Castwork: Patty Reilly

Castwork: Patty Reilly

Snake River – Jackson, Wyoming

You cannot appreciate the power of the Teton Range until you step out into the open air and stare it down in person. Feel its ancient granite breath. Watch it work in real time.  

We pull off near Jackson Lake to take photographs and witness the jagged mountains tear cumulous clouds into wisps of vapor. At the moment, these clouds are just seeds of storms, barely covering the faces of Grand Teton and Mt. Moran for brief moments before drifting out over the open plains like smoke, or vanishing altogether. Every blink or diverted stare alters the image of this landscape.  

The seasons change quickly in northwestern Wyoming, faster than in other regions of the Rockies. As the weather rolls through the Tetons, winter is being born in the high crags above the tree line. In a few weeks, it will pour over the east slope, down the Snake River Valley, and make its home until May.

The long-time residents of Jackson respect and have adapted to these abrupt, late-season changes. Patty Reilly has lived in this river valley for nearly 30 years. Though she has spent much of her life moving from place to place, covering thousands of miles, even different hemispheres, in search of new rivers, adventures, and trout, she always ends up back in Jackson. This is her home.

As such, Patty intentionally chose early October for our get-together. She thinks we can ride this razor-thin line, squeeze out some shots at opportunistic trout, and tap into the spaces vacated by the summer crowds. She wants to take her chances with the wind, weather, and trout of the Snake River before losing the fall altogether. Patty has a plan in mind, and we will need to stick to it.

* * *

Early the next morning, we drive west from Jackson in fresh snow, across the Snake River to the small town of Wilson. There, we bank south on a road that winds us to the entrance of the Crescent H Ranch. The Crescent H is like a setting from Shane, an authentic western ranch, with a large, pine-log dining hall, stable and corrals, various out buildings, and a series of neatly arranged guest cottages, all gathered in a glade of aspens, facing east toward Storm Peak and the vast expanses of Wyoming. The trees have turned on the season, burning the foothills in uneven patterns of maize, rust, and auburn. 

We find Patty in the fishing shop, a hewn cabin set next to a small trout pond. Wicker creels and fly rods hang from pegs on the outside wall. Rocking chairs on a wraparound porch are arranged to face the tiny watering hole and a school of enormous fine-spotted cutthroats milling around the surface. Inside, we find Patty wearing librarian’s glasses and a wool sweater, a different person than the hard-charging river guide who had driven into Jackson last night to meet us.  

She says she needs another ten minutes or so to finish up behind the desk, but we can tell she is anxious to get out and fish. She plans to show us the ranch’s private spring creeks, and with any luck, a handful of its native cutthroat inhabitants. But first she must finish taking the year-end inventory of flies with her summer intern, a handsome college kid from somewhere in California.  

As the head of the fishing program for the ranch, she runs the guide and lesson programs, handles retail responsibilities, and manages the shop staff. The business end can be tedious, she says, but for a person who has spent much of the past 25 years in the elements, being inside for a while has been a nice change of pace. Seems like a dream assignment to us.

“The ranch has a camp-like atmosphere, the same families and kids, coming back year after year,” she says. “And it’s sort of sad when it all comes to a close at the end of the summer. But when you’re a kid, there’s always somewhere else to go, some new adventure to look forward to. It makes the seasons pass quicker.”

* * *  

Patty Reilly is a person who has chased one adventure after another for most of her life. She grew up in New York and went to college in Boston, and you still can hear subtle hints of the urban east in Patty’s westernized accent. She followed a liberal arts curriculum, and even spent several months on an anthropology study in Peru, establishing a personal connection with South America that would evolve in different forms throughout the years.

She discovered the Jackson region in the early 70s on a roundabout drive home from Missoula, Montana. She knew the first time she drove through town that she belonged. Though she has worked and traveled extensively, on different waters and countries for weeks, sometimes months on end, Jackson always has been her base of operations, and the place she first learned how to fish.   

The Snake River is where Patty took up fly fishing and where she learned to row a boat, not long after she arrived. Like many young folks in Jackson at that time, Patty worked in the restaurant business, fueled by the town’s growing tourist industry. Fishing was a pastime she fell into at the urging of friends, chasing trout on the spring creeks before and after work, and rowing the Snake on rare days off.  

