I’m supposed to be at a meeting at work. But Dan has a plan. Oh, why do I listen?

(map and pictures below)

Being the rabid stalkers of all native trout, and suckers for something that looks good on paper (in this case a map), we head out on this jaunt to our neighboring state of Idaho. Of course, Dan did talk me into purchasing a year license to Idaho this year (or was that the other way around?), so, we figure we better get the most out of our license as we can.

Dan likes looking at maps. He likes to talk to people who know things about tucked away places that are on maps. Such curiosity and map-savvy skills have proven beneficial in the past, like our expedition for native Redband trout in a remote area of south-central Idaho a couple of years.

So he has this idea about a place he found a year ago east of Malad, Idaho. There are three creeks near each other that empty into Devil Creek Reservoir (okay, was the name a clue, an unheeded warning?). The three creeks have interesting names: First Creek, Second Creek, and… can you guess? That’s right, Third Creek. Alright, not so interesting. The same creative folks must have named our three dams in Logan Canyon as well.

All three creeks are easily accessible from North Deep Creek Road (State Road 36). But why drive right up and start fishing down low, when the most likely place for native cutthroats is higher up? That’s right, those natives are most likely nearer the headwaters than the paved road. The map shows that a four-wheeler track skirts these headwaters. Neither of us own a four-wheeler, but pfft, that wouldn’t stop Dan, now would it?

So he rounds up a four-wheeler from a track student of his who lives in Weston, just a short distance from our fabled creeks. Now, a simple blowing off of my meeting and away we go. I don’t tell my wife where I’m at, she thinks I’m at school at the meeting. But I’m sitting in the climate-controlled cab of Dan’s ever-trusty pickup, making a beeline for the state line. We stop at a gas station and fill up a five gallon gas jug for the four-wheeler. I remind Dan, for the third or fourth time that I need to be back by 4:00 because it’s my daughter’s birthday. “That shouldn’t be a problem,” he says.

Now, Dan knows, like all fishermen with families, that the stated time and the real time, the time that one must absolutely be home by, is not the same time. We always build in that extra wiggle room because we never make it back by the time we say, so we think we can fake ourselves out by coming up with a pseudo-time. But like those people who set all their clocks ten minutes fast so they won’t be late, we know it’s a farce and pretty much ignore it. So Dan asks, “What’s the the latest  you can be home?”

“5:00,” I say. “Well, actually my daughter’s dinner is at 6:00. If I’m not home by then, I’m dead meat.”

“Okay, we’ll be home long before then,” he says.

We make it to Weston by 10:15. The four-wheeler is sitting right where we were told it would be. I jump out and start to unload the stuff from the bed. “Dan, we’ve got a problem here!” I holler. Gas from the gas jug is sloshing in the grooves of the bed-liner. I hurry and unload the stuff. Luckily the grooves are deep enough that very little of our gear has gas on it. Dan has a shovel that has a gash in the nose of it. The gash has a sharp edge that hit the gas jug while we were driving and has punctured it.

We fill up the four-wheeler and set the jug aside for our return. The boys show us how to operate the wheeler then load it up. We head straight for Third Creek.

The plan is to unload at Third Creek, then make our way to the headwaters of Second Creek. Hike a ways down Second Creek. Find some fish and catch them.

Click on the map below. When you get to the Google map, make sure the “Terrain” button is clicked so you can see the creek names. Click on the pins and lines for more details. We had a problem locating the correct creek.

The plan goes pretty much according to plan. After unloading we head up the four-wheeler track and pass through beautiful fields of wildflowers. We have excellent views of mountain ranges and valleys. We weave through stands of juniper and fir trees. We pass through crystal clear creeks.

We are a bit cramped—Dan has a small pillow between the pack racks on the back of the wheeler that keeps him relatively comfy. Except for the big bumps we hit. Our two-piece rods (note to self: next time bring the four-piece) hang precariously over the edges of the wheel-wells by eight inches on each side. This four-wheeler track is pretty much as wide as a typical four-wheeler, not the extra fifteen inches we have protruding. The rod cases rip through the sage and come dangerously close to tree trunks, but some expert driving (okay, luck) averts any catastrophes (I’ve already cashed in on one G. Loomis free rod replacement, I don’t want to have to replace it again).

I’m as far forward as I can go, just about straddling the gas tank. My feet are as close to the machine as possible so Dan can get a millimeter or two of his feet on the edge of the pegs. We continue past more creeks and dry creek beds. We think we’re on the right track, but stop to consult the map. Then consult it again. A few hundred feet down the trail we look at it again. We think we’ve passed Second Creek, but continue on looking for a positive confirmation. We think we have it and turn around. We have passed numerous little creeks and dried runoff beds, so we aren’t positive on our ID.

“Dan, what time is it?”

“I left my watch back at the truck.”

We park the wheeler at the place it crosses the creek just northwest of Second Creek. We take a handful of trail mix. Guzzle down some water. String up our rods. Throw on our fly packs and head downstream.

