Thursday dawned and the depressing thought occurred to me that the
West Big Rock had given up the same number of trout to me as the
fingers on my left hand. And the total number of inches of any one of
those West Boulder trout failed to accede the total number of fingers
on both hands.

I ate a quick breakfast of steak and potatoes and headed upstream from
the cabin. Forest Service land runs for approximately half a mile
along the river near the cabin. It is bracketed by private property on
both ends, the West Big Rock River Association on the downstream,
northern end and the land of the Burnt Leather Ranch upstream. Montana
access law gives the public use of the river up to the average high
water mark. By August the river is bordered by gravel and rock beaches
for much of its length, so, in theory, even the most private of
riverfronts can be accessed by the Great Unwashed.

There was a wide run above the cabin, mostly ankle to calf deep. Mid
run was a small pine tree that died and was down. Its roots were still
on the bank with its top stuck out into the stream. As I approached it
a saw a small rise. The Bivisible I had on disappeared in a swirl and
soon a small brown was having its picture taken. At the head of the
run a small set of rapids curved beneath a high gravel bank. Another
rise and another small brown was caught and freed. Rounding the bend I
saw the river continue upward through a long set of shallow rapids. I
fished my way up it, casting to likely spots. Other than putting down
another bankside riser mid run I didn't see evidence of another fish.
I was skunked. At the top of the run was a private bridge. By the time
I made it to the pool below the bridge there were small grayish yellow
mayflies coming off. There was also a feeding fish in the bridge's
shadow.

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopics/IMG_0011a.jpg
Small West Big Rock Brown

I had gone through several fly changes and had just tied on a #16
standard hackle Adams. Like most of my friends I've gravitated to
Parachute Adamses over the years but I still have a few of the
traditional ties in my boxes. My first few casts under the bridge went
unmarked. Getting a good drift was hard in the swirl of currents that
flowed between the buttresses. Finally my gray fly was engulfed in a
good sized swirl. I tightened and a fish bulldogged upstream. I turned
it and forced it down through the end of the pool to my feet. A quick
swipe and a 13 inch cutthroat lay enmeshed at my feet. I was going to
snap a quick pic when I glanced up and saw another rise under the
bridge. I quickly let the cutt go, unphotoed, and stroked another cast
under the bridge. The fly was hit by the trout going away, self
hooking, pulling line from the reel. In an instant it reached the
opposite bridge piling and jumped completely clear of the water. It
ran back to the other side of the bridge pool and jumped again. And
suddenly I was overcome with the absolute need to land this fish.

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopics/IMG_0012a.jpg
Bridge

I can get pretty blase about landing the fish I hook. If one shakes
the hook or gets tangled in weeds and escapes I am usually the height
of philosophical detachment. But not this time. As the fish ran back
and forth before me and then past me, down toward the faster water
below, I felt my chest tighten in the anxiety of possibly losing this
trout. But I didn't. After a few more runs I netted him and got a
chance to look him over. He lay in the green mesh of my net, orange
spots splattered across his flanks, growing larger near the tail.
Trying to estimate his size afterwords from the width of my palm (3
3/4") I think he went an honest 14 inches probably more like 15. Not
a huge brown by Montana standards I suppose. But mighty big by G.
Cleveland's standards, there in the fourth day of the stay on the West
Big Rock.

http://fishskicanoe.tripod.com/geopics/IMG_0017a.jpg
Deeply Desired Brown

I snapped a handful of pictures, then let him go. I fished my way
back to the cabin, swinging soft hackles through the green water with
nary a nudge. Again I was struck at what a strange piece of water this
was. I assumed the fish were there. But why wouldn't they take on
standard techniques that worked fine in Wisconsin and worked fine in
the next drainage over on the main stem of the river?

After lunch we discovered that the supply of coffee was running
dangerously low. For most this would be an inconvenience but the the
Cleveland adults this was catastrophic. A run down to Big Timber was
arranged. Jacci would go with Mason in search of coffee and a cell
phone signal while I would be dropped off at the fishermen's access
just up from McLeod.

