Castwork: Bob Lamm

Castwork: Bob Lamm

Henry's Fork of the Snake River – Last Chance, Idaho

There is a wild, mystical air about Yellowstone National Park. A good many fly fishers can feel it. None of them know why.

You can stay away from Yellowstone for many years, travel all over the world, gaze upon bigger, more rugged mountains. You can watch elk and moose roam through other valleys. You can fish in stronger, swifter rivers, for bigger more exotic fish. But when you finally come back here, the Yellowstone feeling will resurface. It never goes away.

The Native Americans who lived in this region, where Idaho, Wyoming, and Montana meld together believed there was magic in this land. Today, even a cynic will agree that the landscape here feels a bit wilder, a bit closer to history. On calm mornings, one cannot shake the eerie sense that mankind never can really control this domain. No matter how many campers line the highways in and out of Yellowstone Park, and no matter how many fishermen float the lakes and rivers, this region will never be tamed.

It takes a special person to accept these ground rules and thrive in this environment, whether they are ranchers, farmers, or fishing guides. It is a place where a lot of people come and go. Those who strike a peace with the land eventually become part of the landscape themselves.

And in the business of catching trout with flies, there are scant few characters as ensconced in this landscape as Bob Lamm.

* * *

We had heard plenty of good things about Bob Lamm before we ever met him. His hard-earned reputation is based on over 25 years guiding experience, but perhaps more notably, he is known for producing results on one of the toughest dry-fly rivers in North America, the Henry’s Fork of Idaho’s Snake River.

When we first hooked up with Bob, we found a man of interesting contrasts. He is kind and humble, cordial and witty. On land, he works at a frantic pace, lashing ropes over trailers, bounding in and out of Mike Lawson’s fly shop, plotting out his attack plan for the day. On the water, he is smooth and soft spoken, patient and pragmatic, as he steers his clients downstream, peering across the surface for rings that indicate rising trout.

Bob drives a dusty old Suburban, packed full of boat motors, nets, blankets, coolers, batteries, and other fishing gear. Spools of monofilament and Coke cans sometimes tumble out the sides when the doors swing open.

He wears a tattered felt cowboy hat with grasshopper flies stuck in the hatband. His weathered eyes offer a remarkably gentle contrast to his freckled, wind-chapped cheeks. A scruffy, close-trimmed beard outlines a paddle-shaped jaw.

When you glance his way, nine times out of ten you find Bob Lamm smiling.

* * *

Like most folks in this area, Bob comes from someplace else. His “real home” is Sedalia, Missouri, a small town about 100 miles “straight east” from Kansas City. He still has a farm-belt accent and uses distinctive phrases like “that’s a good little deal” and “it works pretty slick.”

He started fishing at a young age and recounts how his dad had him up at sunrise on many Missouri mornings to set out after bluegill and bass. He eventually found an interest in the trout streams of the Ozarks when a high school guidance counselor turned him on to fly fishing.

Bob Lamm first came to the Henry’s Fork region after high school in 1974, taking a job behind the counter of a West Yellowstone fly shop. One day, a guide called in with a hurt back, and Bob filled in for him. Hence, one of the most prolific trout guiding careers in the West had begun. Much the same way that a batting practice injury to New York Yankee first baseman Wally Pipp opened the door for a young man named Lou Gehrig to don pinstripes and embark upon what would become the longest consecutive streak of games played in Major League Baseball.

“You might not always know why things work out the way they do, but I do believe it’s usually for a reason,” Bob says. “When I’m out fishing, I never wonder what I’m doing here or how I got to this place in life. I feel like I belong.”

* * * 

Over the past 25 years, Bob learned the various rivers, lakes, and creeks along the Idaho-Montana-Wyoming borders, committing to memory what the fish ate, when they ate it, and even why they ate it. There now are few guides, if any, in the area who consistently can find the out-of-the-way places on busy days as well as Bob Lamm. There are fewer still who can get clients to hook as many big trout.

Stopping for lunch and some rest along the banks of the Henry’s Fork one afternoon, Bob elaborates, from a guide’s perspective, on the appeal of this region.

