As advertised, yesterday was the final installment of propping up my lackluster trout fishing summer. The Blackfoot called my name and these days because of inter-tubing stimulus recipients the canyon stretch is just about the only show in town (see local fishing reports). My father drummed up John Howard again to provide boating and rowing services, compliments of the ClackaCraft. I’m happy to report that the Clacka indeed fears no rocks, as we tested every fiberglass seam in the hull.
The day consisted mostly of fluffy terrestrials tempting eager Westslope Cutthroats. Being delegated to the back of the boat for the day I tried to dredge a monster off of the bottom but I was unsuccessful, despite throwing every streamer in my box. We rounded out the day catching a fair number of trout, nothing huge, but enough to make me a happy man. The Blackfoot is a river where you can find peace, which is perhaps why Norman Maclean was so successful in conveying his message. The world is changing, but for an afternoon I felt like I was transported back to my childhood, when life was simple. I returned to work today a rejuvenated man, ready to attack the challenges that lay ahead. Fishing has a way of doing that, and so I have concluded that fishing, at least for me, is the best treatment for when the rest of life might not be going your way.
Big Dog says