Always mesmerized by the “next river over,” she quickly tackled the complexities of the Firehole, Lewis, and Madison Rivers in Yellowstone National Park, then the South Fork and the Henry’s Fork of the Snake just over the Idaho divide. Fishing became a 7-day-a-week obsession and, eventually, Patty’s career. Many of the locals figured she was a natural, as she promptly ascended through the ranks of local guides and anglers, and doing so at a time when being a female in the sport was a rare occurrence.

“The interesting thing is that I never set out to learn to fly fish so I could be a guide,” she recounts. “It just happened. The real reason I was attracted to fly fishing was that it was easier to release a fish from a fly than it was from a lure. I’ve always enjoyed the experience of letting them go.”

* * *

Patty shrugs off the notion of being a “pioneer” among women fly fishers, preferring instead, to point out the accomplishments of other female notables, especially those of her mentors, women like Joan Wulff. Over the years, Patty has taught classes and led guided trips specifically for women’s groups. She has been a friend and confidant to many women fly fishers and industry professionals, people like her friend Lori-Ann Murphy of Reel Women Fly Fishing Adventures, who have been able to break down traditional demographic barriers and open new opportunities in the angling world. Whether she wants to admit it or not, Patty has been an important figure and influence in the world of women’s fly fishing and the sport at large.

“I’ve never really considered myself a crusader for women in fly fishing. I’m not out to prove anything,” she explains. “I think we need new and motivated participants, people who will take up after causes and care about rivers and resources, whether they’re men or women.”

For Patty, the river guide faces a number of challenges, and being female may or may not be one of them. Rowing, spotting fish, dealing with clients all present their own challenges, and often leave little boat time for tackling “heavier” gender issues. She says people who tend to get hung up on a lot of male-and-female politics do not have their heads in the fishing game anyhow.    

“From a physical standpoint, it didn’t take me long to learn how to move around the boat,” says Patty. “A good guide can use the power of the river to their advantage. As for wading, knowledge trumps power as far as figuring out where, or where not to step.

“When you think about it, it all really comes down to a guide’s comfort level and their ability to teach other people. I’ve always been real confident with my knowledge on the river–to guide here, you have to be. The male-female thing tends to work itself out.”

* * *

We follow Patty in her Jeep Cherokee down the hill, along a gravel trail to a pull-off by one of the spring creeks. The water is dark, slick, and weedy, accentuated by an occasional riffle where the main current pours through diversion pipes, or collides with natural breaks along the banks.

“Gearing up is the hardest part of fly fishing,” grins Patty, as she slips into her Gore-Tex waders. One of us decides to try an olive Woolly Bugger, the other (the die-hard) ties on a small Blue-winged Olive dry fly. Patty reserves judgment, instead graciously offering her guests first pass at the run.

“These fish can be a bit grabby,” she warns. “But they’re spooky, too. Keep as low as you can.” We each catch a small cutthroat or two, then yield to the guide, and invite her to join us. This unspoiled water, clear and cold, brimming with thousands of tiny insects and wild trout, is a gift, too much of one to be fished alone.  

Patty works the stream with deliberation and grace, methodically stalking with her shoulder close to the grassy bank, never creating ripples, seldom making noise. She ties on a tiny Parachute Adams, but casts sparingly, dropping smart-bomb presentations at the noses of sporadic surface feeders. Her presence in the river is a stark contrast to most anglers, her slender legs knifing cleanly through the current like a heron.      

Patty spots a group of fish working the surface near a deep, undercut bank. Staring at the risers, Patty suggests tying on a Mahogany Dun, which we do. The first cast settles neatly near the back of the school and scores. We are surprised by the subtlety of the take and the intensity of the ensuing fight. We catch a quick glimpse of gold flash as a healthy, fine-spotted fish furrows in front of us, then races downstream. Patty laughs.

“That’s what I call the ‘light-up,’” she says, noting the looks on our faces. “It’s the essence of the sport, watching people beam with that hook set. No matter what you look like, no matter where you are, the light-up is the same in every language.”

* * *

Watching Patty Reilly work, it is clear that she has spent time on water all over North and South America. Her powerful cast is born of the saltwater flats, her cat-like eyes and approach reflect years on the astonishingly clear waters of Argentina, and when fish-fighting, her grip is that of a steelheader’s. Patty has been to parts of this world most of us only have imagined. Her travels are fueled part by wanderlust, part by cultural and anthropological interests, as well as a need to continually discover “new water” and fishing adventures.

