Spring and Summer on the Water

By David E. Metcalf

I was about ten when I first went fly fishing. We traveled from our house, which was a short distance from the Snake River near Homedale, to the North Fork of the Boise River. I went with my older brother Ferris, his family, my mom, and brother Loren. To reach Robert E. Lee Campground, about thirty-five miles northeast of Idaho City, we had to bump along a dusty and narrow washboard road over the mountain and down the other side. Ferris was prepared to pull over as far as he could without driving off a cliff if a logging truck came along but fortunately, the road was almost empty.

The campground was near a marsh, and the mosquitoes made bug repellent a must, but the insects and the remote location meant not many other campers were around. The morning after we arrived, my brothers and I grabbed our fly rods and headed to a nearby bridge, which we crossed to reach a large black rock that sat on the riverbank. Fish fed on the surface of a large pool next to the rock. My brothers told me if I quietly cast my fly to where it would float across the pool, I’d likely get some action. My first cast was a little off, so I tried again. This time, the fly landed just right. I felt a bite but then it stopped. Another try and nothing. By this time my older brothers had each landed a rainbow trout about nine or ten inches long.