Sometimes fishing is just an excuse to sit in a boat and drink beer. And sometimes it's cause to get serious. That's the case at Silver Creek, Idaho, where the hefty rainbow and brown trout demand that you concentrate, wade carefully, and cast in sober, determined silence — that is, if you want to catch anything. Roughly 30 feet wide and less than four feet deep, the legendary spring-fed creek winds through the Picabo Hills 30 miles south of Ketchum. Since Hemingway's time, it's drawn anglers seeking to test their mettle, though legend differs on whether Papa actually cast here when he lived nearby.
The closest gear can be found at the Silver Creek Convenience Store in Picabo. A license, flies, or advice from local experts are also available at Lost River Outfitters on Ketchum's main drag. Draw inspiration from the Hemingway first editions at the nearby Iconoclast Books, or swing by the Casino Bar, another Ketchum Main Street fixture and the type of watering hole that's suitably dark no matter what time of day. The best place to stay is just north of town: the Idaho Rocky Mountain Ranch, a wonderful timbered lodge and individual cabins set dramatically on 1,000 acres at the foot of the Sawtooth Mountains.
From the Rocky Mountain Ranch, it's about an hour's drive down to the Silver Creek Preserve, which is carefully maintained by the Nature Conservancy. They keep a small house where visitors sign in and learn rules that should come as no surprise to purists: fly rods only, catch and release. Approaching the winding creek, you can spot the familiar dark forms gathering in channels between patches of grass. There are so many trout that it's hard to stay calm. The fish, however, are entirely at ease — flies pass them by virtually ignored.
On my first visit, I vowed to be disciplined and use only a Blue-winged Olive and, perhaps, the dependable Prince Nymph. Within an hour I was demoralized, resorting to every trick in my box. I avoided the Wooly Bugger only because that furry fail-safe represents total desperation and intellectual defeat — the angling equivalent of asking a woman, "Come here often?"
Small fish were rising all around, but the larger prizes were feeding well below the surface. Determined to meet them, I reached for a sinking fly, my Gold Bead Nymph. I held out little hope as the wind picked up, and I lost sight of my strike indicator. But in a moment there could be no mistaking the pull on the line — I was into one, a fat rainbow that fought hard and nearly lost me in the weeds. After landing it and letting it go, I walked back through the fields, wondering how long it would take me to reach the Casino Bar for a celebratory drink.
