By the next afternoon I was fishing, the Tongue River near Sheridan, Wyoming. It took some doing, though- I had stopped at a shop in town to buy some leaders and inquire into fishing the North Fork of the same river. The kindly older woman at the counter gave me what seemed like decent directions, and I was on my way.
Driving north from Sheridan, there were grasshoppers everywhere. Dozens of the things would smash against the window and get caught in the winshield wipers, on the grill of the car, on the side mirrors, filling my head with visions of big innocent cutthroats smashing big dries. But I never made it to the North Fork- after two hours searching for the turnoff on a being-reconstructed Highway 14, I bagged it and instead went to fish the mainstem.
It was a pretty stream, in the canyon on the Tongue River, not terribly big, and very clear.
I was frustrated by not getting where I wanted to be, and I was jonesing for a fish. Any fish. The first cast a fish came up and smashed my Trude. Not a huge fish, maybe ten inches. But a fish. And I missed it. For whatever reason, that really got to me, and I had to sit down on a big granite boulder and compose myself. It’s easy to get to that point- so frustrated with yourself and your performance that you can no longer concentrate, which diminishes your fishing, which keeps you frustrated- really, it’s a negative feedback loop, and I was deep in the throes of one.
It subsided. I just thought to myself “You know, it’s just fishing, there’s no sense in getting worked up about it. Learn from your mistakes, figure out what you’re doing wrong, stay calm, and learn from that.” And, for the most part, it worked.
It didn’t help me catch any more fish, though. I tried a slew of searching patterns- Trudes, Humpies, Parachute and Hairwing Adams, Wulffs; I prospected with nymphs- Pheasant Tail and Hare’s Ear, Copper Johns and Princes. I even tried a San Juan Worm, with no luck. I drove farther upstream, figuring the fish there were less pressured, and therefore dumber. Right?
No fish there, either. I scoped out a sexy looking pool with a couple large boulders at the far end and figured this would be the spot to make or break the day. Parked the car tight against the edge of the road, which dropped about 20 feet down to the stream bank. Rigged up with a Parachute Adams, then reached in from the driver’s seat to the passenger’s to grab a bottle of water.
At first I didn’t figure it out. I set the bottle on top of the car and reached for my flybox when I thought to myself how bizarre it was that I was having to walk to keep up with the car. It then occurred to me the car was moving, and headed towards the edge of the road. I lunged into the car, yanking the emergency brake as hard as I could- I obviously had popped it reaching in for the water bottle. The car stopped just inches from the right tire going over the precipice. I cussed myself over being in such a rush, and I was awfully nervous about leaving it there after seeing that happen. But I wanted to fish, so I compromised- I chocked the wheels with rocks I found nearby, and headed down to the stream.
I still caught nothing, and was bummed about it. So I took off back towards Sheridan, wanting to explore the town, get a shower, a bite to eat, and something to drink.
I like Sheridan. I liked most every town I stopped in out west, even the ones
that were half-abandoned or more and looked like something off a set for The Hills Have Eyes. Some of them are a little fuzzy, and some of them are more or less interchangeable with any other small western downtown, but I liked Sheridan.
My first stop was at the Mint Bar, simply because I liked the huge neon sign of a cowboy bucking a bronc on the front façade. Call me a tourist. I only stayed for a beer though, it was six or so in the evening and I felt like I was intruding on the locals. I ate dinner at some place off the strip, it seemed a healthy mix of tourists, bikers, and college kids, and they had decent food and a pretty good selection of brew. I actually can’t remember what I ate, just the pint of Black Butte Porter I had to go with it.
I wandered around downtown for a bit until it got dark, taking pictures, visiting fly shops and otherwise being a gomer before setting out on my quest for a hotel room. My first inclination was to head back up towards the Tongue, where I’d seen a couple motels in Ranchester and I’d be closer to the next day’s fishing. I wound up there and found one next door to a bar, which also had a stage and live music in the parking lot. Perfect! I went in, and the clerk at the counter was an absolutely adorable brunette. Even better! Alas, no rooms. No rooms in Ranchester altogether, or the next town upstream. Heading back to Sheridan I crashed in some dive, running to the liquor store and getting a six pack of the town’s finest. A decent way to end a less than stellar day.