The long driveway into the access point was bordered by brown grass.
But the banks of the river below were green with willow and
cottonwood. After Jacci dropped me off with a promise to return in two
hours I surveyed the scene. Just down the slope the river flowed
through a rapids punctuated with large, car sized boulders. Across the
flow from me was a guy just clambering up the bank. I assumed he was
the owner of the car with the Washington state plates parked a few
feet away. So I hiked up the driveway toward the highway and then cut
across a field and small marsh in order to hit the river far above
him.

The Big Rock here was big. Not Yellowstone big but at least 3 times
the flow that VT and I had fished on the day before. Unfortunately it
was also warm. I had dropped my thermometer a few days before while
rock hopping the West Big Rock. Its digital guts had disappeared deep
into the crevices of the bankside boulders. But I estimated the water
here had to be approaching 70 degrees. Conveniently shunting my ethics
aside (after all browns and bows are more heat tolerant, aren't they)
I decided to fish it anyway. I cast and then cast some more. I fished
pockets, inky black holes, deep water runs flowing under grassy banks,
shallow, riffly runs and still pools. I changed flies. Madam Xs gave
way to Prince nymphs to scuds to hoppers to Elk Hair Caddis and back
to Madam Xs. I failed to move a single fish. I failed to see a single
fish.

When my two hours were up I waded downstream toward the parking lot.
The Washingtonian was climbing the bank to his car. Out of the corner
of my eye, just downstream from one of the bigger boulders I thought I
saw a rise. I cast the caddis I had tied on my leader and then skated
it upstream. The small rainbow, fat and cool, took it and then shot
off when I released it from its metal bond. I heard a horn beep and
turned to see Jacci on the bank above me. She patiently watched as I
tried to duplicate my meager feat for her appreciation. No dice.
Reeling up, I crab walked my way across the rapids with aid from my
aluminum wading staff. There wasn't much to say. She had coffee from
the IGA in a brown bag and had contacted our 20 year old son Sam who
was working up in Ely for the summer. We drove back up the gravel to
the cabin.

There was still light in the sky when we got in past the cabin's
locked gate. I told Jacci that I wanted to try a few casts and went
down through the lower campground. I still had my waders on but only
took a small box of flies and my forceps tucked into and clamped on my
nylon fishing shirt. I entered the water and immediately saw a tiny
riseform, again next to a fallen tree trunk. I still had the caddis on
my line and cast up toward the fish. A slash and I had a nice brown
dancing at the end of my line. It ran about 13 inches or so. A little
farther upstream I saw another rise alongside another tree. Wading
quietly up I cast the caddis toward the fish. And wrapped the leader
around one of the stubs sticking out from the trunk. I few attempts to
pull it free showed that it was an exercise in futility to try and
free it.

Meanwhile the fish kept rising. I popped the leader and tried to tie
a Parachute on in the fast fading light but the hackling job I had
done with it blocked the flexible 5x tippet from going through the
hook eye. Looking in the box I grabbed a white winged something that
had a well exposed eye. Holding it up against the fading twilit sky I
threaded it on, tied it off, doped it up and cast it out. The first
float went past the trunk untouched. The second float was past the
point where the fish had risen before but before I could recast the
fly disappeared in a bluegill like smack. Again the fish hooked
itself, making an immediate run after it took the fly. It thrashed and
then jumped in the near darkness, then tried to run under the trunk
that had been its shelter. I snubbed it and soon had it to hand. It
draped over my hand, slab-like, at least as big as the brown of that
morning. I worked the fly free (afterwords finding out that I had
committed the no-no of applying floatant to a CDC bodied caddis) and
the fish swam off.

By now the short dusk had ended and it was seriously dark. I splashed
my way upstream, again sans bear spray. So instead I sang little
snatches of bear repellent songs with lyrics the like of "Oh Mr. Bear,
here I am, don't eat me." They seemed to work.

At the cabin, the lights were gleaming through the windows. Jacci was
sitting on the porch and the dogs greeted me enthusiastically. A long
day over and only one more full day at the cabin on the West Big Rock.