The water looks great. Heck, we’ve (successfully) fished smaller creeks than this, so we’re pretty excited. There is really little holding water though. We want to get as low as we can then fish back up.

There are lovely stands of Big Tooth Maple we pass through. Large downed trees we climb over. Cobbles we walk on. We criss-cross the creek. Walk along the edge of steep banks. Slog through bogs.

Reconnaissance is all about finding fish. If we catch some, that’s a bonus. Our shadows and splashing boots do not spook anything other than a small herd of eight elk. Dan snaps a picture. On a ridge above us they silhouette themselves against a blue sky. (see pictures below)

“I have to think about heading back,” I say a mile or so downstream. Dan doesn’t reply.

I’ve turned over rocks and have seen mayfly nymphs and caddis larvae. There is enough water. There is some holding water. There are shady spots. “I think the water is too warm,” Dan offers.

We’ve passed a couple of tributaries. This is bad news because according to our map there shouldn’t be any tributaries. So we aren’t exactly sure which creek we’re on. We’re probably two miles into our trek. Dan heads north of the creek to scout over the ridge and see if there is another creek on the other side. I see what looks like another tributary just ahead of me. I go ahead and walk down to it. It is indeed another tributary, but at about twelve inches wide, I don’t think it will change the fishing prospects much.

It’s got to be well after 4:00 by now. Probably close to 5:00.

Dan yells to me from the ridge and signals that he plans on walking the ridge back to the wheeler. I’ll take the same route along the creek back up.

After a mile I’m beginning to feel the heat. Dan has competed in triathlons. He rides his bike 20+ miles to work. He’s a PE teacher. He plays basketball. He coaches basketball and track. I figure he’s in pretty good shape. Me, I’m a computer geek. I like to read. I write poetry, for goodness sake—I’m way out of my league! I catch glimpses of Dan along the ridge and I’m feeling pretty good about myself since I’m ahead of him a little bit.

It seems like it’s been forever. My legs slow down. I haven’t seen Dan for 20 minutes or more, I lost him somewhere in a thick stand of maple trees. It must be at least after 5:00. I am in deep doo-doo.

Each step on the cobbles now worries me that I’ll twist an ankle. I lift one heavy leg over a downed tree and pause to catch my breath. Then I swing the other leg over. My wet feet slide back and forth in the big wading boots. I feel the blisters grow with each step. I’m moving at a snails pace as the pain in my left hip builds with every log I have to climb over. My wet felt soles lose traction on the not-so-beautiful-anymore wildflowers. Curse you and your map, Dan!

I kneel at the creek and take my hat off. I splash water over my head and wash my face. I haven’t seen a cow patty for half an hour—if a cow poops a down stream, can the Giardia travel half a mile upstream? Will I only get Giardia if it is in my intestinal track? Aw heck, I need some water. I rinse my mouth with some water and spit it out.

Left foot forward, then right.

“Scott!”

I look up and catch a glimpse of Dan about 4o feet ahead of me. “Yeah, I see you,” I say.

I pick up the pace and stumble onto the wheeler track about a minute later. “I have your Indian name for you,” he says. “Walk like a turtle, swim like an otter.” He’s coming up with Indian names for the people he fishes with. To protect the innocent, I’ll not reveal the others’ names (if Dan’s other fishing buddies are reading the blog, you’ll haver to ask Dan yourselves).

“When did you get back?” I ask.

“About ten minutes ago.”

I take a couple of big chugs from the water jug and we hop on the wheeler and head out. A couple of minutes into the ride Dan asks me if I’m spitting. I feel the sprinkles too. The wind kicks up and a light sprinkle turns into a heavy downpour. I stop the wheeler and pull on a windbreaker. Dan’s left to soak up the moisture.

The rain peters out. The ride back seems longer. I’m hustling as quick as I can and horse the wheeler around the corners as much as I dare.

We finally make it back to the truck. Dan drops the tailgate. While I pull the wheeler into the truck he gets in the cab. “What time is it?” I hesitantly ask. I’m so toast, I just know it.

“3:45.”

What, 3:45? Oh, yes!

Dan calls his wife and tells her to call my wife to say I’ll be late. My wife has no clue where I am, she thinks I’m at a meeting at school. I try to yell at the phone not to call my wife, and Dan leaves a message on his answering machine. Scumbag!

I go ahead and call my wife to let her know I’ll be a bit late. “Where are you?” she asks since she can tell the call is from a cell phone and she is in possession of our family’s sole cell phone.

“Um…”

“Are you with Dan!?”

“Actually, yes I am.”

“Are you fishing!?”

Well, now, technically I’m not fishing, I’m in the truck. Heck, we flicked a fly in the water about 0.0238% of the time we were on our expedition. “No, I’m not fishing,” I say confidently. “I was Shanghaied by Dan,” I add lamely. “I’ll be home at about 5:30. I’ll tell you about it then—we were on a wild goose chase.”

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