small stream, I thought I’d find a smaller version of the parts I knew; smaller stream, smaller pools, smaller fish, smaller human footprint…

I was wrong about the fish, though I was right about the lack of humanity; outside of the jet contrails in the sky, I didn’t see any sign of a person during the four hours I fished my way upstream.

No boot prints. No garbage. No fire rings. No anything.

And really, there’s little reason I would.

The trout I caught were beautiful and wild and perhaps even pure-strain rainbows untouched by hatchery genes, but the one or two small trout I’d get at each plunge pool don’t justify the grind.

Small stream rainbow trout

First time fooled by a fly?

Unless you award extra credit for trout that may not have seen a fly their entire lives.

Turns out I do.

The Discovery

Past the end of the known universe, the narrow gorge widened and the water flowed over a series of surprising bedrock benches, and the deeper pools glowed that emerald green that makes it difficult to look away.

The trout were pretty and unmarked and skittish as hell, so dicey stalking or casting left you fishless.

The Arizona mini-hopper

The Arizona mini-hopper

I kept waiting for the good-looking stuff to peter out, and it simply didn’t.

The bigger trout (one from each pool) were in the 6″-8″ range (one may have gone 10″), and they persisted right up until I reached a five-foot high waterfall.

I couldn’t see what was above the falls, remembered I was a half hour past my turnaround time, and that after an hour’s hike and four hours of fishing — most of it spent scrambling over refrigerator-sized rocks, up cliffs and through damned-near-impenetrable thickets — I was bushed.

When it comes to solo hikes through rough terrain, I’ve learned you don’t wear yourself out to the point your quads start making bad decisions for your head.

Besides, I couldn’t see around the falls, so I have no idea what lies there.

Small stream falls

The end of the trip. (This trip)

Offering me the perfect excuse to go back.

See you someplace unusual, Tom Chandler.

Posted in Small Stream and tagged .