Patty’s travels have taken her to the Marls, the Middle Bight on Andros Island, and the turquoise flats of Ascension Bay, among other places. In these settings, she developed the tools to work the open flats in pursuit of bonefish, tarpon, and the most elusive prize, permit. Skills like the slow-stalk, the squint-gaze to locate feeding fish in nervous water, and an impressive, wind-busting double-haul cast.    

Our friend Tony Fotopulos from Glenwood Springs, Colorado, bumps into Patty sporadically on saltwater trips. He told us the story of working a flat in Mexico, when he witnessed a laser-beam cast, powering through his peripheral vision to a school of out-of-reach, tailing bonefish, some thirty meters to his left. When he looked over his shoulder to see who owned the powerful stroke, he was surprised by the slight statuette. The angler interrupted a series of short strips with her line hand to share a polite wave. It was Patty.

“That cast wasn’t a one-time deal,” he recalls. “Effortless and accurate, but very powerful–the kind that takes a lifetime to create.”

* * *

In the late 1970s, Patty partnered with A.J. DeRosa and Stan Chatham to found Safaris Acuaticos, an upstart venture that catered to guiding ambitious Americans throughout northern Patagonia. They based their business in Bariloche, Argentina, and were among the first groups of American guides to haul rubber rafts to the Lake Region, introducing float fishing to what are now some of the most legendary waterways in southern Argentina, rivers like Rio Alumine’, the Rio Collon Cura, the Rio Malleo, and the Rio Limay.  

Patty and her partners opened the eyes of many to the vast and unspoiled bounties of German brown trout and McCloud River rainbows that had been planted in the early 1900s, but left unmolested throughout most of the century. It was a time of adventure and continual discovery, scouting rivers and working with local authorities to secure national park permits, a process made interesting by the fact that she spoke no Spanish, and that the Argentines never before had seen a female river guide.   

Romantic visions of unspoiled trout and wide-open, Argentine landscape, however, usually went out the window within the first few days of what inevitably became months of grueling work. A typical season often amounted to 70 or 80 consecutive workdays, book-ended by two days of transcontinental travel. Eventually, the partners sold the business, though Patty still returns to Argentina as often as she can. She says she still is captivated by the Patagonia region, because, situated at approximately 41 degrees south latitude (roughly the equivalent of the Colorado-Wyoming border), the character of this land shows her glimpses of what her own home must have been like 75 to 100 years ago.

“It’s a world apart, yet in many ways, there are remarkable similarities,” she explains. “The rugged mountains, the cattle plains, the big waters, all suggest to me things about Wyoming, and what it must have been like before my time. I often think of Argentina when I’m home.”

* * *

After her years in South America, Patty spent time guiding for steelhead on Oregon’s North Umpqua River. Now, even by conservative standards, steelheading is a nasty business, one that involves bitterly cold and unforgiving weather, elusive and incredibly powerful sea-run fish, and large, tough-to-read water. As such, the steelhead business tends to appeal only to authentic river rogues. These outcasts, the hardest of the hard-core fish junkies, boozers, cussers, and some of the otherwise toughest sons-of-bitches on the planet, tend to be the fellows you find working steelhead rigs and long spey rods late in the fall. According to another former and well-respected steelhead guide, Patty more than held her own in these environs.

“Patty’d let ‘em have it, if someone was screwing it up in her boat,” he said. “Word soon got around that Patty Reilly didn’t take any shit from anyone. And she pulled it off because she had seen more and done more in the trout fishing world than most of the guides and clients put together.”

Patty laughs when we relay the comment, then politely says that steelheading days certainly could get tough after adding up the weather and the number casts needed to catch just one fish. In typical fashion, she would rather not talk about what is required to motivate tough-case clients, and turns the conversation to a more private perspective of her years of guiding and travel.

“How else does a gal like me get to see so much of the world and get paid for it?” she asks. “I spent a good part of my life living out of a suitcase, and eventually, all the rowing and working would tighten up the nerves in my neck and my hands would go numb. I was ready to come indoors for a while, but there are days that I miss being out. I truly do.”

* * *   

Late in the day, we decide we have had enough of spring creek fishing at the Crescent H, though it is tough to back off when you have seven miles of pristine water and the fish in a cooperative mood. Patty asks us to hang around and help her with a project. She wants us to catch some of the big cutthroats from the shop’s pond, then move them down to the larger lakes on the lower property. Rough duty. We oblige.

