A River Never Sleeps

Story and Photography by Nick Didlick

It had been a long hot summer of all work and no play, and play for me means fly fishing. So when I got an invitation to fish a secret location, after a long work-related road trip, I jumped at the chance.

"If you drop by here on your way home we can fish a little place I know you won't believe," said a long-time friend, Mike, when he heard I would be passing through town.

"I can't tell you where it is or its name, you never know who is listening in here, but I can tell you the fish are big and they take tiny little dry flies,” he said.

"It sounds like the kind of fishing that you would leave your spouse for," I said.

"Well I am not sure about that,” he replied, “and I have already said too much - so just show up and you can decide for yourself".

We made a date, which I hoped we could both keep, and I began counting the days, hours and minutes until we would meet at a local Starbucks near Mike's place and start the adventure. I had to smile to myself as I was caught hook, line and sinker by Mike's proposal.

I arrived early at the parking lot on the appointed date, and was cleaning my dry line and tying on a new leader when Mike pulled in.

"Hey I was going to do the same thing," he said. Busy work schedules had left both of us preparing on the run. We grabbed some coffees and as we finished preparing our rods, Mike filled me in on the details of the trip. He told me the name of the river would have to remain a secret, we would have to drive most of the morning to get to the river - and we would be fishing for West Slope Cutthroat trout which would top 20 inches!!

He went on to say we would would have to walk upstream for 4 or 5 miles while fishing and that we would have to bushwhack our way up to a logging road when finished so we could get back to our cars before dark. It was going to be a long trip, and we would carry flashlights just in case we had to find our way out under cover of darkness. It seemed like the perfect adventure after a long dry summer of no fishing and before I knew it we were on the road. Mike was in the lead and I followed his ageing station wagon in my 4 X 4, because after the trip I would be heading home to Vancouver.

Sometime during the cross country drive we had to stop for gas and check in at a local fly shop for the local conditions. Mike cautioned me when I stepped out of the truck not to mention the name of our destination and we were in and out of the shop within 5 minutes. I felt a little sheepish, like a little boy sneaking away from his parents for an adventure as I came out of the tiny shop carrying a little brown bag containing a couple dozen Lime Trudes and Green Drakes in sizes I could barely see.

As we pulled out of the parking lot and back on the highway I caught myself looking over my shoulder making sure we were not being followed. Mike's determination for keeping this place secret had taken hold and I hadn't even seen it yet!

We were off on the last leg of our commute to the Secret Stream and I found myself dreaming of large cutts slurping down the tiny dry flies that lay safely tucked in the brown bag on my passenger seat. I was abruptly woken from my delightful daydream by Mike's brake lights as he made a quick turn off the highway, on to a dirt road which immediately led to a parking lot.

"What's wrong?" I asked, thinking he was having car problems.

"We're here," he replied.

I couldn't believe it. I looked over the dash of my truck and saw a tiny crystal clear water flow that was less than knee deep and maybe 15 feet wide. I was starting to suspect Mike was playing a joke on me.

"I told you, you wouldn't believe it,” he said.

As we got geared up I noted Mike was going to wet wade as I pulled on my gortex waders and before I knew it he was off. Mike in the lead had left me a spot to try which had a knee deep fold near a tree and after a half dozen casts with not a sniff I moved up to join him. He was just releasing a beautifully coloured West Slope Cutthroat, about 10 inches long. Not bad, I thought, not knowing it would turn out to be the smallest fish of the day!

After a few more casts and a walk up stream we came to a run, being careful to stay out of the sight lines of fish. I spotted a cutty, about 18 inches long, sitting in the tail out. It was in crystal water about two feet deep. Mike was right; I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself.

The clear water and Polaroid sunglasses made spotting the fish easy and catching them proved to be almost as easy. Mike was the perfect fishing partner. We would take turns casting to the big cutts, he with a Lime Trude and me with a Green Drake. And it worked out that he would catch one and then I would. The guy with the free hands (not playing a fish) just enjoyed the scenery, and the catching and releasing of fish, while taking pictures.

We fished the run getting 5 cutts between 15 and 18 inches, but we could see a larger one rise occasionally that neither of us could get to rise for our offerings. Finally, I tied on a little Black Nymph and threw it to the top of the pool. It hadn't drifted 5 feet before the line went tight and the fight was on. Immediately Mike and I knew this was a bigger fish and both of us being photographers and fly fishermen we wanted to see it up close, in the view finder. I gingerly played the golden slab, mindful of the 5x tippet between me and Walter (I always give the name Walter to big fish I encounter ever since seeing the movie "On Golden Pond" starring Henry Fonda) and this one, like the one in the movie, wasn't giving up easily.

