It’s a different kind of quiet here in the canyon this early…more than just a lack of sound. I try to talk my way through it.

It’s like a sleepy calm, reminiscent of childhood—those early mornings being roused by my father then carried to the car and tucked in the backseat. Then awakening to the pop and crunch of slow tires on a graveled back road and the sun glinting into the station wagon. It’s nostalgic comfort—a “memory” that might actually be a projection of my current thoughts about past experiences.

That nostalgic comfort is how I feel as I meander up the road flowing next to the river this morning. There is also a leisure in knowing no one else will be on the river at 6 AM on a Friday morning. My usual frenetic rush to get on the water is put aside. I roll my window down and let the cool canyon winds wash the cab with river scents. The rain last night moistened the forest duff which now warms and wafts about. A cloudy sky casts everything in muted grays and greens, flattening the cliffs which usually stand in sharp relief over the river.

The salmonfly hatch here on the Blacksmith is probably over, but I’m hoping to pick up a few stragglers on a salmonfly pattern. I approach my favorite patch of river, at least it used to be until three or four miles of undeveloped river was posted a few years ago by an absentee landowner. I can legally fish it again since last year’s court ruling. I stop the truck.

In this spot, about ten years ago, I filmed salmonflies metamorphosing and mating. Quite a few golden stoneflies, not salmonflies, now clutch stalks of grass and limbs along the banks. They cluster in small bunches, mating. I take one and toss it into the large back eddy where the river zags away from the bank I stand on. It floats, flapping intermittently, four feet…flap, flap…six feet…ten feet…flap…a dozen feet…flap, flap, flap…splash! A 14″ brown comes half out of the water in a wicked strike. I throw more stoneflies onto the water. A couple struggle to a branch in the river and some make it to the shore, but a few meet the same fate as the first. A second fish, a cutthroat, slightly smaller than the brown, joins in the feast.

I hop back in the truck and continue upriver knowing that with the golden stoneflies so active their larger cousins are finished. Still, if I get high enough, there might be some action on that new struggling salmonfly pattern I want to test.

Against a backdrop of stratus clouds, cumulus skitter into view over the canyon’s southern mountains, quickly traverse the canyon, then slip over the northern edge. A few drape themselves from the highest peaks. The threat of rain seems to be with us constantly this spring, moving into what is now typically our summer.

I pass a few spots I’ve liked to fish over the years, having in mind a little reach at the upper end of a buck and rail fence. I near the lower portion of the fence and move up the small rise and curve around the the corner to the left. Is that a car? Another early morning angler? I’ll leave him in peace—the last thing either of us need is to be on top of one another when there is 20 miles of peopleless water.

I continue a bit further upriver and pull into a short pullout, wedged tight between the river and road (thankfully secluded behind a cluster of dogwood and blooming chokecherry). Although small, it is a popular place to camp. The grass is damp. I drop the tailgate and sit, carefully avoiding the sagging middle where it has rusted and split apart.

Chickadees and American goldfinch flit and chirp about. A large pool forms here, the water slows and merely burbles—an appropriate sound for this kind of morning as opposed to the rushing, tumbling sounds of other spots. I examine the dogwood hanging over the bank but don’t see any stoneflies in the brush or over the water. I’ll save this pool to finish with.

I walked downriver a couple hundred feet then worked my way uneventfully upriver. Back at the pool I throw the struggling salmonfly pattern in the back eddy on the right, which sweeps counterclockwise toward this tree:

The fly (a huge pattern, measuring two inches long and one and three quarters inches wide) gently purls along. I’ve been mentally lulled into that “no-fish” zone and am quite surprised when this 13″ brown happens to take my huge fly: The fly has two sets of wings, and is tied with the hook riding on top. I’ve patterned it after the beetles Dan taught me to tie.

It took me an hour to fish this far and I think it’s time to head back downriver. I think I’ll try my old favorite and see how it’s fishing these days. I’ll try the struggling salmonfly, but think I might have more luck with the stimulator since the golden stones are in that area.

It turns out to be an excellent choice! The river has changed quite a bit, with old favorite holes and stretches gone and new ones replacing them. There is a 50 yard stretch that used to contain a nice hole and two pools that I am especially sad to see gone. But a couple of holes that used to be small are now huge.

Within the first five minutes of hopping in I land this beautiful cutt on a stimulator: and then follow that up with a couple more browns.

I continue to catch another ten or so, but end up losing about 20, within the next hour and a half. It’s nearing 9 AM and my family will be stirring at home. We have a full day ahead: my daughter just turned 12 and my son just graduated from high school, so we have a couple of parties to plan.

The pace has been leisurely, the fishing excellent. I may look back in days to come and use this day as my new touchstone for “nostalgic comfort.”

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