Fishing in Willow Creek and Cow Creek

One of the fondest memories that I have of summers on the Ranch was that of my Dad, (Uncle Carleton to the cousins), rounding up all willing and interested kids on a warm summer day, most likely in late July or August, for an afternoon of trout fishing.  He was a good fisherman himself and enjoyed sharing the pleasure with the Ranch kids.
 

Carol reminisces "Of course, just going for a drive or doing anything with Uncle Carleton was always fun and great to hang out with!"

 

I loved it too, even though I was not as adventurous as Carol and Tom, who were up to many wild and crazy shenanigans throughout our childhood.

On a warm afternoon when cattleman duties didn't demand his presence, he would put out the word that he was going fishing and anyone who wanted to go should "go dig up some worms and put them in a can" and "grab your fishing pole or cut a willow pole" of his/her choice.   The worms were easy to find and we knew to look under old cow pies where they worked away doing their worm jobs.  The willows were plentiful growing along Cheney Creek (pronounced "cheeny').   Dad also instructed every time not to wear anything white or light colored.  Green, brown, or blue colors were the best, since the light colors would scare the fish.

Dad would load all comers into his pickup truck, most of us riding in the back, with the little ones in the front with him.  We would head for Willow Creek (or occasionally Cow Creek) riding and chattering with great joy and anticipation of upcoming adventure, our hair blowing and our rumps bouncing in the pickup bed.  The wise kids grabbed a seat on the spare tire if they could...much easier on the behind!!

Dad always brought a big roll of sturdy, greenish fishing line to put on the willow poles and had extra hooks for anyone who didn't have one or lost one.  We all had to learn to bait our own hooks with the worms and everyone got good at it, quickly losing any squeamishness about threading the fat, wiggling, resisting worms onto the hooks. 

After we got to the chosen section of Willow Creek, usually one with plenty of cold, gently flowing water and several beaver ponds, the bigger kids spread out to find the spot each determined was the best one.  These spots usually were deep areas next to the bank where the trout loved to lazily swim about or in beaver ponds that always held lots of fish.

The younger kids stayed with Dad, and he would get a fish on the line and then quickly hand the pole to the excited little one who then "caught a fish" and helped pull it in all shiny and wet and flipping about to the shrieking delight of the little fisherman. 

The bigger kids, Carol, Tom, Dan, Beth and I (and any cousins or visitors), fished on our own and thrilled just as the little kids did when a tug on the line indicated that a fish was nibbling the worm.  Then there would be a solid jerk, setting the hook in the fish's  mouth, to be pulled in glistening, fighting, flopping.  The hapless fish was then conked on the head to kill it and strung on a willow fork through the gills and mouth.  The willow fork stringer could be put in the cold water of the creek to keep the fish fresh.

When it was time to go, after everyone had filled their limits (I remember that kids under 12 or maybe 14 years of age didn't need a license and could catch five fish while those with a  license could catch ten fish), Dad would call us to come back to the truck or honk the horn to signal us.  We usually filled our limits, and all the trout were put in five gallon buckets of cold creek water for the ride home.  The kids in the back of the pickup were responsible for keep the buckets upright on the bumpy ride home.

Once we got home, the fish were divvied up between our house and Carol's house.  Then anyone who fished had to help clean the fish.  There was no wimping out on that chore, and we all learned how to gut and clean a trout handily.   I can still do it.

The trout were pan sized, from 8-12 inches long and were promptly dredged in corn meal and fried for dinner (called "supper" in the ranching West).  The fish were fried with the heads and tails on which helps when the diner removes the bones before eating.  We learned to lift the whole bone structure out by peeling the meat off while holding the head. 

There is nothing better than the taste of a freshly caught trout, quickly fried and carried to the table to be devoured with gusto.   Bread was always served with the fish to carry down the errant little fish bone that might get caught in the diner's throat.  No market-bought trout or trout ordered in a restaurant can compare to those fresh mountain beauties.  (Note:  The fish were mostly brook trout or cut-throat trout with an occasional rainbow trout.)  Delicious!!!