To say the South Fork of the Snake River, in South East Idaho, is a special place would be a real injustice. It probably should be described, at least to me, as a bit like heaven. And, as flat out beautiful as it is, the people from the area who fish and work to protect it are perhaps it’s equal; confirming even heaven, from time to time, could use a little maintenance.
Over the last several years I have spent a great deal of time in the South Fork area, not sure what my role is. I first came to the valley, invited as a guest by someone local. Back then I was a tourist, but now I feel like so much more. My son is a full time guide here which I’m extremely proud of—problematic is the fact that he is always working and doesn’t often have the time to join me fishing. In his place there are some local fishermen that have adopted me into their group in this “bit of heaven”. I call them the South Fork Saints.
Today, they’ve invited me on a float to fish Section One, below the Palisades Reservoir Dam, and I’m having a bad morning—losing three flies in the first fifteen minutes—casting with poor marksmanship into the overhanging bushes at the river’s edge. Ironically, the last two days I spent on the river I did not lose a single fly. That fact did not matter today.
“Jeezus %#@€! Whaaat are you casting at?!?”
If Paul Bunyan lived in the Western United States and carried around a fly rod instead of an axe it would be Kenly Bitton. A big man, tall with chiseled facial features that accompany his leathery skin and silver beard, he possesses a southern accent and a loud voice that can be heard easily over anyone else in a crowded bar. By the way, he will know everyone in the bar. “Bitty” is who he is known as to most except his wife Shanna.
Today we are riding in Bitty’s boat, and it’s a real “Cadillac”. Hand made of wood, the handsome drift boat is painted green and black on the exterior and sealed natural on the interior, showing off its beautiful grains under several layers of sealant. The seats are woven painstakingly of nylon strapping with wooden frames sealed natural to match. Together the ensemble is gorgeous and people remind you of that fact several times during your float. I can’t get a straight answer how long it took him to make it but I was around when he sanded and refinished it last summer. With the lost flies his patience has now worn thin…
“Goddamn! That’s three flies in a row you put in the bushes in the last fifteen minutes! You’re on the oars!”
Observing all this, enjoying it a little too much, and laughing in the back of the boat is my other western brother Ron Miller. In contrast to Bitty he is a bit shorter with round glasses. A retired doctor and on the board for the Henry’s Fork Foundation, he is a fierce advocate for rivers; no one I know cares or has done more to defend them. Always in a good mood he is easy to spend time with. He and I have a lot in common.
With his next cast Ron promptly deposits his dry fly, a Purple Chubby Chernobyl, right into the bushes and breaks off immediately.
“I’ve had it with you two. Gimme my rod!”
And with that, Bitty pulls over to the bank—visibly frustrated—and with a splash drops the anchor, attached to a rope and pulley system hanging from the rear of the boat.
Rough around the edges and curmudgeonly, Bitty has been my fishing partner, friend and older brother for many years. A good part of what I know about fly-fishing and rowing the Upper Snake River has come from this longtime retired guide. As a matter of fact, it’s not much of an exaggeration to say that a good part of what most people in the area know about fly-fishing and rowing have come from Bitty. Only with his help, my son Grant was able to get a “foot in the door” to launch his guiding career, and from day one he has welcomed me and my family to the valley. I will always owe my “brotha-from-a-different-motha” as I call him a few favors. Often, he joins us for dinner when we are visiting and my wife and I threaten to claim him on our taxes. Shanna periodically scolds him to contribute something to the meals.
“Jeeezus Christ, you two!” spits Bitty, still seething about the flies lost to the bushes.
With a growl he brushes past me and we switch places. Ron is now laughing even harder and I’m shaking my head. I am now on the oars.
Crossing to the opposite side of the river, Bitty—in the front of the boat, and Ron in the rear—start surgically picking apart the bank with their casts, landing them very tight to cover and getting great drifts under brush and wood. A few salmon flies, clumsily flapping their huge wings and sputtering —as if they possessed an engine that wouldn’t quite start—float just off the bank in the stunning, sun-penetrated, greenish, blue water. Both of these guys are great with a stick and soon Bitty has a taker, when an 18 inch cutthroat angrily grabs his Peanut Water Walker foam dry fly on a drift under some brush.