Pulling small streamers through the heart of the pond, we are able to hook a couple dozen three-to-five-pound trout, which we quickly pile into pond-filled beer coolers for the short trek to the lakes. On the ride down, Patty lets us in on a little secret: The Crescent H has been sold in a $50 million land deal. She is pretty sure that the guest ranch and all its trappings will be gone by spring. The new owners plan to subdivide and sell multi-acre parcels with trophy homes for frightening sums of money.

As we put the news into perspective, we wonder about Patty, where she will go and what she will do next. Then we think about the fish, the creeks, and the unstoppable development in this new American west. The cutthroats will survive, even flourish with only handfuls of very rich fishermen bothering them on vacations or long weekends. The creeks, however, will become a private fishing club. Barring some miracle, we won’t ever be back, and it finally sinks in what a privilege it has been to fish here for the day.  

As Patty dumps the last cooler of fish into the lake, we notice the same thought is on her mind. She is saving these fine-spotted cutthroats from the winter freeze and whatever happens next. For no other reason than she can.

“It’s not worth getting upset about guys, these things happen,” she says on the drive up, breaking the silence in the car. “The only thing crying ever gets you is red eyes and a headache.”

* * *  

We set plans to fish Flat Creek, a public preserve just east of Jackson, the next afternoon. We make a quick stopover in a local tavern to catch the second half of the Michigan-Wisconsin football game. The Wolverines win at Camp Randall, and all is right in the world. We make the short drive north of Jackson and park in the pull-off by the highway. Patty is not far behind.

Walking across the short stretch of dry, wind-blown meadow and pocked earth, we notice a distinct chill in the west breeze. The air is mixed with fine, gray ash from a series of wildfires burning in Idaho. Again, Patty recommends a low profile. She struggles to twist a rubber-legged tarantula onto her line, then reluctantly reaches into her vest pocket for her glasses to finish the job.

“That was the saddest day in my fishing life,” she explains. “A few years ago I was up on the Henry’s Fork, and I realized I couldn’t see the eye of the hook anymore. We all get old.”

We fan out and cast at the undercut banks of the creek. Patty is first to connect, as a 17-inch cutthroat grabs her fly and struggles toward the base of a run. A few minutes later, she gently reaches under its girth, securing her fingers around its dorsal fin, then turning the fish on its side to remove the fly.

“Look at this old yellow-belly,” she marvels. “These are special fish. Unlike any others I’ve seen. They’re all the reason you’ll ever need to keep coming back to Wyoming.”

* * *

The Snake River fine-spotted cutthroat trout is the Cadillac of the trout world. Graced with sleek, rust-colored lines, responsiveness, a sturdy, powerful engine, it is a fish made in America. Turned on its side, the fish displays deep, golden-based flanks, flecked with intricate patterns of tiny black spots that extend from its gills, over its back, to concentrate on a wide, orange-shaded tail. Its anal, ventral, and pectoral fins carry an intense dark-orange-to-blood-red coloration, similar to the telltale slashes beneath the gill plates, giving the fish its moniker.

Fly fishing is different in the Jackson area than in other regions of the American West because here the exclusive focus is on catching the cutthroat. Exploring the waters for a species that is the one true “native” conjoins the angler with both nature and history. There is no feeling quite the same as staring into the Snake River, only to see a school of trout lined up to eat, as you imagine they have for hundreds of years.

The Snake River between Jackson Lake and Palisades Reservoir (including its tributaries) marks the original range of the species, though they have been planted and interspersed with other fish throughout the Rocky Mountain Range. Because the fine-spotted cutthroat does not easily hybridize with other trout, they have held the upper Snake River drainage as their elite domain. A proud breed clinging to the remnants of what was once a vast and powerful empire. It is only through the foresight, resolve, and cooperation of local conservationists, fisheries managers, and outfitters that the fine-spotted cutthroats continue to march on. Like most finite ecosystems, the cutthroats’ hangs in a fine balance. 

“People here care about the cutthroat, as more than a fish,” explains Patty. “They have come to symbolize this region, and to a certain extent, the way we view our fly fishing.”

* * *    

Patty believes that a guide’s responsibility is much more than simply “putting fish in the net.” Guiding should be about instilling ethics, recruiting advocates for the fish and rivers, and giving people the confidence and tools to learn for the rest of their angling lives. Those were gifts her mentors, people like Mel Krieger and A.J. De Rosa, shared with her. She feels obliged to pass them on.   

“Teaching is about protecting,” says Patty. “I’ve discovered over the years that blaming ‘meat throwers’ or bait-fishermen for declining fisheries probably isn’t accurate, or even that fair. The ‘dabblers’ are the ones you really have to worry about–people who get into the fly fishing game just deep enough to become dangerous. These people aren’t committed enough to worry about doing things the right way–they never think about their impact on the fish, the rivers, or the environment.”

But Patty does not fault these folks. She says she understands that some people will only have “their pilots lit so much.” In the end, all she hopes is that people will spend more time, regardless of their interest level, focused on the little things: releasing fish gently, using barbless hooks, not wading carelessly through spawning beds–all to ensure the sport remains a quality experience for others who follow.

“Most people have good hearts and good intentions, particularly in the fly fishing world,” she describes. “The asses are the ones who just don’t get it. In all the years I’ve been guiding, I’ve only seen a handful of people like that.”

* * *

On Sunday morning, Patty decides she would like to float the Snake River. So, shrugging off two inches of fresh snowfall and a biting wind chill, she hooks her boat trailer behind her Jeep, scoops us up downtown, and beats a path north toward the Jackson Dam put-in. The morning clouds are active again, wrapping around Mt. Moran to our west, forewarning a cold day on the river.   

Arriving at the boat launch (nothing more than a steep, gravel slide to the river), Patty is unfastening tie-downs and lobbing oars toward the water. She unhooks the boat from its trailer, then shoves it down the embankment with a forceful kick. Patty’s boat is a South Fork Skiff, an odd hybrid of a standard dory and john boat, boxy with a shallow draft, and with low-cut profiles to keep the craft from spinning freely in the winds that buffet the river. 

Patty tucks around the back of her truck to slip on another pair of long johns, before putting on waders. Once she has us piled in the boat, she pulls on neoprene gloves, weighs anchor, and shoves us into the current with another kick from her felt-soled boot. She is rigged up with nymphs, feeling like the chances for surface action are slim to none in this wind. Besides, she says, this will be a short trip, enough to catch a flavor of her home river.

Patty works the oars with her whole body, from her shoulders down through her legs. She tilts and weaves to leverage the current, but her face never strains, only smiles. She is in her element, rowing the open riffles of the Snake.

She tells us to get ready, because there is a drop-off on the right, and she wants to be sure we hit it clean on the first pass. Although many anglers malign the Snake River cutthroats for being easy to catch, or even “stupid,” Patty is not convinced they are pushovers.   

“The thing about the Snake River is that even though we’re fishing below a dam, you never know for sure what the fish will be up to. It’s still a very wild place, and these fish can be pretty tough at times.”

* * *

By mid-morning, we each hook and land several cutthroat trout, Patty included. Most of the fish eat Prince Nymphs or Hare’s Ears, bread-and-butter patterns that usually work anywhere, at least on smaller, less-experienced fish.

Patty decides to anchor on a dry gravel bar, so we can walk across and fish the swift channel on the other side. We suggest she take the high end of the run, which she does. As we work the deeper current downstream, we cannot help but notice Patty at work, high-lining along the seam, rod balanced neatly above her shoulder. She repeats a series of short, controlled casts with a typewriter motion.

She soon hooks and lands a decent cutthroat about 15-inches long, slides him to her boots, and gently releases the fish. She repeats the process several more times. Eventually, she breaks her rhythm, looks at us and points a thumb downstream. It is time to move on. We are not very far from the Oxbow Bend access. We can have lunch there and call it a day.

“I think those fish had seen enough of us,” she smiles. “We ought to float on by, before those old guilty feelings start to set in.”

* * *

Over lunch, we ask Patty where she is headed next, what far away river or saltwater flat sits on her agenda.

“I think I’ll stick around here for a while, then probably set out on some trips next year–work as a gun for hire, maybe do a Bahamas trip, maybe South America.”  

She says that she is thinking about starting up her own business, setting up travel for individuals and large groups to places like Argentina, Chile, and to the best bonefish flats around. As we sit here by an old, crumbled bridge, it becomes clear that Patty is already anticipating the next season, the next new adventure, though she is not certain how those stories will unfold. But it is important to have people and places to look forward to. It helps pass the time, and makes saying goodbye easier.  

“You know, I’ve never done Atlantic Salmon. Maybe Iceland or Labrador,” she smiles. “And Russia has always interested me. I’ll have to go there sooner or later.”