“With so much diversity here, a guide has to be on his or her toes. If you are, you have plenty of opportunities to be successful. The good thing is that there are so many places to fish. Well, actually that can be a good thing or a bad thing, because you can outsnooker yourself, looking for that perfect place to fish on any given day. It might just be right out your own back door.”

In Bob’s case, he means that literally. His summer home is a stylish cabin in Pinehaven, on the elegant brown drake waters of the Henry’s Fork, just a few miles below the bottom bridge boundary of the Harriman State Park.

* * *

Bob has fished many other rivers throughout the West. Years ago he even considered moving to the Sun Valley area but could not pull himself away from Last Chance, Idaho and the Henry’s Fork. Having spent over half his life guiding, he says he never has found an area that offered enough challenges, “enough water,” to pull him away.

He goes on to explain that there is more to the Henry’s Fork than just big, tough fish and famous bugs. Anglers all around the world come to walk these banks, trying to measure themselves against these fish and this river, and most of them come up short. The place as a whole–the river, the fish, and the landscape–can humble just about anyone. What is left is a small culture of people who have thrown away money, promotions, even families to be on this river. You would be hard pressed to find a community more committed to fly fishing anywhere.

“There is another level to fly fishing most folks hardly understand, and may never get close to. You can say you’re a die hard. But those who really are, fish the Henry’s Fork.”

* * *

There is no denying that the Henry’s Fork is one of the most beautiful and challenging places to fish with a fly rod. Even as the sport grows and more people visit the river, the sense of wild adventure to be found here hardly diminishes.

In a sense, the Henry’s Fork is to the angler what Pebble Beach is to the golfer. A lot of folks come here to play, but there are not many who score well on this course.

Part of Bob Lamm’s connection with the area is that he respects and even embraces its harsh, unforgiving character. In fact, he cannot contain the wry sense of satisfaction that comes with the knowledge that the Henry’s Fork can humble the inexperienced or overconfident angler.

“This ain’t the Green or the Bighorn, where you can show up on the right day and catch a bunch of fish, no matter how good you really are. The purple Patagonia yuppie guys can go into the Railroad Ranch and get their ass kicked, plain and simple.”

* * *

Hooking and landing a 20-inch Henry’s Fork rainbow may be one of, if not the most, difficult fresh water achievements for an angler to accomplish. A six-fish day on the Railroad Ranch is something you will tell your grandchildren about.

“The difference here on the Henry’s Fork is the fish,” Bob tells us. He believes the rainbows of the Henry’s Fork may be the smartest trout on the planet.

Others maintain that fickle insect populations, fishing pressure, and summering pelicans have combined to make the rainbows so amazingly difficult to catch, but Bob does not buy it. There is no fish held in higher esteem by Bob Lamm than an old Henry’s Fork rainbow.

“These fish are tough, and they’re pretty damn smart. More than any I’ve seen. But the reward is, if you’re any good, you have a real chance at getting some 20-inch fish on dry flies, just about any day of the season. But you’d better be good, or don’t even mess around with the Henry’s Fork. People who drink from this cup of tea every day eventually get wired into what’s going on, and they understand how this place works. But it takes a while.”

* * *

Bob once was named Fly Rod and Reel magazine’s national guide of the year, but modestly admits that all the award earned him was some extra ribbing from his friends. He still works out of Mike Lawson’s shop in Last Chance, Idaho. His schedule is booked months in advance and 95 percent of his business consists of return clients or return referrals. He has thought of someday opening his own shop but always has changed his mind.

“Every now and then I think maybe I ought to be the ‘madam’ instead of one of the ‘hookers,’ but I have a pretty good deal as it is,” he jokes.

Though he has grown to somewhat legendary status in the field, rubbing shoulders with the corporate elite, magazine publishers, and the occasional international dignitary, he says he does not have much time for an ego.

“Being able to call up the bank and get straight through to the CEO, that’s pretty neat,” he explains. “But I never really think much about that, because who you know never helps one bit on the river.”

* * *

Armed with a camouflaged john boat and a couple of float tubes, we set out with Bob to fish Henry’s Lake, searching for staging brook trout, hybrids, and hopefully, a few cutthroat trout. The short trip ends up taking twenty extra minutes as we come upon cowboys driving a couple hundred head of cattle north along the highway to new grazing pastures. At the lake, we still can hear the hooves and groans of the herd and see the giant plume of dust rising over the tree line.

