Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/787068
68 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S into deeper, slower water where the stream bottom was gumbo and the weedbeds existed solely to encircle and entrap my wading boots. It was quite literally defeat snatched from the jaws of victory. All I could do was tip my cap to the dozens of trout that rolled with laughter at the sight of my rusty spinners and ants and beetles and hoppers and everything else I could think to throw in their general direction. I have no clue what Hemingway would have done. Maybe he would have walked away with a smile, or reached in his pocket for a flask, or thrown rocks at those rising trout. Or maybe he would have turned the whole experience into a story worthy of both his talents and his piscatorial adversaries. Who can really say for sure? But before I gave up—I was literally on the verge of calling it quits—I remembered something sort of cool. I had my PMDs with me, my Pale Morning Duns. And while most of them were various shades of yellow, I had, for reasons I didn't quite understand at the time, tied a few creamish ones, size 16s. They didn't have speckled wings, but their bodies were dead ringers for those Callibaetis. It doesn't happen all the time, but sometimes we can get lucky twice in one day. Sometimes we do it right and snatch victory from the jaws of defeat. Sometimes a cream-colored PMD really does the trick. Man, I love Silver Creek. Be sure to check it out when you have the chance. n wonderful. I wandered downstream, the creek snaking between brush-covered banks; big fish rising; those weird, barren, dry-as-a-bone mountains coming into view at odd moments—looking almost like huge, fresh-from-the-oven Idaho baked potatoes on the horizon—and I found myself in that fantastical reverie where my awareness flows in and out with the same rhythm as my cast, while nice trout, for reasons only they seem to know, abandon caution and eat my little bugs with gusto. Then, just like that, it was over, the BWOs replaced by cream-colored, size 16 Callibaetis, and wouldn't you know it, I didn't have a Callibaetis with me. Not one single little Callibaetis mayfly. Suddenly, those fish were pricks. They wouldn't touch my olives. They gulped and slurped, an orgy of hungry wild trout feeding with abandon on a heavy hatch. I did the only thing I could think to do, changing flies again and again as I wandered downstream and there's no guarantee that a great cast and perfect drift will end in success, and . . . well, you know the drill. It's tough fishing. You're chasing trout who've played the game their entire lives, and if the only thing you care about is hooking up, then you probably should have flown to Alaska or Argentina rather than Idaho. Seriously, Silver Creek is not for the faint of heart. But if you find wonder and amazement in the occasional victory, and if getting beat-up by fish with tiny brains actually strengthens your resolve, then you can empathize with my passion for spring creeks. It's always a little weird the very first time you fish a new stretch of stream, mostly because you don't know quite enough to do it right. You wade where you shouldn't, and you don't wade where you should, and unless you have some seriously good intel beforehand, you'll end up feeling like you're lost in the woods without a map or compass. Fortunately, there were so many little blue-winged olives floating down the slow currents of Silver Creek that the fish were eating regularly on the surface, and I could figure out where I needed to go—and just as importantly, where I should avoid wading—without too much of a problem. And it turned out that those Idaho trout liked the little BWO emergers I had in my box just as much as their Montana brethren do. Seriously, it was "Knock it off, Ben, you're scaring the guests!" by john troy – courtesy skyhorse publishing