Westslope Cutthroat

Westslope Cutthroat: An American Native
By Carolyn Z. Shelton (North American Sportsman)

It isn't every day you can hold history in your hands. I gazed down at the fish, it's red throat slash brilliant against the golden-green and black-spotted body. Gently removing the #14 Elk Hair Caddis wedged tight in it's upper lip, I admired the fish one last time, then carefully slid it into the water, watching it glide away into a deep green pool.

This fish, a Westslope Cutthroat Trout [Salmo Clarki Lewisi], possibly had an ancestor that swam rivers traveled by the great explorers William Lewis and Merriwether Clark nearly 200 years ago. Unlike many rivers and trout species changed by the hand of man, the blue ribbon South Fork of the Flathead River in northwestern Montana is wild. There are no non-native fish species; only native cutthroat, bull trout, and whitefish.

Deep in the Bob Marshall Wilderness, I felt strong and energized, as only a journey to wild places can do for both body and soul. I shared this journey with a wonderful, small group of people. On this trip, guided by Joe Tonsmeire, we hiked nearly 40 miles to reach the upper South Fork, then rafted and flyfished down 50 river miles, give or take a bend in the river. For eight days, the rhythm of life revolved around daylight and darkness, with perhaps a thousand glorious moments between.

"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin" Shakespeare

The first morning we separated lunch and essentials into daypacks, while heavier gear rode horseback to our evening campsite. By 10am we tightened our boot laces and hit the trail. Brilliant purple lupines and neon yellow sedums bloomed everywhere.

Knowing that wildflowers would be exceptional, I nestled an Audubon field guide along with watercolors and paintbrushes in my pack. Along the first two miles, splendid drifts of wild geranium, purple pentstemon, and showy sunflower-like Gaillardia blanketed the hillsides.

Before lone, the trill of birdsong called. I grabbed binoculars and bird book, and patiently waited for the little bird to appear. A branch dipped revealing a black cap and bright yellow body. Flipping through my tattered field guide, Birds of North America, verified telltale signs of a Wilson's Warbler.

Although homesteaded in the early 1900's, no roads intrude this area. The South Fork of the Flathead River received National Wild and Scenic River designation by the U.S. Forest Service in 1980. Over 2.5 Million acres of unspoiled wilderness areas protect the river and all tributaries south of the Glacier National Park on the west side of the Continental Divide. "The Bob," as Montanans refer to it, was America's first wilderness areas, designated by Act of Congress in 1940.

Deep in the wilderness we passed Danaher Mountain, its top flanks nearly barren of vegetation, rocky and steep. Crossing the Flathead Divide, we stood at the headwaters of the South Fork - rivulets and creeks that would create the Flathead, then flow to the Snake, the mighty Columbia, and finally to the sea. Seeps and springs bubbled out of the mountainside and ran across the trail. We picked our way carefully through black sticky mud, veritable glue of the earth.

It seems odd that the river - like a microcosn of our planet - flowed unencumbered for perhaps 250 Million years. Erosion by glaciers, snow, wind, rain and flood sculpted the canyon; flowers, shrubs, and trees evolved, as did the creatures that fly, run crawl, or burrow along the river's shores. Who knows, perhaps a million generations of fish swam in the waters, and humans lived along and relied on the bounty and spirituality of the river. And then came modern man, and dams.

In the early 1950's, the Bureau of Reclamation and Bonneville Power Administration built Hungry Horse Dam and Reservoir on the South Fork's lower stretch near Kalispell. As great turbines began generating power for the masses, the huge lake irreverently drowned 10,000 years of hunting and gathering history by the Salish, Kootenai, and Blackfeet peoples.

In a weird twist of fate, the dam created a closed river system. Genetic pools of Westslope Cutthroat live protected, safe from non-native brown or rainbow trout migrating upstream. The truth is, just over 100 years ago the only trout found in the American West - that region east of California through Montana and south to northern Mexico - were the cutthroats.

