CUTTSLAM 2: THE FINAL COUNTDOWN

July 10, 2024

Back in 2022 I finished my first Cutthroat Slam here in my beloved home state of Utah, and just as soon as I got my little medallion in the mail I was eager to get started again, and that’s exactly what I did in the summer of 2023. It wasn’t until June of 2024, when I had done some fishing for Native cutts but not really targeting the subspeicies did I notice the DWR tag on my fridge had an expiration date: My birthday, June 30 of 2024. “Shit” was the first word to mind that June 4th.

What followed this month was a clusterfuck of chasing trout as quickly as I could while battling the spring runoff that was still prevalent in most regions, as well as running through all possible venues that were flooded out, news from local word and sat imagery wisdom. A single trip early in the season knocked out both my Yellowstone and Bear River checks, and the Bonneville I had already caught back in 2023. So I only had one to catch, but most of where I knew I could catch the Colorado Cutt were going to be tough access, flooded, or too far out of the way for my schedule to permit: Hell, I just got engaged afterall.

There was one small stream that I remembered, and checking the DWR’s mapping for the Colorados I realized that it fit right smack dab in the territory. I’d been wanting to head back to this little stream for quite some time, a location I found while driving out to the Grandaddy Basin a few years back and had fished once before, noting the absolute perfection of the surroundings that seemed too-perfect for a Utah backdrop, but there it is.

We went out on my birthday weekend, really cutting it down to the wire as my tag expires June 30 at midnight and I had a tattoo appointment that same day, 3 hours drive away. Starting on the 29th, we woke up early in the Huntsville home and made our way down south. Arrival time was around 4pm, which meant I’d have around 5 hours to fish before we needed to pack up and find a place to pitch up the truck for the night.

Getting into the water I immediately hooked up on a nice sized brown, and I felt like we were really getting somewhere. This approach was a real Curtis Creek style setup, crawling through the tall grass to an overhanging ledge, spying on the rising trout for a good 15 minutes before determining the correct fly pattern, and setting it down: First cast, final strike. We got ‘em.

The rest of the night we were able to get into some more hungry browns rising around a pool that provided some fun and even a little learning lesson for my Fiancé, but with each brown I’d take, the more my hope would wane. Once the sun had set and it started getting a little too dark out, we made our way back out and scouted for a campsite, which we found among many other trailers and RV’s in a spot that was just good enough for a late night birthday couple. Like checking into a hotel for the night, we made up a small dinner that was quite surprisingly delicious: a few chicken and steak skewers, chips and dip, a southwest bean salad and goat cheese with thin crisps. A last little birthday hoorah at nearly midnight started the celebration early with a tiny single serving of cheesecake, aptly topped with a twig birthday candle.

The next morning began even earlier than the last, the missus unable to sleep most of the night on account of us leaving the dog in the truck bed beneath us (recently sprayed by a skunk, a WHOLE other story), and myself tossing and turning at the thought of missing a year’s worth of work. We got to the river at 6am this morning, June 30, and we needed to leave no later than 1030. “Shit”, the motif continues.

It’s a hopeful start to the day as well, in a small pool I can see the snapping flicker of light near a shallow tree trunk submerged roughly half way into a slower part of the river, and I tie on one of my favorite streamers, given to me by a dear coworker as a birthday gift the year prior: it couldn’t have been planned better. I set the streamer in, and let it glide down to just in front of the area I saw the striking when it happens: Gold flash, set hook, taught line, slack line. The damn thing snapped my line, I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it even more when this same occurence happened 4 more times at different points in the water, making our way upstream I started to become more and more frustrated, flustered, and furious. I’d lose 7 more flies before I found the culprit: very bad tippet that had been on the spool for the better part of 3 years had apparently gone to shit, and now all I had was the last little bit of 4x I could find, less than 4 inches.

I’d lost my temper now. I was raging, the fiancé and our husky could feel it, so much so that we needed to go our separate ways due to my impetulant tantrum. I stared at the river, which by now had been still for what seemed like hours without bites, as the clock neared 10:15. I watched that water for ten more minutes, more out of meditative catharsis attempting to resolve my conflict rather than anything else when I saw a monsterous take some 25 yards down. “Another Brown, just my luck”, I think to myself, and plan out the cast. I observe the strikes again, watching the yellow belly run up, take then retreat. Focusing on the surrounds I notice the mayflies are hatching light and large, so I tie on a 14 PMD and let it drift down.

