Wydaho, I Love You So

26 Aug

This, my friends, will be the last installment of my tall tale.  When we left off our protagonists were on their way out of Utah and on the road to Jackson…Hole that is…heavy on the hole.  I hadn’t been to the Hole in a few years,  but you have to admire Jackson for its consistency.  Drunk assholes outside the Cowboy Bar, Asian tourists snapping pics in front of the antler arches, and drift boats attached to every other truck…just like I left it.  If anyone out there is a big fan of the scene over in Gatlinburg I highly recommend adding Jackson to your next western itinerary…I mean who doesn’t love getting an old-timey photo made of them and their sweetheart dressed up like a cowboy and an old west hooker…I know I do (Murphy, the picture turned out great by the way).  Once you get out-of-town a ways the real reason you go to Jackson becomes stunningly clear…the Tetons, the Snake,  and dumb ass Cutties that would eat a turd fly if was made out of foam..just to name a few.

We rolled into Jackson late and decided that sleeping in the truck in some church parking lot would make the most sense.  Let me interject here that I was not in on that decision making process as I was already asleep in the back of the truck, my vote would have been a more secular location to Hobo the night away…like maybe the parking lot of a Gentleman’s Club of ill repute…truly I’m lucky I didn’t spontaneously combust  just driving into the parking lot.  We woke up the next morning and got all the proper documentation for the boat and ourselves and headed into Grand Teton National Park to float Deadman’s to Moose on the Snake.  It is hard to say that it was bad float when you have the Teton’s in the background of every cast, but the Snake turned out be a cruel mistress that day.  We caught fish, but not at a pace that the Snake is known for.  One of my buddies, Mark Buljean out of Westbank Anglers, guided the same section that day and said it was uncharacteristically poopy…an Mark knows his poop.

We  were still searching for that day of lights out fishing we had driven all the way out west for.  We had looked in Colorado, Utah, and Wyoming for the elusive bastard but kept coming up snake eyes.  So when out West if the shit hits the fan, the only place left to go is Idaho.  The South Fork to be specific, my new favorite river to be even more specific. The S. Fork not only coughed up one day of great fishing, but the river was nice enough to throw a second day of stellar fishing at us for our troubles.  Our two days on the S. Fork yielded more  fish then any of us could keep count of and enough big fish that we all left muttering, “Holy Shit”.  It was my first time there, and like all first times it left me tired, a little scared, and wanting a lot more.

Like all things that kick ass our time on the S. Fork drew to an end and we packed up our stuff and headed back east.  The ride back was miserable but uneventful.  This trip like every other road trip I’ve ever been on had moments of humor, misery, elation, and shame.  Lucky for us I was too heavily medicated most of the time to write down the shameful ones and the pictures helped me piece together the rest.  Oh yeah did I mention I stuck an open pack of lunch meat in Murphy’s car at the beginning of the week (which then sat in Kentucky closed up in a 100 degree heat for a week) and he didn’t find it until a week and a half after we got home…you could say Murphy got Roast Beefed…I might even say he got Hormeled.

– Nymph-o

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