A Regal Sport for the Common Man

A lesson on sharing the river, savoring the golden years, and enjoying the show

We watched them rise up gently around the decoys, making the slightest disturbance in the water as they fed on nearly-microscopic insects that found themselves bound to the waters of the North Platte River.

It was a sight to see for two southerners, who had never seen a trout rise up for a meal before. It was a far cry from the largemouths back home, who crashed the surface violently and without care for the silence around them. These fish - to this day I don’t know if they were brown trout or rainbows, or perhaps a mixture of the two - were assassins when hungry, making almost no sound and leaving no trace of their existence just moments later.

When the first minute of shooting time came, the flock of bluewings barreled out of the north and interrupted the show with a crash landing absent of all grace and elegance. Chase and I did fine, dispatching five of them, but the begrudgingly invited guests ended the pre-dawn feeding display that the trout of the North Platte River put on just for us. 

When October rolls around on the North Platte and the river drops to expose the Ruppia beds, a packable decoy spread is a must. The author and his hunting partner Chase Cook (pictured here) scaled a near-vertical cliff to reach the promised land, with just 18 decoys in tow. Photo by Ryne Berthelot

The North Platte’s as legendary of a waterfowling destination as there is, at least on the Nebraska side; Mallards and canada geese can be had in limits most days, affording hunters a “bonus duck” or two of their choosing to fill their daily bag limit. Fishing reigns supreme on the Wyoming side, however, and the fly fisherman is the head of the court. Still, the early season hunting is a good there as anywhere; flocks of birds worked the river itself, piling into the Ruppia beds that filled the deeper pools. 

The rest of the morning drug by at a snail’s pace - a few wood ducks fell, a missed opportunity on a flock of honkers that wouldn’t quite come low enough - until about the 8 o’clock hour, when a flyfisherman emerged from the treeline onto the riverbed downstream from us. He was an older gentleman, a slender build that told us he took care of himself in his later years. That physique had helped him traverse the near vertical cliff that all river goers had to scale to make it down this particular stretch. A chocolate lab, coat shining off the early morning, investigated the scents and smells of the river rocks behind him as he casted through the pools and eddies with near-surgical precision. 

I couldn’t help but envy what I was witnessing. A man, weathered with age, savoring the twilight years he earned after years of toiling to meet the expectations society laid upon him. Perhaps he was a father, a businessman, a spouse, a teacher, a friend, or a colleague. But along the river bed, he was an outdoorsman, finding tranquility in the American wilderness, an opportunity afforded to him by generations of flyfishermen before him. 

He picked up a few rainbows along the way, before stopping some 60 yards south of us. I began to motion from the layout blind for him to pass, but quickly decided I’d rather greet him along the river bed for a firsthand fishing report. I exchanged pleasantries with John, who told me he had a partner scaling the cliffside and would be down momentarily. I pointed him in the direction of the show we watched this morning, and John wasted no time slinging his olive wooly bugger - maybe sized 4 or 6 - back into the North Platte once he was well out of range.

We had began to pick up the decoys and blinds and make our way to the bank, where we stored our gear at the end of each day when a portly man with a brown mustache limped his way onto the rocks. We made our way back to the trailhead, where we crossed paths with the man who’s name I cannot remember; but he was John’s partner, and he suffered a fall along the cliffside that left his ankle bruised and weakened. Chase and I escorted the man back to the top, talking about his time on the Union Pacific Railroad and as a high school teacher there in Wyoming, about how John channeled his passion for marathons into his new love for flyfishing, evidenced by how quickly he combed the nearly mile-long stretch of river bed we were frequenting. Finally, he took a look at the birds on our strap, which was nothing more than a piece of paracord tied around the necks and slung over my pack. His eyes widened as he saw the unmistakable white and green head of the drake wood duck Chase had killed earlier. Shortly after, John returned with the same surprised look on his face.

“I hadn’t seen one of those since my teenage years,” John said, who was well into his late 60s. I hadn’t the heart to tell him that during any given season, they’ll make up more than half of my season total, and most of the drakes will look far nicer than the one that hung from my bag, though he was in breeding plumage. 

I had fly fished in the swamps of Louisiana before, and I knew why they reacted the way they did: The flank feathers of the drake wood duck are highly prized as wing material for a number of Catskill-style dry flies, including the Quill Gordon and the Hendrickson. I readily offered the feathers to the two men. John gave us two brownies that his wife had baked for the trip in return, a welcomed treat after eating only a common merganser that was pan seared on the river bed. 

I turned to John with a final question before we went our separate ways.

“How was the fishing in that hole we sent you to?”

John pulled me aside and lowered his voice for his partner not to hear.

“Believe it or not, I caught my biggest rainbow ever on the third cast. It worked out pretty well. Let’s keep it a secret.”

I could only grin. 

We’re not so different, after all.