Seven hundred and eighty feet of mud and loose rock rose up before me as I prepared to push out of the canyon. My felt soled boots came in handy while I was wading around on slippery rocks in 1200cfs current, but they barely held their purchase on the steep, slimy sides of the canyon making every step that much more taxing to my already stiff muscles. I lurched up the canyon wall and between panting breaths let out an exclamation to my friend Sean, "I've been dreading this all day!" He just smiled and shook his head. Whining about it wasn't going to get us out any faster. I could feel my muscles begin to burn from lactic acid buildup and I was out of breath after the first quarter of the ascent, but like Sean I could only smile and move forward. We wouldn't have gone down there in the first place if it wasn't worthwhile. The fishing that day had been epic. While anglers all over the Henry's fork were being blown around in their drift boats and pelted with stinging rain, unable to hold position or even cast in the freezing wind the deep canyon provided an
insulated buffer so that all Sean and I endured was hazy skies and an all day drizzle. Despite the mucky weather, fish lay behind every logjam and stacked on every good seam greedily slurping
our dry salmon fly imitations and nymph droppers. Many little ones came to hand, but there were some nice ones too and a couple angry lunkers which produced drag screaming runs and hectic downstream pursuits. We were in there for the fish, and the fish were in there for the salmonflies. The giant stonefly,
pteronarchys californicus. Fills the dreams of almost fly fishermen worldwide. It doesn't take much imagination to look at the 2-3 inch long insect and picture the frenzy that might ensue when thousands of them fill the skies and riverbanks, clumsily slapping the water to deposit their eggs or falling from rocks and tree branches to become easy targets for the hungry trout below. T
he Gulch is one of those magical places where for a few weeks out of the year this frenzy takes place, and we were there at just the beginning of it. Salmonflies coated the rocks, trees, and riverbanks in various stages of their mating cycles.
They crawled up our waders and fell out of trees onto our necks. There were hundreds of them inside every fat belly of every brown and rainbow we caught. The frenzy was not quite underway, but in the not so far future we knew we would be there for it. As we exited the canyon I paused to take a deep breath and look back over the false horizon of boulders and shrubs that concealed one of earths finest fisheries. I could still hear the water rushing below, and although by lungs were burning and my muscles ached I felt incredibly lucky to be able to feel every bit of it, and I knew both Sean and I would be back for more.
Seven hundred and eighty feet of mud and loose rock rose up before me as I prepared to push out of the canyon. My felt soled boots came in handy while I was wading around on slippery rocks in 1200cfs current, but they barely held their purchase on the steep, slimy sides of the canyon making every step that much more taxing to my already stiff muscles. I lurched up the canyon wall and between panting breaths let out an exclamation to my friend Sean, "I've been dreading this all day!" He just smiled and shook his head. Whining about it wasn't going to get us out any faster. I could feel my muscles begin to burn from lactic acid buildup and I was out of breath after the first quarter of the ascent, but like Sean I could only smile and move forward. We wouldn't have gone down there in the first place if it wasn't worthwhile. The fishing that day had been epic. While anglers all over the Henry's fork were being blown around in their drift boats and pelted with stinging rain, unable to hold position or even cast in the freezing wind the deep canyon provided an
insulated buffer so that all Sean and I endured was hazy skies and an all day drizzle. Despite the mucky weather, fish lay behind every logjam and stacked on every good seam greedily slurping
our dry salmon fly imitations and nymph droppers. Many little ones came to hand, but there were some nice ones too and a couple angry lunkers which produced drag screaming runs and hectic downstream pursuits. We were in there for the fish, and the fish were in there for the salmonflies. The giant stonefly, pteronarchys californicus. Fills the dreams of almost fly fishermen worldwide. It doesn't take much imagination to look at the 2-3 inch long insect and picture the frenzy that might ensue when thousands of them fill the skies and riverbanks, clumsily slapping the water to deposit their eggs or falling from rocks and tree branches to become easy targets for the hungry trout below. T
he Gulch is one of those magical places where for a few weeks out of the year this frenzy takes place, and we were there at just the beginning of it. Salmonflies coated the rocks, trees, and riverbanks in various stages of their mating cycles. 
They crawled up our waders and fell out of trees onto our necks. There were hundreds of them inside every fat belly of every brown and rainbow we caught. The frenzy was not quite underway, but in the not so far future we knew we would be there for it. As we exited the canyon I paused to take a deep breath and look back over the false horizon of boulders and shrubs that concealed one of earths finest fisheries. I could still hear the water rushing below, and although by lungs were burning and my muscles ached I felt incredibly lucky to be able to feel every bit of it, and I knew both Sean and I would be back for more.
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