Upstream from Saratoga about 10 miles is a beautiful stretch of the North Platte River that for two and quarter miles is split into two forks by Treasure Island - a place of timeless beauty and home to Bald Eagles, Owls, Moose, Mink, and hard fighting Browns and Rainbows.
We make camp on the edge of a spartan dirt parking lot situated half way between the islands head and tail which gives us ready access to nearly 4.5 miles of public fishing rarely rivaled by private water. Over two bowls of steaming hot oatmeal on Sunday morning, we consider the toughest question: Where should we Start?
Most people hop out of the car and plunk their line in the closest pocket of water. Armed (or confused) with 40+ years of local fishing knowledge dating to when my Dad and his friend and mentor Rusty Chandler first arrived here, the question isn't so simple or without historic consequence. I can close my eyes and walk every hole on the river from top to bottom on both forks. A friend or family member has named each notable hole:
The Trench. Trifecta. The Honey Hole. Sluice Box. The Flats. Moose Crossing. House. Corral Pool. Where Chris Fell In. Big Cotton Wood. Above the Big Hole. The Big Hole.
Those are our names for runs on just half of one fork, every one of which has a story.
My mind is made up on the last bite of Oatmeal. In the end there was only one place to start and it was obvious once I thought about it. First, we have to cross the two swinging bridges. They define Treasure Island as much as any other landmark. Second, it has to be the "Far Fork." As Manhattan can be narrowed to neighborhoods like "The Village" so can Treasure Island be narrowed into stretches like the "Far Fork" that has unique characteristics, memories, and, of course, is regarded for high quality fishing.
From the dirt lot, we head up river on a narrow dirt path that winds through thick willow growth along the river and open hay meadows of the old Platoga Ranch on our right. This trail always feels a bit like home.
Mills, our trusted English Setter companion, quickly learns how to climb and descend the steep metals stairs to the deck of the suspension bridge. She doesn't linger on the deck like Joelle and I who are happy to bounce up and down on the jumpy old suspension bridge. We stop to watch silhouettes rise from the river bottom below us to take small bugs from the surface. Rising fish quickly changes our focus from bouncing on the bridges to crossing them.
Treasure Island greets you with a colorful forest of towering Cottonwood Trees, Willows, and waste high grass. We follow the narrow path to the far fork and make a right at the water's edge. We're headed 200 yards up river to the only place that really made sense to start our day - The Corral Pool.
The hole takes it's name from an old wooden corral that sits on the far bank, across from the Island. Through the years, the corral has intermittently been full of cattle or, like it is today, empty and quiet. Until 2011 the current ran straight at the corral, turned against the bank, and head down river. A massive Cottonwood shaded the hole and a deep back eddy full of foam. It was a lunker hole among lunker holes. Abundant are my memories of learning to set a hook in a bony lip or recognize a take on a nymph swinging through the current.
In the last 10 years, a group of us have taken to making camp on an island side perch over looking this hole. We lug our gear and wrestle heavy coolers over the bridges to this place because it is a million miles away from whatever was on your mind yesterday yet is only two-thirds of a mile from the parking lot.
Joelle, Mills, and I cross in the rapids above the Corral Pool to fish back toward the island. Massive run-off from a late melting snow pack in 2011 scoured the Corral Pool moving the best fishing out from under the massive Cottonwood to the Island side bank. It feels weird to stand in shallow water where 4 and 5 pounds rainbows once sipped little flies. Today the Cottonwood provides a patch of camouflaging shade from the morning sun. Jo and I settle into the shade at the edge of the main current and get down to business.
First up is a Sulfur Dunn left over from the hour of fishing we got in last night before dark. Jo's casting has advanced quicker than I can believe. Her new fly rod is compliments of a winning raffle ticket her Papa Mac bought at the Trout Unlimited banquet in Montana last fall. I crack up watching her make all the same casting mistakes I remember making as a kid. Don't break your wrist. Watch your timing. Rod tip up. Notably, she hasn't hooked herself once or made a bird's nest of her line. She is already way ahead of me.
She flips the Dunn up into the current beautifully. It floats high and free in the current but is undisturbed by the many noses popping up through the riffle to sip little flies. We might as well be floating an oily rag.
A swarming cloud of olive colored bugs with blue wings yields a clue to the breakfast of preference.
"I know what those are Jo! BWOs (Blue Wing Olive). #16."
Like a pro, Jo rubs a little silicone floatant into the soft hackle and blue wings. Several false casts to dry the bug and into the water it goes. Nothing. I take a turn thinking maybe Jo's drift isn't quite right. A few casts and our BWO is attacked by grass hopper sized fish to small to hook.
"Oh bummer, they are all little guys Jo."
Perhaps that is why I was so confused a few casts later to look up and see Joelle straining, her rod bent over in an arch. "Jo, is that a fish?"
"Yeah, I got one," she calmly informs me. From her voice you might have thought she was checking out a library book.
"Really?" I say in disbelief as the fish I took for a snag takes off down the river stripping line from Jo's reel. "IT IS A FISH" are the words running through my not so calm mind. Joelle figures out how to maneuver the fish with her fly rod and which way to crank the reel to retrieve line. Soon she has played the colorful 13+" Rainbow back to her feet. Somehow I expected to be involved in Jo's first catch as more than a dumbfounded spectator and photographer.
"Will you do it?" Joelle asks me less than anxious to actually handle her fish. No one would know from the enthusiastic expression on her face that the words on her lips when the picture was taken were "Eeew gross."
