The descent



Father and son casting hopefully on the river.

  I suppose in the vast order of things one must sometimes descend through hell in order to get to heaven - and then go back again.
I didn't plan it that way, but a few years ago I wrote an article entitled the 'Pools of Heaven' describing the clear brilliant turquoise holding areas of massive bull trout on an incomparably pristine stretch of river that held massive wild westslope cutthroat, a veritable Eden for reclusive fly fishers.

At the time however, I was conducted through the gates of hell and into the promise land by Dante's contemporary Virgil, a local guide who knew every inch of the terrain, every idyllic pool in the steep river canyon and the secret to raising big fish in the hereafter.

But I was no Virgil not even an Odysseus or Orpheus and leading my good friend Colin and his 12-year-old son Aiden into the realm of Hades and back was not a good plan.

Westslope cutthroat caught on a
dry fly.

The descent was precipitous, much of it accomplished on our backsides using trees, willows and the odd thistle as brakes. But going down would prove much easier than the return...

We emerged from the trees a little worse for wear in the early morning but hopeful and excited about the divine pools and fertile runs. It didn't take us long to find the first one.
I landed a nice cutthroat almost immediately but encountered only a few bull trout. I expected stacks of them, perhaps we were too late, too early, unsure.
Regardless, standing on the lip of one pool I watched a 20-inch cutthroat rise easily to the surface and snatch a mayfly. I cast my fly to the same area and sure enough the same monster rose and inhaled my fly, I waited a second, set the hook and immediately broke off.


The burning shins of hell. Part of the joys
of bushwhacking into a canyon.

 The "Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away," not that I'm religious but hooking up with large cutthroat on a 3-weight rod with light tippett may prove more difficult than expected. Indeed, Colin and Aiden were having a tough time raising trout let alone hooking them.
At times when they did get a hit, they would invariably and regrettably lose the fish - not from lack of skill I was told - but because the guy with the net (me) wasn't around to land it for them - pitiful really.

I managed to hook up with a few fish, one really nice cutthroat and a few smaller westslopes. One I brought in had a nice stonefly nymph fly protruding from its lip.
I was not looking forward to the ascent. But it was either that or wade the approximately five kilometres back to camp.

We started the bushwhack up in the early afternoon so as not to be caught in the dark - and as expected, it was long, arduous, hot as hell, frustrating, painful, tedious and a little dangerous, as the steep terrain, almost impenetrable brush and uncertain footing made for a litany of strained remarks with every scar and fall.

But the team made it, much to my astonishment. Colin who only just had a fused ankle operated on a year ago was a trooper, and Aiden at 12, complained not at all or at least considerably less than was his right.

 Unfortunately, we landed no bullies this trip. Aiden was casting a fly like a pro by the end of the trip. He hooked into a 20-inch cutty on one of his final casts, in the miniscule Ram Creek, fought it bravely but lost it as he tried to stop if from burying itself under a sweeper.

I'll probably descend again next year but I may choose a less daunting route or at least it's pretty to think so. Colin says he's in too, with or without me - what he lacks in landing skills, he definitely makes up for in spirit.