The air in the Uinta Mountains during the summer of 2025 had that sharp, high-altitude clarity. At the spot where a certain little river loses its momentum and spills into a certain reservoir, the water was alive with movement. After a half-mile hike through deadfall and meadows, the transition from the hot and steep hill to the muddy and cold inlet felt like stepping into a different world.
For the next three hours, the fishing wasn't just good—it was relentless. It was a rhythmic cycle of casting, hooking, and releasing that left little time for anything but the next strike.
The Shouted Tally
The silence of the canyon was replaced by a constant stream of numbers. Every time a rod doubled over or a silver flash broke the surface, another count was added to the total. It became a back-and-forth cadence echoing across the water, a vocal scoreboard tracking the incredible run between father-in-law and son-in-law.
"Forty-two!" Jace would holler, his rod doubled over as a fish streaked toward the deeper water of the reservoir.
"Thirty-eight!" I’d yell back, barely getting my own fly back in the water before the next strike. It wasn't just fishing; it was a three-hour sprint where the scoreboard changed every sixty seconds.
Jace's Final Count: 70 fish
My Final Count: 60 fish
The Pace: A combined 130 fish in just 180 minutes
The Double and the Tiger
The action got so chaotic at one point that the river felt overstuffed. I felt a heavy, erratic weight on my line and realized I hadn't just hooked one—I caught two fish at the same time. Managing that double-header in the current was the peak of the madness.
Most of what we brought to hand were hard-fighting Rainbow Trout, though every so often, the jewel-like colors of a Brook Trout would break the surface. However, the highlight for me was one specific, aggressive strike that revealed the intricate, worm-like markings of a Tiger Trout—the only one of the day.
We used nymphs and dry flies with equal success, constantly swapping between technical drifts and aggressive strips. Our shared rotation included:
Dry Flies: Parachute Adams and Elk Hair Caddis
Nymphs: Zebra Midges, Purple Princes, and Copper Johns
Streamers: Wooly Buggers
The Verdict: If it was in the box, they wanted it.
The Hike Out
By the time the three hours were up, our shoulders were heavy and the light was beginning to shift over the peaks. We reeled in, the finality of the numbers hanging in the air.
The half-mile trek back to the dirt road felt longer than the walk in, our boots knocking rocks down the hill as we climbed away from the inlet. Jace held onto that ten-fish lead with a quiet, satisfied grin, while I looked back at the river one last time. It was more than just a lucky day; it was one of those rare moments where the fish, the weather, and the company all lined up perfectly—130 fish between two partners who knew exactly how lucky they were to be there.
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