Restless Waters: The Ledges of Time

Restless Waters: The Ledges of Time

A hazy, dull sky obscured the horizon as we headed west out of Rocky. The mountains, normally looming, had relocated farther away. They were faint outlines visible through a veil of gauze. The air tasted like ash.

We left the top end of Prairie Creek behind, a mere trickle in late summer. Soon we picked up Elk Creek, snaking its way toward the Clearwater. But while it went down, we went up, heading for Ram Country. Our cheerful morning conversation slowed as we started getting close. I could see the images; feel the water pulling me closer. I could conjure a canyon, confident I could manage it. Not too confident though.

We turned off the road, on to a mere track through the spruce trees. Winding, banging, bouncing, we wondered when it would end. Suddenly the gorge appeared. In silence, we stood at the rim, looking down on the river. The cliffs comprised horizontal bands of loose shale. Many of the plates of rock were tilted toward us. They were even visible, like the layers of a cake, through the lime-tinted liquid. Across the divide, bighorn sheep picked their way along the ledges, seemingly casual about the sheer drop.

The fish was big, no question. It worked a tongue of current, zipping this way and that about a foot below the surface. I crouched on a shelf over a 10 foot drop to deep water. Hooking it was possible. Netting it would be another matter. It had the entire length of the pool to run if it took, and we could not give chase without a climb or a swim.

The hopper drifted and bobbed on the waves. The large trout picked it up almost immediately, sliding over to intercept it. The take was deliberate; my hook-set anything but. The hairy fly tumbled into the slack water immediately below me. The fish ricocheted 40 feet downstream before turning.

From his perch even farther up the cliff than mine, Dave shrugged as if to say “slow down.” I flipped him the line, and he changed flies. As he predicted, the fish came back, slowly but steadily, and resumed shifting in the current. I tried again.

The Lime Sally swung at the wrong moment, the trout turning away. The fly drowned, hanging 3 or 4 inches under the marble surface and three feet toward us in the surf. But the golden-green, ruby-gilled monster charged. I saw its mouth open. “Wait” I thought, remembering the first go-around. I saw the jaws close. “A little longer,” I thought. The mouth opened as I set up. Nothing.

Dave was a little upset. The fish didn’t seem too shook up though, momentarily disappearing beneath the layers of rock. It was one large trout, I could see it clearly in the slack water taking the Lime Sally and then spitting it out. The thought, “Big fish, big fish” matched my heartbeat.

I flipped the rubber-legged beetle into the fast water, and watched the trout slide over, then turn back. Unable to see the black bug for a moment, I stripped to try again. From 20 feet away the trout caught the motion and slashed open the surface. Its mouth, throat, gill-rakers, all came out of the water directly below as if it was yawning at us. The set was vertical, the line snugged up. The bulky Westslope Cutthroat charged down the canyon, taking up the slack and pulling more off the reel. I saw the trout on the other side of the river, just above the drop. Dave was missing.

I started giggling, a wave welling up within me. The fish chose to come back to its lair. We had a chance! Dave, half naked, was ready to jump in and swim around the wall if necessary. But then he had it, panting in the mesh. The giggles turned to laughter echoing off the canyon walls. The bighorns looked puzzled while I danced on the ledges of time.