Bob chuckles at our wide-eyed stares and tells Liz that she has got time to head back and photograph the drive if she wants. At the launch, Bob is a flurry of action and few words, hustling around the boat, readying motors, anchor lines, and boxes of flies.

We slip away from the Henry’s Lake boat launch, and Bob talks about the lake and the fish we will be chasing. The native cutthroats ancestors have swum these waters as long as man can remember. They were here when Lewis and Clark explored the region nearly 200 years ago. The lake and Henry’s Fork of the Snake River were named after Major Henry, who led an exploratory expedition to the area, one that ultimately had to eat its horses to survive the unforgiving winter encountered in this river valley.

Just before it is time to get down to the business of catching fish, Bob reaches for a tube of sunscreen, rubs liberal globs onto both cheeks and down both arms, smiles, and says, “I always put on my warpaint before going into battle.”

* * *

Bob is a “seasonal guide.” Like Yellowstone Park itself, most of this area shuts down in the winter, yielding to locals and diehard snowmobilers.

“That means I make hay when the sun shines.” When we run into Bob Lamm on Labor Day weekend, he proudly explains that he has not had a day off since May 23.

After five months of seven-day-a-week guiding, he drives home to a medium-sized farm in Missouri, which he bought with guiding money saved over the years. There, he guides goose, duck, and pheasant hunting trips. When the hunting seasons close, he turns to his other love, training hunting dogs through the winter and into early spring. Then he packs up and heads back for another long summer in Idaho.

He is single with no kids, though he has a girlfriend. He says he worries that she will leave him someday because of his nomadic lifestyle, but he is not in any hurry to make dramatic life changes. Although he admits to some regrets, he seems satisfied living a life of seasons.

“I got my life timed like a Mallard drake. When the snow starts flying and it starts to get cold, I get the hell out of here. But I’m back in the spring.”

* * *

According to Bob, being a good guide is part memory, part innovation. “You have to be a good teacher. You need to remember what works, try things new. You also need someone willing to listen to you. So much of becoming a good fisherman is listening.”

He is credited with being the first guide to start “walking his boat” down through the Box Canyon section of the Henry’s Fork. By letting his clients float, grabbing hold of the drift boat’s stern, and gently slipping downstream, he says he is able to properly position anglers for longer and more accurate downstream casts. Moreover, he avoids the banging and clatter even the best oarsmen cannot avert when they bump through the waves.

“It’s a pretty slick deal, walking the boat. Of course, it’s only a good idea when you know where the deep runs start, where not to step, and when to get your butt back behind the oars. And I usually get my ears pierced back here once or twice a summer.”

* * *

One afternoon on the Henry’s Fork, right in the middle of the Railroad Ranch, we watch a large trout slide out from beneath a bank to slurp down a grasshopper. The fisherman in the bow lets fly a perfect, downstream cast, 45-degrees from the boat. The fish rises again, but the angler reacts too quickly, jerking the hopper away before the hook is set.

The gut response is to try another cast, but Bob grabs the fly rod.

“Don’t try him now. He won’t go for that business again,” he warns. He quietly lowers the anchor and waits.

Bob ties on another fly, a different and slightly smaller hopper pattern. A carbon copy cast produces another charge. This time the hook is set with more deliberation, and we land the fish. Bob holds up the 20-inch rainbow and points to its abnormally-shaped jaw.

“You think a whopper-jawed old guy like this would have bit at the same fly twice?”

* * *

Bob Lamm is not afraid to work hard. A typical day with Bob might include a morning on Hebgen Lake, a quick lunch on the road, and an afternoon float through the Box Canyon on the Henry’s Fork.

“I don’t mind working different angles, if I have nice clients who want to get after it.”

One of his favorite trips is chasing “gulpers” on the Madison arm of Hebgen Lake. On still mornings, throngs of big browns and rainbows will suck speckled-wing and Trico mayflies from the surface until the wind and waves put them down. Bob has an electric motor mounted on a long canoe, so he can slip up on the fish quietly. Often, the slightest human disturbance will break the direction or rhythm of gulping trout, and Bob is keenly aware of this fact.