"No matter how wet and cold you are, your always warm and dry on the inside."
Woodsman's Adage

Peeking out of my tent, a deer stood barely five feet away! The little whitetail doe jerked up her head to stare at me, never missing a beat chewing on grass and wildflowers. A clump of bluebells and yarrow dangled from her chin.

By mid-morning, sun burned off the foggy cloud cover and warm sunshine filtered down through the forest. Charlie, one of the guides, and I made our way up Danaher Creek. We scrambled over logs and boulders, and waded the creek, still fairly high from heavy snows last winter. Along the way, we landed and released several small cutthroat.

Since I fish more slowly, Charlie got far ahead. An hour later we met bushwacking in forest downfall along the banks. "Try this great pool just around the bend," he said excitedly, "it's got to hold fish!"

A perfect riffle tumbled over rocks, the glistening flow slipping between narrow slots, then cascading into a deep pool. Checking under a few rocks turned up mayflies and caddis cases - healthy stream ecology. In faster water, a giant golden stonefly nymph waddled off a rock and onto my hand! Quickly, I tied a stonefly imitation to 5X tippet and cast into the run. The weighted fly, lobbed into the upper stretch of the pool, sank quickly. I followed with the rod held high, walking the fly downstream, through the deepest part of the pool and into the shallow tailout.

Cast after cast fell true, but all was silent. Then on a cast no different from the rest, a solid pull resonated up the rod. I struck. The fish fought hard, diving and turning against the current. When the trout tried, I eased it to shore. Nearly 17" long by my tape measure, the splendid cutthroat was distinctively black-spotted, with faint blush of gold. After a couple of quick pictures, I released the wild beauty back to the creek.

We camped on a wide gravel bar just below the confluence of Young's and Danaher Creeks, now forming the South Fork of the Flathead. Joe had arranged for a horse packstring to deliver rafts and more food. We attacked the mountain of supplies like vultures, sorting through paddles and duffles, bags of fruit and potatoes. Methodically, we switched our gear from daypacks to dry bags.

Next morning our party of seven easily fit into two inflatable rafts, the center portion of each being sacked, stuffed, and strapped securely. We drifted downstream through a few choppy riddles. To each bank, stately fir and pine trees formed a tall green wall. Clouds hung low, not much over the treetops, shrouding the deep old forest. Our voices grew hushed.

Toward dusk, I decided to try the golden stonefly again, but this time at the edge of the swift main current. Nymphing methodically, my fly searched the water. A mother merganser and her seven chicks swam by. Across the river a pair of cranes flew silently past, just below the treetops.

Some one shouted dinner was ready. I reeled up quickly. Slam! A big cutthroat grabbed the nymph and tried to bully his way downstream. I ran along shore, not wanting to lose the fish in rapids beyond. After a lengthy battle, I brought the impressive, wild fish to hand, the quickly released the fly from its jaw. In the waning light, I felt a surge of excitement. Then, the weight of the fish, the velvet touch of its skin was gone, and it vanished into the dark water.

After supper storm clouds brewed in the distance. The temperature dropped and wind gusted through camp. Wind stirred the coals and ashes of the fire, making it spark and fly like fireworks, while sparse raindrops pelted the tarp overhead, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

I walked to my tent, perched at the edge of a rocky ledge ten or twelve feet above the river. A powerful rapid surged below. In the distance, lightning flashed every 15 or 20 seconds, and the storm grew in intensity. More raindrops lashed at my face, and the wind blew harder. Eerie sounds pierced the night as immense hundred-foot Ponderosa pines groaned in the gale.

"Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into the trees. The storms will blow their energy into you, and the wind its freshness, and cares will drop off like autumn leaves.
John Muir

With everything loaded up for the day, Joe called "all forward" , and we dug in our paddles. The raft slid forward into a bouncy riffle. Enjoying a hot day, we wore bathing suits, sunscreen, bug dope, and lifejackets.

