Angling Publications - Index

Angling Publications - may2008 - Index

MTNSPORTSPHOTO.COM
BEAU BEASLEY HOTOS
“Be careful, Jim,” I said to my guide as he unhooked and then handed
me my first Snake River cutthroat trout. “I think he must have swallowed the
fly rather deeply, or maybe it’s in his gills since he appears to be bleeding.” My
guide, Jim Hickey, didn’t even bother to look up, much less acknowledge my
unsolicited advice. He deftly removed the hook and then handed me a rather
plump and healthy trout from the South Fork of the Snake River. “He’s just
fine,” Jim said without even a hint of sarcasm. Hickey, who releases thousands of
cutthroat trout each season, was no doubt used to the rookie mistake I’d made.
Seeing the blood-red stripe just below the gill plate, I assumed he had been injured.
“Now I see why they call them cutthroat trout,” I said rather sheepishly.
Jim just grinned and leaned back on the oars of his Clackacraft drift boat.
I settled back comfortably into the drift boat myself and thought back to the
day before. I’d flown into Jackson Hole, Wyoming by way of Denver, and I was
mightily impressed at the site of the Teton Mountains as my plane rumbled onto
the tarmac in the late afternoon. After disembarking I quickly spied my father in
law, John Johnson, standing in what passes as a waiting room in Jackson’s tiny
airport. John, who spent over 30 years in the U. S. Forest Service, is 6’ 6” tall
and easy to spot in a crowd. He was beaming at me and I could see he was as
eager to go fishing as I was. Over the years he’s become my fishing partner when
ever I go out West, and since he knew the area fairly well from his Forest Service
days, he wanted to show me the sites before heading off to our hotel.
An Angler’s Prayer
Our first stop was The Chapel of Transfiguration, a beautiful building made
of lodge pole pine that was erected by members of the Episcopal Church in 1925.
The chapel is open to travelers 24 hour a day during the summer, and offers a
wonderful view of the Tetons from a large picture window at the rear of the chapel.
It’s hard to express what one feels when standing in this special place, and I must
admit I took a moment to say a special prayer of thanks for seeing such a glorious
place. I also have to admit I asked the Almighty for a little help, since I was going
to fish the famous Snake River for the first time the next day. After leaving the
chapel John made a few quick turns and we were on Antelope Flats, and within
10 minutes we could see their namesake critters grazing and staring back at us.
A few more turns and we spotted a pair of mule deer, and as if that weren’t
enough, down along a small creek I spied a bull elk stopping for a drink. I could
hardly take it all in when John pointed to a herd of brown beasts moving along
the edge of the sage brush in the distance. I picked up John’s binoculars and
beheld my first herd of buffalo. “Wow,” I exclaimed like my 3-year-old son,
“look at the buffalo!” John, who was driving, cut his eyes at me and said curtly
“Beau, those are bison, not buffalo. Buffalo are found in Africa, while bison
inhabit the great plains of the American West.” This retort rather deflated my
enthusiasm until we rounded a corner and had to come to a complete stop when
a heard of bison (definitely not buffalo) decided to cross the road. I looked on in
amazement and snapped pictures as fast as I could. These majestic creatures have
come to symbolize the American West as much as Native Americans. I only wish
my children could’ve seen the calves as they nursed from their mothers. Some of
the bulls, which must have been pushed 800 pounds, looked on with an air of
suspicion that said, “You can take all the pictures you want, pilgrim, but if you
set foot out of that truck you’re dead meat.” I stayed in the truck.
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