“They’re start’n to look up!” he says, shortly before releasing the fish that never left the water.
Soon after, Ron has a large brown suck in his dry fly right when it hits the water surface. The fish is staying down and using the current for leverage, giving him difficulties gaining progress retrieving back any line. Eventually, the nice brown is at the boat, showing off its beautifully spotted brown and yellow body. There is a color on the gill plate of some brown trout that can’t be seen anywhere else in nature—a subtle metallic green that could be overlooked if not alert.
Ron does not make that mistake as he admires the handsome fish, very briefly out of the net, before returning it back in the river to its interrupted routine.
Yellow Sallie flies helicopter up and down on the water surface around us as both of them keep hooking into fish. “They’re on the bugle now!” Bitty proclaims.
Finally, it’s again my turn to cast and I don’t have to wait long before a dandy cutty pulls away from the bank and in slow motion, like only they do, sips my Henry’s Fork Salmon fly and, with a delay to ensure it ate it, I set the hook. Like Ron’s brown, this fish hugs the bottom and uses the current to make things difficult before I could get it to the boat and into the net. It was the largest cutty I had previously caught and, like all westslope cutthroat, it is simply gorgeous with its coppery skin as a backdrop for its beautiful spots, intensifying in number as they approach the tail, purplish cheeks, orange ventral and anal fins and signature red slash below the gill plate. They are an amazing piece of artwork.
Admiring the fish in the water I’m interrupted by Bitty: “Whaaaat are you doing up there?”
My favorite fly-fishermen typically have a few rust holes in their truck, stained clothing that probably could have gone in the wash a trip or two earlier and wear worn out trucker hats that don’t have anything to do with fly-fishing; they are as content catching carp as trout on a fly. The “Saints” check all these boxes. A bit older than me, at fifty-eight, they call me a kid. These guys are very accomplished anglers, having fished this part of the country most of their lives, and I would not want to learn from anyone else. Because of them I have become proficient at rowing a drift boat, dry fly fishing and swinging soft hackles. Nymphing (fishing with a sinking fly), on the other hand, not so much—they are just not into it. (Bitty actually called me a “whore” once, just for adding a dropper−a secondary sinking fly tied below my dry fly−on a slow fishing day!)
What I like most about my Western fishing partners (Bitty, Ron, Jim Bruce, and Lonnie Molberg) is that, at this point for them, the fishing part of a float is of secondary importance. Make no mistake, they want, and normally do, catch fish; but many of the most memorable floats I’ve had with them have not involved very many fish at all. They have shared with me countless stories and information about the history of this area and its fishery. Taking a break for lunch on a rock bar or in the shade of a canyon wall, staring at the beautiful scenery that dominates this stunning river, colorful conversation and Bitty—cursing every time a jet boat goes past or talking about how a riffle has “gone to shit”—it just doesn’t get any more entertaining. I truly enjoy every minute together with all of them, am grateful for their acceptance, and am well aware that things will not stay this way forever
Now, early evening, we are only two bends from the takeout spot. I learned long ago while fishing with Bitty not to question directives that don’t appear to make sense. So, when he asks me to cast my fly over an unpromising, nondescript, shallow gravel flat I don’t ask any questions—I just do it.
Still attached to my leader from this morning I drop the Henry’s Fork Salmon fly onto the flat, as directed, and within seconds a large hybrid cutbow (cross between a cutthroat and a rainbow trout) that had been patiently waiting for dinner violently eats the bug. My last fish of the day l enjoy the fight in the strong current and, nearing the boat, I slack lined the fish to give it the opportunity to avoid the net and free itself from the barbless hook. I watch the mass of spotted chrome with rosy red cheeks swim away.
I could not have possibly known to cast in that spot. Only a person with a lifetime of experience fishing this river would have known.
“That’s how you end the day, boys!”
Ron and I agree with Bitty.
Conservation on the South Fork involves nearly everyone in this small, tight knit community. My friends, along with the guides, resort owners and many others play a huge role in maintaining this “bit of heaven” through organizations such as the Henry’s Fork Foundation and the Upper Snake River Fly Fishers−all of whom work very hard to ensure its future. For more information or to get involved and become a “South Fork Saint”, protecting the South Fork of the Snake River, please use the following links:
