And Then He Did It

Boasting the “largest selection of T-shirts” (not) in town, the crew at the local fly shop/raft rental/and general hangout in Alpine, Wyoming, pointed us toward Greys River Road. “Turn right at the Dollar Store and head up about 12 miles,” they said. “You’ll hit a meadow with foot access to the river.” They promised Cutthroat, Rainbow, Brown, and Brook trout lurking in cut banks, riffles, pools, and slow, curving bends. As we headed out the door, they added, “Don’t worry — the road gets better.” That was a lie.

The road winds alongside the river, climbing up and away, then dropping down again — much like the drive along the Crooked River outside Prineville, Oregon. With rumbling, rolling rapids and stretches of quiet, clear water, the Greys River is stunning.

By the time we rattled to a stop at the meadow, we were dust-covered from a flurry of ATVers who sped past like angry bees. And we were hesitant to drive any farther — partly out of sympathy for our poor rental. Wouldn’t you know it? Someone was already in our spot. Dang.

No worries. He was friendly. “I’m leaving,” he said, motioning us over. “You can park behind me.” His dog gave us a sniff of approval.

After carefully navigating a minefield of potholes, we came to a stop. The man approached our window — friendly, talkative, clearly sweating in camo neoprene waders on an 89-degree day. Outgoing? Yes. Overheated? Definitely.

He asked where we’d been fishing. We told him we’d hired a guide on the Salt River, as we often do when fishing new water. He asked the guide’s name and mentioned he hadn’t been fly fishing long — and wanted some instruction so he “wouldn’t be doing it all wrong for 20 years.”

Most days, he said, he was a FedEx driver in Jackson Hole. But whenever he had a few spare hours, he made for the river. The Greys winds between the Salt River Range to the west and the Wyoming Range to the east, both boasting peaks above 11,000 feet. He looked around and said, “It’s calm and quiet out here. A good place to be. My wife makes me take the dog so she knows I’ll come home.” My husband suggested he bring dog food next time. He laughed.

We asked if he’d caught anything. That’s when he reached into his moist chestal region and pulled out a cell phone.

“Yes!” he said. “Wanna see a picture?”

Of course we did.

He showed us a slightly blurred shot of a gorgeous, thick-shouldered Westslope Cutthroat. “Nice fish!” we said. “What’d you catch it on?”

He blinked. “I have no idea.”

“I kinda lost it when I landed him,” he said, grinning. “I threw my rod in the river, grabbed my line — thank God nobody was watching — then my net, and my camera. I had to get a picture for my wife!”

This wasn’t just any catch. It was his first-ever fish on a fly rod. After a year and a half of trying.

“She asked me recently,” he said, “‘You’ve been going fishing for over a year and never caught anything. Why do you keep doing it?’ I told her… I just gotta go.”

As he drove off — first fish picture in hand, ready to show his wife (and anyone else who stood still for more than 10 seconds) — I thought to myself: I can relate.