We shuttle up to get her trailer, then crank the boat from the river. After tossing gear in our car, we exchange hugs and head out our separate ways, Patty back to Wilson, we to Montana for a quick stopover with family before heading home. All of us hope it will not take too long for our paths to cross Patty Reilly’s again.

* * *

Riding a Delta 727 from Bozeman to Salt Lake, where we will hook up our connection to DIA; seat 11 A. It is good to be heading home.

The pilot comes on and says we are over the Grand Tetons, passing below the left side of the plane. We already had noticed. These mountains command respect and attention, even from an altitude that makes them seem no larger than tiny piles in a sandbox. The clouds have cleared off the peaks, and we even can make out the silver-blue reflections off the Snake River, wrapping beside the range and into Idaho. We wonder if Patty is back at it again today.

And at that moment, something Patty taught us comes to light. The world is as big or as small as you choose to make it, and always worth looking at.

* * *

River Notes

It takes us most of a late-September day to drive from Bozeman to Jackson Hole through the still crowded miles of Yellowstone and Teton National Parks. By the time we reach the Ranch Inn in Jackson late in the afternoon, the sun already is setting, and it is snowing lightly. Later that evening, Patty stops by our room to introduce herself and generously offers to show us around some private spring creeks at the Crescent H Ranch in the morning. The ranch has three spring creeks, named simply One, Two, and Three, all filled with run after run of Snake River fine-spotted cutthroats and enough unmolested water to keep us busy most of the day. The overnight snow and winter-like temperatures kill most of the bug activity until midday, leaving the morning to stripping black Woolly Buggers and gray Zonkers beneath the many wooden bridges and cutbanks. We land a handful of black-backed and rust-plated cutthroats that fight more like brown trout than the sluggish cutthroats we are used to. A few of the larger males are completely unmarked, and we guess that they never have been caught.

We spend our second day sneaking around the high meadows and wind-blown prairie of Flat Creek just north of town on the National Elk Refuge. The 25,000-acre refuge is home to the largest elk herd in the country (roughly 7,500 head) as well as bison, bighorn sheep, and hundreds of species of birds that summer and nest in the marshes and wetlands. A tributary of the Snake, Flat Creek is a beautifully snaking, high-meadow river, with recently rehabilitated banks and a now healthy population of 13-to-22-inch Snake River cutthroats that love to eat dry flies and frustrate anglers. On this day, however, fire-driven winds from Idaho level the surface of Flat Creek and our chances for Blue-winged Olives, Mahogany Duns, and free-rising trout. Patty helps us hunt down a couple of decent risers on small hoppers and tarantulas, but mostly, we work big streamers beneath the creek’s cavernous banks in hopes of excavating a few four-pound cutthroats. The trout, for the most part, make a mockery of our efforts, the poor weather and fishing excuses add up, and by four o’clock, we are back at the car ready for dinner.

In the morning and after hunting down her boat from a guide friend, Patty meets us below Jackson Lake Dam to spend the afternoon floating and photographing the Snake River beneath the spectacular backdrop of the Tetons and a snowed-in Mt. Moran. If there is any river in the west with enough scenic power to reduce the fishing to an afterthought status, it is the stately Snake. If you can’t get wired into this, Patty says looking around, you better go back to the drawing board. This late in the season many of the local guides have moved on to hunting or warmer bluewater climates, which leaves miles of open river, but the fishing and weather can be sporadic. Not surprisingly, we are greeted with intermittent blasts of snow, some sun, and enough wind to scatter most of the insect activity. The Snake River cutthroats, to their credit, remain active in the poor conditions, eating an assortment of peacock and rabbit-bodied nymphs everywhere Patty expects them to. Although the fish we land fail to rival the size and strength of their brethren from the spring creek tributaries, they fight with a respectable honesty. By the time we are blown off the river for a second day in a row, everybody is thinking about home. 

Tip: Patty has spent enough time sneaking around the spring creeks and rivers of Jackson and northern Patagonia to develop a short but effective list of dos and don’ts for stalking large, wary spring-creek trout. Do keep a low profile, wear subtle clothing, cast only when necessary, and be hyper-aware of every physical movement. Do not wade when you can cast from shore, high-bank fish, pound on undercut banks, or generally draw unwanted attention to yourself. Most trout worth catching spend their entire lives acclimating themselves to the perpetual cycles of predators. First rate anglers never forget this fact. 

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