There they sat at two tables pushed together in the center of the dining room of the only breakfast place in Ashton, Idaho.

Ron and I are fishing our way home to Maine from California and we find them at every breakfast diner. In cowboy hats and camo ball caps, with coffee cups and dirty dishes scattered around the table in front of them, no chairs squared up, there will be a handful or two of fishermen or ranchers talking about water, hay, foolishness and scoundrels. This could be a mixed group because this valley has almost as many cows as trout.

Ashton is about half way between Yellowstone's West Entrance and Idaho Falls on one of the most popular fishing rivers in the West, the Henry's Fork of the Snake.

“Catching any fish?” one asks as we pass.

“We've caught a few, here and there. Got any advice,” asks Ron, and he passes on by looking for the right table. (Ron's kind of particular about where he sits or puts a tent.)

“Watch the local news. They have regular helicopter reports of all the action on the river. Three times a day or more if there's a lot going on.”

What the hell? I'll bite.

“Helicopter fishing reports?”

“Just like I said, they call it the Flying Fishing Report,” and he then asked his neighbor Donald what channel it was on.

The rest of the table ignored him and me. So I made my way to the table Ron's chosen and pick edup a menu. I've decided to leave the Flying Fishing Report nonsense alone.

A couple of days earlier the breakfast club at Picabo, Idaho, had a little fun with me. Picabo is the crossroad where Silver Creek is located. I was in front of the Picabo General Store washing the bugs off my windshield when a guy stopped on his way from his pickup to the front door.

“Who told you about Picabo bait?”

“Picabo bait? I'm sorry, I ...”

“Well I guess I've gone and let the cat out of the bag. Road-killed bugs slipped on a number 18 barbless dry fly hook probably accounts for half the fish caught on Silver Creek. Or mash a few together if they're sipping from the foam.”

I think he saw my eyes roll, because he picked up with.

“You don't need to believe me. I'm just telling you. Scrape 'em off with a credit card and keep them in one of the little clear cups they sell flies in. Then some night when you can't quite figure out what it is the fish are feeding on give it a try. You won't be disappointed.”

“Isn't that kind of like bait fishing,” I asked.

“No more than tying dead chicken feathers to a hook.”

“I see your point, thanks.” I said, and he turned and headed inside.

There had been more than a few nights (and mornings and afternoons) recently when I had come to doubt my abilities as a fisherman. It's new water and new fish every day and a lot to figure out.

Just the day before, Ron and I stood in a blizzard of caddis with very long fat rainbows rolling around in front of us in a shallow corner of the South Fork of the Boise River. It looked like they were eating every thing in sight, but could we get one fish to pay attention to our offerings?

Finally, one did fall for the ruse, but he broke off and left me without the fly that they'd eat. Mostly it was an hour of awestruck frustration.

So maybe I was a little more susceptible than usual and looking for that silver bullet that only a local would know. I scrapped off a couple of cups worth of bugs, trying to maintain their physical integrity as best I could.

The general store was a little more upscale than it looked from the outside. It was decorated with western ranch antiques. There was interesting old farm machinery, photos of mines and sourdoughs. There was a commemorative golden railroad spike and a picture of Ernest Hemingway, fly rod in hand with Silver Creek in the background. The chairs were half barrels with legs made of horseshoes welded together. The tabletops had brands burned into them. But there was also a complete Orvis fly shop and a guest shower.

I walked over to the register and asked about some coffee.

Molly, at the cash register said: “Just help yourself from the jugs. There's Kona, French Roast, and decaf.”

“Who would I see for fishing gear?”

“That would be me, hon,” she said, with a smile.

“Could I get a pack of No. 18 barbless dry fly hooks?”

“I saw who walked in just ahead of you. They're not for Picabo bait are they?”

“Well, maybe, that fellow over there...”

“Carl, I told you to leave my customers alone. Now I mean it.”

Molly had shouted this across the dining room at the breakfast club, which erupted in general merriment.

“Hon, nobody fishes Silver Creek with road-killed bugs. They all use the same flies I sell right over there. I'll fix you up with the what you'll need. Pay no mind to those hooligans. They got nothing better to do.”

Ron and I had a good breakfast in there and didn't hurry away, just to show I could take a joke. We'd arrived two days too late for the Brown Drake hatch, but Ron landed a corker of a rainbow and I hooked a nice one that broke off. Second day in a row I'd broken off a good fish so I went to heavier leaders the next day.

Now here I am in Ashton, Idaho, with some joker telling me about a helicopter fly fishing report. As we left the diner he said: “Remember to check the Flying Fishing Report. I'm pretty sure it's on channel Seven.”

“Thanks, but we're in a tent. No TV,” I said as I made my way to the door.

“That's a shame. Good luck to you.”

When we got to the river at the Henry's Fork Ranch (a working cattle ranch that allows access over private lands, but warns you to watch out for the coyote traps) there were about five other fishermen. It's a big river with plenty of room for all and nice fish, too. We stood for a long time waiting to see a rise or see another fisherman hook up, but it wasn't happening. I waded to a thread of water on the far side and started the repetitive boredom of nymphing.

Aquatic insects spend most of their lives clinging to rocks underwater. They only pop to the surface and take flight briefly to mate. So mostly trout are busy eating below the surface.

Some would say the most fun in fly fishing is when a trout picks a bug off the surface just the moment before flight — dry fly fishing. Bouncing subsurface bugs down a river bottom out of sight is productive and mostly how you have to fish out west. But even this isn't happening and my mind is wandering a bit when I hear the sound of a helicopter coming up the river.

Of course I'm wondering what the Flying Fishing Report sounds like as the chopper flies overhead. In my imagination every cast is punctuated with: “There's quite the back up at the Box Canyon Boat ramp. It'll be at least an hour before you're on the river if you're headed that way.”

Cast.

“BWOs, PMDs, and WD40s are what's happening below Chester. We expect to see more caddis by mid afternoon.

Cast.

“Wind is sending a lot of fishermen to the bank to retrieve their flies and line from the trees on all section.”

Cast.

“Remember, fishermen, the Ranch is closed until the 15th but there's plenty of fish elsewhere.”

Cast.

“Oh look down there. It's that fishing duo all the way from Waldo County, Maine. Ron and Rick. Good luck fellas. This is the Flying Fishing Report signing off for now.”

Rick Cronin fishes in Maine and reports on why the big ones got away.

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