July 2022 - 35

that chaos - the knots of taciturn guides and
their corresponding clients, the unpleasant
rattle of empty trailers going up and down
the forest road all day at break-neck speeds.
They were no-shows as Mixer and I began to
find small rainbows willing to rise. No guides
floated by. In fact, most of the Upper Green by
August is usually too thin to float a drift boat.
Cutthroats are the prize in the Upper Green
and what brings the summer crowds. I saw
some fish well over 20 inches sipping midges
in the flats. But at my slightest approach these
big fish faded away. There was no way to fool
them in this low, clear water. My dogs spooked
them. Mixer and I found a tight, frothy bend
in the river where we worked over a pod of
rising rainbows in the 10-to-12-inch variety.
Even in August and September trout will rise
on the Upper Green - it's almost as if you
have a whole season in front of you.
I tied on a foam hippy-stomper in size 12. I
used a pheasant tail dropper and began to bring
in a few whitefish. On one of my retrieves I
was startled to see a whopper of a cutthroat
following the whitefish. The fish pinned back
its fins and swirled at the helpless whitefish.
I let out an audible cry. Mixer was around
the bend futzing with a cigar and missed the
drama. I felt an abrupt tug and the whitefish
and trout disappeared.
Later, we pitched our tents on the banks
of the Upper Green. Dispersed camping is
what they call these crude campgrounds where
you might or might not find a campfire ring
already in place.
" What did you mean earlier when you said
I wounded ducks? I kill every bird I shoot at, "
Mixer said.
In a pair of canvas directors chairs we
watched the star show and listened as the
Upper Green tumbled by. We each retired
to our tents 10 yards apart, far enough to
have some privacy but close enough to call
out for help if some difficulty presented itself.
Rocket went in wetly to sleep with Mixer. I had
Henderson leaning on me all night.
We woke the next morning and had some
of Mixer's gourmet, French-pressed coffee. We
were grumpy from being over 50 and sleeping
on the ground. But that wore off as we headed
back up stream to see if the trout would rise
again. It was Thursday and we had the place
to ourselves.
The author's two hunting dogs, Henry and Rocket, often ruin the most obvious pools.
Buffalo Fork
I woke alone in the willows beside the
Buffalo Fork River, about 50 miles northeast
of Jackson Hole. I was rain-dampened
and covered in mosquito welts. Foolishly I
consumed a huge lunch at Turpin Meadows
Lodge, an upscale resort that allows passersby
and trout bums to eat in their expensive
restaurant without having to dollar up for a
night at the resort. I brushed myself off and
whistled for Henderson. He was hovering
around a still-warm campfire ring, sussing
out edibles no doubt. A couple from Oregon
had been parked there, car-camping. They
had withdrawn to Jackson where there was a
bluegrass concert.
The Buffalo Fork is a blue-green gem that
gets astonishingly little pressure. I usually pitch
a tent and wade until I grow weary of catching
fish. There are Snake River cutthroats scattered
throughout the system. But I know of a few
deep holes not far off the road where a guy can
catch scads of lunker whitefish, some up to 17
inches. In the late summer, these fish coalesce
in the deepest holes. Whitefish are prone to
Cutthroats are the
prize in the Upper
Green and what brings
the summer crowds.
I saw some fish well
over 20 inches sipping
midges in the flats.
But at my slightest
approach these big
fish faded away.
Wyoming Wildlife | 35
July 2022

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