It takes three casts for my white spec to be the chosen one, but as soon as I did, that line went tighter than it ever has before, and I start to see exactly what I’m fighting against: the golden sides, pink and crimson belly, black spots that get heavier near the back… “God I don’t deserve this”, thinking to myself. The rod and reel were both a birthday gift from the girl down the bend earlier in the month, a very fun 7ft 3wt Reddington Butterstick reeling with a Ross Colorado, so light weight action was the name of the game here and this fiberglass rod was just about as bent as it could possibly get.

Once it’s in the net I’m hit with the obvious at fist: This is the biggest cutthroat trout I’ve ever caught. I’m stunned this guy made it’s way out of the little river bend at all, and it’s giving me respect for the size of trout that can be in easily waded waters. And then, I go out to find my family, with a bit of shame on my heart. Once I presented to fish to her, I issued the greatest of apologies I’ve ever mustered, humility and embarrassment covering me like a blanket of sad snow. But she was able to forgive me soon enough, and we decided to keep the might trout for a real birthday dinner of fish tacos.

And with that I ended my second Cutthroat Slam, down to the absolute wire. It was close, it was dramatic, it was fun. I hope my next slam can be so enjoyable, and maybe I’ll be able to help the gal with her first slam this coming year as well.

When I First Saw Montana...

July 10, 2024

It starts with angry anxiety, as usual, when stakes are high and the body doesn’t cooperate. Everything leading up to this trip has been of ill omens: A weather forecast that calls for rain and cold weather every day we’re up in Montana during a lovely June, not enough eggs to really cook for everyone, losing a chicken before hand, and a gout flareup the night before we need to leave. With all the weariness already starting and we’re still just in Utah, Taylor and I knew we’d be in for a big trip, but she really couldn’t have imagined just how big it’d end up being.

We meet her old man up in Tremonton around 10, with plans to head out immediately after, when he drops the unfortunate news on us that he’s just broken out the back window of his truck as well as needing repairs to the massive toy-hauler trailer he’s just picked up. We spend another 5 hours at the dealership, with an 8 hour drive ahead of us starting up at 4pm, but we’re filled up from lunch at the diner down the street and eager to begin the drive across state lines.

Burning up the interstate through Idaho and beyond brings gorgeous views of countryside, mountain scapes, lakes, rivers and streams. Everything I love condensed in a seemingly endless landscape of rolling hills that collide with spired peaks, farmsteads hidden in the grass and trees along the route through Montana to Butte, where we watch the sunset and an encounter of a creep in his 40s with a group of highschoolers ready to throw hands in the truck stop McDonalds. “Par for the course now”, I think to myself, shaking out the stinging pain in my foot, hobbling out to the truck and swallowing 1600mg of a painkiller cocktail. By the time we get to the next truck stop in Missoula, I’m burned out, mildly hallucinating, and ready to pass the fuck out on the pull-out sofa in the hot trailer that’s been hastily set up on a nice little hill. The angle sets the interior up to lean like a ship stuck in pack ice, and even I feel a little adrift in this space, floating off into a dreary haze of slumber that fades to black before I can-.

Waking up in the morning I’m feeling a bit better in the foot, but it’s still a pain to move around. That doesn’t matter to me though, because my girlfriend and I can get a little peace from the struggle of driving or staying awake by taking a walk around downtown Missoula; First picking up some coffee and breakfast bagels from the little café, Morning Birds Bakery, where we indulge ourselves on one of the best god damn everything bagels I’ve ever had, with eggs and bacon to boot. So impressed by the baked goods we decide to grab a loaf of their sourdough as well, and I wonder to myself why and how everything seems so much better here in Montana than it does back in Utah. Every time I’ve been here, I’m blown away by how much better every aspect of the place really is. There’s even more to come, as lunch begins to loom not long after the bagels, and we’ve got a host of groceries yet to buy for the 4 days ahead. A few more heartaches ensue, namely, colder winds and the discovery of all our eggs broken in the truck drawer, contents strewn exclusively on the fishing pack I plan to use in bear country.

Once that’s all finished, I bring my guests to the number one barbecue joint that’s ever graced my short, naieve life, and that’s Notorious P.I.G. on Main Street Missoula. There’s no good words to describe the absolute phenomenon that is the Piggie Smalls, only biblical references of heaven, paradise, and the ecstasy of learning new love, but instead of a fallout you just get to take another bite. Once we’re filled to the brim from the platter of just about everything you can order, we start up again for Kalispell, where Taylor and I are set to pick up her younger sister Jackie who will be joining us on the trip.