Midday we stopped for a hike up Big Salmon Creek. The trail meandered through dense, lush forest. Seeps and springs gushed from the mossy hillsides, and orchids, like tiny jewels, adorned wet boggy spots. My favorite, the delicate Fairy-Slipper, or Calypso Orchid, nodded its fuchsia head. This handsome flower is named for the sea nymph Calypso of Homer's Odyssey. In a small glen nearby, Mountain Lady's Slippers grew. This precious flower takes nearly 12 years to grow from seed.

Late in the day we pulled to shore and gathered firewood, then drifted to camp. By now the tent popped up in minutes. I would wander around and find a spot of sand or grass that felt right, then lie down and wriggle into it, making sure it was a good home for the night's sleep. Most days it was a silly exercise, it really didn't matter because fatigue and contentment brought sleep instantly.

"I know the land by being the land...by feeling the river run over my face."
Cam Smith

We packed flyrods into their cases and strapped all gear down tightly. Before long posted signs warned of "Impassable Gorge Ahead." Other rafting parties we'd leapfrogged with the past few days all took out - we floated alone. Joe Tonsmeire is the only commercial guide who leads groups through Meadow Creek Gorge. Calmly, he took each obstacle in stride.

Soon the river narrowed and deepened as canyon walls grew vertical. The current sped up, and as we raced downriver, the rafts passed over huge boulders and hanging rock shelves. Here and there trout finned weightlessly, suspended in a watery world. It's as green as an unbroke horse," quipped one of the rafters in a subtle Texas drawl.

The sound of the rapids ahead buzzed like a mosquito in your ear, a low hum slowly rising, louder and louder, until it sounded like a freight train. We beached the rafts and scouted the rapids. Incredibly, the entire river funneled between steep rock walls and squeezed through a space less than four feet wide. It appeared impossible to raft through the narrow channel. This was the"crack;" old timers say "it's where the river turns on end.

Huge frothing hydraulics and big waves shoved the rafts around like corks. A big wave hit me in the face, and I gasped for air. "Th9is is fishing?" I thought...then gripped tight on my paddle and dug hard into the water to help turn the raft away from danger.

Shooting downriver, we dodged a chaos of rocks in a boulder garden. Dropping into the tongue, the river quickened its pace, careening around a blind corner. Canyon walls narrowed to sheer cliffs, and mist rose from churning maelstrom of whitewater, foam, and rocks. A ribbon of water split the rocks. The roar was deafening.

"Paddle faster, hard on the right!" shouted Charlie, shoving his oar deep in the blue-green pillow of water as it bulged up and over the front of the raft. We sped directly at the crack - and struck. I bailed. Massive volumes of water surged up and down, squeezing through the slot. Finally, the raft popped through. We careened down a chute, a wall of water drenching us, the raft bouncing erratically. Gasping for breath, laughing and screaming, the boat slid into a pool and our voices echoed off rock walls.

We stopped for lunch in the main part of the gorge. Eerie limestone cliffs surrounded us, carved over eons of time into weird rounded forms with deep gouges, potholes, and curves. Peering down, each depression held a hungry cutthroat looking for a meal. It was more than I could bear. I ran back to the raft and rigged my fly rod. I knew a size #14 caddis dropped into the swirling water would find them waiting.

The last morning. We all delayed, not wanting to pack up and leave our last exquisite. The river flowed nearby, our camp not thirty feet from water's edge. Pink and gray cobbles lined the shore between water and sand.

I tried fishing, and caught a few small cutthroat. Mostly, I just walked along the river's edge, cast and watched my long loops unfurl. I peered at the water, following my dry fly as it bobbed up and down in the choppy current.

We didn't talk much on the drive back to town. The river was in us, and we were changed. The air was cleaner, the trees greener, and our internal clocks still set to rivertime.

But who's in a hurry anyway? You go no faster than the speed of the current, and a river journey is just that - there is no place to get to, because you're always there.