1000 CASTS...THEN EXUBERANCE!

Woke up early Saturday morning (4:30 am). Looked outside and saw stars. Being that SBJ was away tending grand kids, I immediately and unabashedly gave myself a kitchen pass, threw the "stuff" in the rig, and headed north rather than sleeping in and opting to stay home to do the yard. Didn't know exactly where I was headed...just that I was.

The car went into autopilot mode like she had a mind of her own, somehow turning right at Shoshone instead of going straight over Galena to the Stanley reach. "This is interesting," I mutter in the darkness. The inky black volcanic rock formations of Craters were obscured by the night as headlight refractions off the snow created crazy eerie images blurring by. "What's next?" I wondered.

The brakes suddenly blinked on as dawn was cracking, and the rig turned left onto the secret gravel road shortcut to Moore, by-passing Arco and then left again towards Mackey. "This is different," I blurted out loud, fully intending to skirt around INEL to the Salmon Highway. Snow covered and sleepy, Mount Borah looked down as the Olds fleetered up Willow Creek Summit, topping over and bee lining it straight for Challis and the Pahsimeroi.

Ahhhh! My faithful Olds had it right all along. Her motor seemed to be purring out the words ~ Oncorhynchus Mykiss, Oncorhynchus Mykiss, Oncorhynchus Mykiss ~ in a seductive, undulating hum as the pavement seemed to melt away, literally like the lapping riffles and swirls of the Salmon River. Seems that we both were invisibly driven by a common mystical vision of chrome, highlighted by a faint hint of crimson, framed with translucent transparency of spotted fins and a piercing set of eyes that peer into the very soul of every living steel head addict.

ONCORHYNCHUS MYKISS

Rather than turning left upriver towards Bayhorse, Deadman and Clayton, the Olds determinedly passed straight through Challis without so much as a thought of stopping, soon to pull over at Ellis. What a zoo! Drift boats anchored bow-to-stern and a bazzillion folks, each who must have brought his/her own rock to stand on. My favorite spey rod run was wall-to-wall gear flingers. So was Deer Creek. Dejectedly, but not deterred, the Olds carefully worked her way downriver, swerving across oncoming traffic and stopping at Twelve Mile.

This beautiful 300 yards of Spey water was empty! Olds seemed to smile, sigh and shut herself off as the trunk popped open. Step, cast. Step, cast. Step, cast. No body was home. Dang! I'm shaking by now. Upward and onward, the Olds and I headed downriver. All fishing residents of Salmon were drift fishing from the in-town bridge to the fairgrounds. Undaunted, Olds pointed her graceful nose northward and soon pulled into Bobcat. Settling in under a canopy of old-growth cottonwood tress, she seemed to say, "I've done my part. It's up to you now." , and promptly nodded off for a nap.

Intermittent airborne liquid, in the ever changing form of rain or snow persisted through out the day, with occasional spurts of sunshine. Early evening, the water temp was 42 degrees. As most of you know, I prefer to swing two flies, providing different looks. Tied on my orange 'n red as the dropper (light conditions). My trusted go-to, dubbed Green Butt Skunk, tied with a doubled rubber-leg tail, and a guinea hackle was the tag fly (darker/overcast). The Sage 7136 Spey rod, armed with a 450 grain Skagit head, 8 foot T-11 tip and a 5 foot hand-made leader completed the outfit.

Bobcat is a 400 yard drift. The sweet spot is half way down and a 65 foot cast. Swing, swing, swing, passing through the seam, and suddenly the line stopped as the GBS deftly buried itself into the mouth corner of the turning fish. Instinctively lifting the rod, I experienced that electrifying pulse and throbbing of a head shaking hookup of a heavy anadramous bruiser, running adrenaline-like from the grab, up the line and through the Spey rod into my hands, then exploding my body and brains. YES!!! Another forever-winter-long needed fix for a possessed steel head junkie.

The wild 38 inch buck ignited! Two blazing wicked-strong runs, complete with aerial antics erupted. Begrudgingly and in his own due time, he came to hand, giving me "that look" of defiance and majesty. He then rewarded me with a face full of tail-slap water as a rude indignant "thank you" for the picture and revived release. GOTTA LOVE IT BABY!

Left Salmon at 9:30 pm, happy and still higher than a kite. 500 plus mile round trip. White-out blizzard over Gilmore Summit to Lone Pine. Frog choking rain from INEL to 2 Falls. Fell into bed, dreaming of "Mykiss" at 1:30 am. Good 'ole Olds. luv...pops

1000 casts. One pull. Exuberance!