Liquor stores, head shops and cigars all ready, we set out again when I get a call from an unknown number and take it on the truck speaker. It’s a voice we all recognize and the girl’s father, in disappointed tone, shouts to us “I won’t fit, I’m too big” into the campsite I’d reserved back in December. He’s got a KOA site picked out for himself, and I’m starting to suspect he might’ve had this planned from the get, but it’s not going to change where I hitch up for the trip on the Hungry Horse Reservoir.

From here it’s mostly smooth sailing: We pitch the truck tent up at our campsite, no neighbors in town due to the miserable conditions, and we can drive the sporty Polaris side by side to and from the KOA to the Reservoir camp to keep things to an amicable level of parental advisory versus late night laughter. The hammock is pitched, the tarp set up, and the campsites are really starting to come together while we enjoy ourselves and try to make the best of the weather. A few breaks in the clouds here and there allow us the joy of polar plunging into the cool water, attempts at fishing proving fruitless with a family of unfortunately impatient persons, but at the end of the day, things are all going well.

It's the third of four days staying in the area when we head up to Kintla Lake in Glacier, and the plans all start to come together. Everyone is in good spirits after the long dirt road drive, the sun is just starting to pop out for a moment, and the glacial lake is glittering when I pop down on a knee and make that girlfriend into a Fiancé. “Yes” is the word in this most beautiful of places, where even the rainy days are better. Montana itself feels like an allegory to the woman I’m with, whose ability to turn my mood at the drop of a hat has been a gift I never realized I needed so much in life. Just like the rest of this place, I feel robbed of words or an inability to describe the emotions I feel in the moment and sharing them with a blog post on a website nobody will read seems like the most I’d be able to articulate to anyone else that isn’t the woman I love. I begin to realize some things in life aren’t for sharing with others, aren’t for showing online, and are best left wordless and remembered in the heart rather than the mind.

That said, I certainly don’t mind sharing the experience of what we shared as our first meal together as an engaged couple: A burger, a sandwich, each served with. wine and beer from the Northern Lights Saloon in Polebridge.

Our last day is exploring another end of the park, past Lake McDonald where we end up enjoying a few falls and nearly tumbling into the rushing river before me, which would have made a very interesting engagement story, but instead I’m able to (very fashionably) bring myself to a smooth stop just feet before the waters would have taken me. I ponder momentarily if I’d have even cared about the wet dip if I didn’t have my camera strapped around me, then proceed back to the shoreline and off the slick rock I’d slid down.

Finally, on the way home, we stop by the P.I.G. once more as I nurse a miserable hangover away from my soul, and we drop off Jackie at the airport again. Not far from Butte we stop by a water access, and I get what I really came for: Silence, fishing on Montana waters in beautifully warm weather in the middle of the most lovely valley I’ve ever fished. I don’t take much out of the water, but I do catch what I came for: A native Westslope Cutthroat, and a small brown trout. It feels like just as we arrive, we need to head on again, and we burn down the road once more, deep into the night and finally arriving at our home near midnight. All’s well on the homestead, except the tomato and pepper plants that seem to all have died over the heavy water week. But none of that matters anymore, because now I’m an engaged man, and life finally seems to be in a state of balance, where the love is real and joy is daily. Thank you Taylor: I love you.

Dogbone Dell: Another Trip in the Raft Rivers

June 07, 2024

It’s been just one year since I finished up my first Cutthroat Slam here in Utah, and when I signed up for a second run I didn’t realize I wouldn’t be given the 99 year grace period; In fact, it wasn’t until late May that I realized the newer Cutthroat Slam tag that I’ve had pinned to the fridge acted as an ignorantly misread omen, expires at the end of the coming June.

So I was able to pack the girlfriend up and our little dog too, and then we were off to the North-West to catch some small trout.

We ended up leaving on a Saturday morning, nervous about our chickens who don’t yet have an automatic door to keep them safe in the dark where the monsters live. It’s a small price to pay, but having a light-activated door sitting in the garage is a bit of a pain knowing I just need to get out and install the damn thing to have a bit more freedom with my weekends. Either way, we found ourselves rolling into the tiny town of Yost around 2 pm, and I started hitting the rivers.