Driving north from Sheridan, there were grasshoppers everywhere. Dozens of the things would smash against the window and get caught in the winshield wipers, on the grill of the car, on the side mirrors, filling my head with visions of big innocent cutthroats smashing big dries. But I never made it to the North Fork- after two hours searching for the turnoff on a being-reconstructed Highway 14, I bagged it and instead went to fish the mainstem.
It was a pretty stream, in the canyon on the Tongue River, not terribly big, and very clear.
I was frustrated by not getting where I wanted to be, and I was jonesing for a fish. Any fish. The first cast a fish came up and smashed my Trude. Not a huge fish, maybe ten inches. But a fish. And I missed it. For whatever reason, that really got to me, and I had to sit down on a big granite boulder and compose myself. It’s easy to get to that point- so frustrated with yourself and your performance that you can no longer concentrate, which diminishes your fishing, which keeps you frustrated- really, it’s a negative feedback loop, and I was deep in the throes of one.
It subsided. I just thought to myself “You know, it’s just fishing, there’s no sense in getting worked up about it. Learn from your mistakes, figure out what you’re doing wrong, stay calm, and learn from that.” And, for the most part, it worked.It didn’t help me catch any more fish, though. I tried a slew of searching patterns- Trudes, Humpies, Parachute and Hairwing Adams, Wulffs; I prospected with nymphs- Pheasant Tail and Hare’s Ear, Copper Johns and Princes. I even tried a San Juan Worm, with no luck. I drove farther upstream, figuring the fish there were less pressured, and therefore dumber. Right?
No fish there, either. I scoped out a sexy looking pool with a couple large boulders at the far end and figured this would be the spot to make or break the day. Parked the car tight against the edge of the road, which dropped about 20 feet down to the stream bank. Rigged up with a Parachute Adams, then reached in from the driver’s seat to the passenger’s to grab a bottle of water.At first I didn’t figure it out. I set the bottle on top of the car and reached for my flybox when I thought to myself how bizarre it was that I was having to walk to keep up with the car. It then occurred to me the car was moving, and headed towards the edge of the road. I lunged into the car, yanking the emergency brake as hard as I could- I obviously had popped it reaching in for the water bottle. The car stopped just inches from the right tire going over the precipice. I cussed myself over being in such a rush, and I was awfully nervous about leaving it there after seeing that happen. But I wanted to fish, so I compromised- I chocked the wheels with rocks I found nearby, and headed down to the stream.
I still caught nothing, and was bummed about it. So I took off back towards Sheridan, wanting to explore the town, get a shower, a bite to eat, and something to drink.
I like Sheridan. I liked most every town I stopped in out west, even the ones
that were half-abandoned or more and looked like something off a set for The Hills Have Eyes. Some of them are a little fuzzy, and some of them are more or less interchangeable with any other small western downtown, but I liked Sheridan.My first stop was at the Mint Bar, simply because I liked the huge neon sign of a cowboy bucking a bronc on the front façade. Call me a tourist. I only stayed for a beer though, it was six or so in the evening and I felt like I was intruding on the locals. I ate dinner at some place off the strip, it seemed a healthy mix of tourists, bikers, and college kids, and they had decent food and a pretty good selection of brew. I actually can’t remember what I ate, just the pint of Black Butte Porter I had to go with it.
I wandered around downtown for a bit until it got dark, taking pictures, visiting fly shops and otherwise being a gomer before setting out on my quest for a hotel room. My first inclination was to head back up towards the Tongue, where I’d seen a couple motels in Ranchester and I’d be closer to the next day’s fishing. I wound up there and found one next door to a bar, which also had a stage and live music in the parking lot. Perfect! I went in, and the clerk at the counter was an absolutely adorable brunette. Even better! Alas, no rooms. No rooms in Ranchester altogether, or the next town upstream. Heading back to Sheridan I crashed in some dive, running to the liquor store and getting a six pack of the town’s finest. A decent way to end a less than stellar day.
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