After a tense battle of wits Walter finally graced Mike's net and measured in at just over 20 inches. He was a deep, stocky fish with golden sides, black spots and deep red slashes under his gill plates. He was a prize, the royal fish of the run and I treated him like that, carefully releasing him back into the icy cold waters of his secret relm.

For the rest of the morning, through the afternoon and into the early evening, we repeated the experience run after run, mile after mile. Each run gave up 3 or 4 fish, a truly amazing experience. No wonder the river is kept a close secret by the few anglers that know about it.

The fish fought hard, and it took experience and patience to release them into the freezing waters unharmed to gather their strength to fight another day.

We had the river all to ourselves until the last pool of the day when we came upon a friend of Mike's, and his teenaged daughter. Like me, they had been sworn to secrecy. They were fishing a difficult pool under a low hanging tree. They had driven up the logging road and bushwhacked their way to the river and had been fishing for less than a hour when we came upon them.

They had the pool and big cutts were feeding on small Green Drakes and the fish teased us by taking the flies off the surface with splashy rises right under the tree. Mike and I chatted with them and watched as they skilfully worked the pool with various offerings to the fish without a take. After a short time they invited us to give it a try.

I had tied a tiny Green Drake on my 5x and was anticipating the invitation.

I carefully waded below the tail out and made a cast to get my bearings. I cast again and the Drake dropped perfectly into a seam in the pool. I was one with the tiny green fly drifting toward me and we all saw the big cutt slowly rise up from the bottom of the pool and sip my fly from the surface.

I waited for what seemed like an hour before lifting my rod and connecting with the fish. I fought hard to keep it in the tail section not wanting to spook the other fish - after all it wasn't my pool.

I released the fish carefully, and gave the pool back to them with some of the small Green Drakes I had used. I watched as Charlene cast to the fish with no luck. She was a skillfull caster but the fish wouldn't take. The bigger cutts were still sipping flies under the overhanging branches of a tree and it was painful for all of us to watch the show they were putting on.

I carefully tied on a #14 Lime Trude, the smallest fly I had left, hoping to be asked to fish the pool again, while we chatted about fly fishing. It wasn't long before they asked me to try again. I was the new kid on the river, and they were generous enought to let me have another go. Besides no one had been able to get a rise from the big cutts under the tree.

Once again I carefully waded in, sizing up the pool with a few short casts. This wouldn't be easy. It was about a 40 foot cast up and under a tree which was hanging two feet above the water. It would have to be a side arm cast that would put my tiny Lime Trude into the tree or into the rising trout.

That was it, tree or trout, fame or death. It was going to be the last cast of the day for Mike and I as it was getting later and we had a long walk ahead of us. As I was preparing for the cast, I was conscious of the three people watching me on the bank. I held my breath and let the little Lime Trude fly, going, going, gone..........

A perfect cast, as luck would have it, and the tiny Lime Trude landed in the water under the tree, about two feet upstream from where the fish were feeding. It was a better than perfect cast which I doubted I could repeat. I was still holding my breath, not wanting to disturb the drift when the large golden fish grabbed the fly from the surface and the fight was on. Now, we were the ones laughing as I carefully played and released the 19-inch fish.

The day was complete and I couldn't imagine a better ending. The sun was getting low and Mike and I still had to bushwhack out to the logging road and walk the 5 miles back to the cars. Mike and I thanked the anglers for letting us cast in their pool, and I gladly dumped the remaining Green Drakes and Lime Trudes from my brown bag into their fly boxes. They had after all stepped aside to let me cap off the day perfectly.

As we walked back to the cars I told Mike he was right: it was fishing that I couldn't have believed. But at least I have the pictures to prove it wasn’t just a dream.

Field Notes:

The location of this little river remains a secret which is safe with me.

The water is glacier cold and the trout can’t withstand the kind of fishing pressure that would result if the name of the stream was widely known.

Secret fly fishing spots like this come around only a few times in one's life. When you encounter a place like this, you want to treasure and protect it.

I have seen some of my favourite "secret spots" for big trout and steelhead in British Columbia get destroyed over the years, as word spread of the good fishing that was available. Some of them have been featured in magazines, in books and on television fishing shows. The crowds followed.

It is important that anglers are generous with their knowledge, so that others can enjoy good fishing in places they might not otherwise discover. But caution is required when a resource is as fragile as this West Slope cutthroat stream.

There just isn't enough enforcement of fishing regulations on the special waters, so it is up to us as visitors to these places to treat them carefully and take responsibility for them and the fish that live in them.

Nine hours of fishing with Mike, and the two friends we encountered on the stream, made this the trip of the year for me. All I can say is thank-you - and I will do my best to keep it the way it is.