In hindsight, my form was despicable. Like a thrashing behemoth rampaging down a small valley, I’d get to the water with so much eagerness and anticipation that I’m almost sure I scared off most of the trout before they ever saw me, or I them. The overhanging willows and brilliant notes of sage billowing down the small gorge gave a suffocating sense of claustrophobia that only added to my hasty angst.

I would encourage Taylor to keep moving upstream with me, driving some 200-400 yards up and then pulling over to fish a promising spot to no avail. She and Venus the husky were reading books and digging gopher holes respectively, willing enough to oblige my constant need to proceed.

As night fell and my luck waned without a catch in hand we decided to set up camp shortly after Venus was able to claim her own bounty, the fruits of an endless day of hole-digging resulted in a small chew toy used for approximately three minutes before being dropped and left for the scavengers. At our campsite some ways up the forest road, the pup found another little canine treasure, dining away on a nice chewy elk bone, which gave way to the nomenclature of this particular campsite, which I will forever identify as Dogbone Dell.

I’m typically blown away anytime I put on my glasses with just how much further and more clearly I can see, but when I put on the spectacles to engage in some star gazing I was utterly dumbfounded and the brilliant blinking blue that tarried away above us. While the clouds moved across Cygnus, satellites in all directions zoomed and burst like little bubbles of light fluttering across an inky black pool of oblivion. After a little too much tequila in a kuksa we dubbed “the Teller’s Tumbler”, we first discussed what we believe constitutes a good campfire story, and then began to share a few of our favorites: Taylor with stories almost entirely associated with a grim respect for large bodies of water, and my own tales of close calls with a modicum of a morale ending for good measure.

In the morning I was able to rally past the hangover and get to making breakfast, much more evenly paced towards more time in the creek. Something about this overcast morning with the scent of rain clouds rolling over pinewood convinced me that it was going to be a good day of fishing. With the peace of mind firmly established I was able to begin cooking what would end up being the single best camp breakfast I think I’ve ever cooked in my life, whose beauty comes particularly from it’s simplicity:

Scrambled eggs, cooked with garlic salt, chives and chopped mushrooms.

I still am in awe of just how refreshing the meal was, my typical campside meal almost always includes a healthy serving of bacon or sausage; much more on the light side than what I’d usually turn out, and it was magnificent.

Once we finished the meals and packed everything up, we headed back up and over the mountain, driving up a wildly steep 35º hillside that made me nauseous even rolling up in 4hi, but once I kicked the truck into 4lo I immediately understood how crazy that gear can get, only scratching the surface of what it might be capable of.

Rolling back down onto the other side of the range, we stopped in a spot not too far up the dirty trail, but this time my approach was far more strategic and respectful. After scoping out a spot for a few minutes, I crept into position as slowly as I could, eventually needing to slide down a small embankment with my rod behind me or face ramming it into some of the overhanging branches, or worse, getting hung up in them. From here I pulled out a 22 rainbow warrior and tried driving this in the current, but the stream was still swollen from the late spring melt, and visibility wasn’t the greatest. There was a larger tree trunk to the right of me that just felt right, never seeing any trout in the water but knowing there’d be some little guy hiding just beneath the overhanging bark.

I decided to do a hail-mary with a balanced Leech streamer that a good friend had given me (TroutHowler on YouTube, he’s a great guy that you should check out) and tied it on. There was a small clearing of branches I’d be able to cast through, but the way the stream was positioned I needed to use a very accurate bow cast to get it where I needed, so with a quick pull back and an almost zen-like efficiency, I released the tight line, landing the streamer exactly where it belonged. From here I just drifted the little fly for about 2 minutes, when I finally felt a very small amount of pressure on the end of my line, and pulled out my first Yellowstone Cutthroat for this attempt at the slam.

This all happened well within our timeframe to leave, so once I had caught the first fish, I opted to head on and get over to Logan where I’d catch my second fish of the day: a Bear River Cutthroat. Immediately after this on a stunning sunny afternoon, I was able to wet wade through the river, hooking into another four brown trout all on dries. It was a great way to end what felt like an accursed year of fishing, having gone out many different times this year but only hooking into my first fish halfway through the year. With a trip to Montana just around the corner and the Cutt Slam timeout just after that, I’ve got a lot of work to do if I am going to try and hit my goal of 100 fish netted this year.