Some of the first guiding Bob ever did was on Hebgen chasing gulpers, and he still thinks it is fun. “It’s as close as any trout fisherman will come to bonefishing. Stalking fish. Timing casts. Perfect presentations and trying not to spook the fish. It all matters.”

* * *

On our last day with Bob, we are about fished out. The trout stop rising, a ragged wind starts blowing in our faces, and the low water and weeds make it hard to push the boat through the lower Henry’s Fork. Then it starts to rain.

Another boat paddles alongside, and Bob, never having lost his enthusiasm, shouts over, “Well guys, I’d say it’s time to call in the coon hounds and piss on the campfire.”

We get to Osborne Bridge, haul out, and all drive down to Bob’s house. He shows us his hard-working dogs and has them retrieve bumpers from the thick brush and river.

For them, and for Bob, it is almost time to head home to Missouri. Time to pack up and put to bed one more season on the Henry’s Fork.

* * * 

River Notes

We survive the bumpy, late-season flight from Salt Lake to Bozeman no worse for wear. Pick up Liz at the airport and head south through the Gallatin Valley for Island Park, Idaho, and the Henry’s Fork. The roads and rivers along the way seem remarkably bare for a Labor Day weekend, marking the end of summer and another season of tourist sprawl. For three days, we make our home upstairs at the A-Bar Motel in a three-bed room above the smoke, carousing, and dance floor. Hardly ideal, but when you can fish one of the country’s finest spring creeks out your back door, sit at the bar in waders without anyone complaining, and bump into renowned fly tier, Rene’ Harrop, at dinnertime, you put up with the distractions.

The fishing on the Henry’s Fork is as tough as it gets. Prolific midsummer hatches have run out of gas and the fall ones have not begun, making the famous rainbows unwilling to rise and difficult to locate. But Bob has very little patience or respect for fishing excuses, so we dig in and concentrate our efforts on windward banks in the afternoons. Floating the Railroad Ranch in Bob’s dory, we cast to the miles of overhanging grass with hoppers, ants, beetles, and large rubber-legged concoctions the locals, laughingly, refer to as “Indian jewelry.” Our hard work pays off as we drum up about a dozen “eats” a day from rainbows that seem more like small steelhead than fish caught and released a couple times a summer.

The consensus among a half-dozen Railroad Ranch fishing icons and guides during evening gatherings at the A-Bar reveals what we have seen first hand on the river; the Henry’s Fork has rebounded slowly but significantly since the 1992 Island Park Reservoir rotenone disaster, which flushed thousands of tons of sediment into the river, choking acres of critical fish, invertebrate, and wildlife habitat. Everyone we talk to acknowledges that the tireless work of the Henry’s Fork Watershed Council, the Henry’s Fork Foundation, and countless other citizens, scientists, and agencies have contributed to the heightened awareness and ongoing reclamation of the river’s many threats and impacts. Irresponsible water use, deteriorating water quality, and agricultural-based bank erosion on the lower river top the list of problems being addressed by this small but incredibly active community. Everybody here, rancher or fisherman, understands how much this river is worth, Bob says. There is only one Henry’s Fork.

Not choosing to spend entire, difficult days on the Harriman Ranch, Bob shows us two well-known lakes in the mornings. At Henry’s Lake, brook trout staging at nearby inlets and scavenging cutthroats respond well to clear sinking lines and olive Woolly Buggers. On the Madison arm of Hebgen Lake, we slip around in Bob’s electric powered canoe and take shots at free-rising browns and rainbows “gulping” on the matted acres of Trico and Callibaetis mayflies. And every place we fish with Bob there are new and different boats and motors, reels and flies, all specifically tailored to meet the unique fishing needs of the rivers and lakes in his backyard. What never changes, amid the tireless hours of riverwork, is Bob’s quiet confidence and humor, his dogged work ethic, and his timeless respect for some of the toughest trout water on the planet.

Tip: When large, wary trout refuse substantial fly patterns like hoppers or tarantulas on the first pass, control your instinct to immediately recast. The fish has seen your fly and thought better of it. Wait five minutes to rest the fish’s nerves, tie on a different (maybe smaller) pattern, and try the cast again. You might be pleasantly surprised.

This chapter is excerpted from Castwork: Reflections of Fly Fishing Guides and the American West (2002). Photo proofs: Liz Steketee