In his classic book Trout Madness, Robert Traver has this to say about wild goose chases-
“Fishermen are a perverse and restless lot, constantly poised to migrate to greener pastures, ever helpless recruits to the wild goose chase. They’re apt to be up and away at the drop of an idle rumor. Indeed, this willingness to pursue the will-o’-the-wisp of the true trout fairyland, this curious willingness to chase bubbles, mirages, and rainbows up and down the land, seems to make up half the lure of fishing.”
Traver was talking about trout fishermen, but bass fishermen, saltwater fishermen, catfish fishermen, no fishermen are immune. It comes with the territory.
I have certainly made my share of goose chases. Many (perhaps most) came up empty, but once in a while I hit the jackpot. It’s like gambling, except instead of money you’re using your time. Actually, money is usually involved, too. That car doesn’t run on nitrogen.
I recently went to Montana to go trout fishing. Out of state, a perfect wild goose chase scenario. Our first one (I was with my sons for this one) involved smoke from wildfires. We were camped in Bozeman, poised to go fishing. We got up and the air was thick with smoke. I have a lung condition. My lungs don’t like smoke. I choke. So we went looking for a place with clean air.
We passed some of Montana’s best-known streams. The Gallatin, the Madison, Big Hole, the Bitterroot, and numerous smaller streams, we drove past them all. We could even see fish rising in the Big Hole as we drove by. But the air was smoky all the way to Missoula. We returned to Boseman on I-90, ending up at the same campsite we’d stayed in the night before, after putting over 500 miles on our vehicles. A certified wild goose chase.
Alex and I were told to try Ruby Creek. Much of this small Montana creek runs through private land, but you can access it through the national forest lands. Well, some of it, anyway. We got there, booted up, split up, and hit it. My first bite seemed like a good fish, tearing off downstream. But it shook off before I even saw it.
Alex, hunting for fish on Ruby Creek.
We caught a lot of fish there. The biggest was perhaps eight inches long. It was a beautiful day. It was a beautiful little creek. We got a lot of bites, using dry flies, from beautiful little fish. But they were little. The most exciting thing that happened that day was seeing a small herd of bighorn sheep. I will let you decide if that goose chase was wild or not.
Not a fish; rather, a young bighorn sheep ram. The most exciting thing about our day on Ruby Creek.
An internet search turned up an article, Guide to Fly Fishing the Stillwater River. This article made it sound like anyone could go fish this stream and simply kill it. I spent the better part of a day driving to a national forest campground on the river, arriving just as a shower passed through. I got a great photo of a double rainbow!
Double rainbow over the Stillwater River, which did not give up a fish to me.
The campground was accessed by a bridge across the river (from which I got said photo). Standing on the bridge, I could see some fish in the pool below me. When they started rising, I grabbed my rod, made my way down the bank, and hooked one right away. Of course, it jumped off, and no more would rise to my fly. That’s OK, it was getting dark anyway.
The following morning found me at the public access eight miles downstream. A fellow fly fisher was working a deep pool there, one I could see fish in. We ended up having a lengthy and very informative conversation, in which he told me where and how to fish the few accessible spots of the river. Then he got into his car and drove off.
I tried all the places he had described. I fished with dry flies, wet flies, nymphs, and streamers. I could see fish flashing in the stream. As sunset neared, a few fish started rising. I did not touch one, or any other fish all day. The best thing that happened to me there was getting that rainbow photo. Wild goose chase or not? You judge it.
I read another article on the internet about Fly Fishing Montana’s Pristine Rosebud Creek. Wow! It sounded (and looked) great! I spent hours getting there to find a) it was tiny, steep, and pushy, not at all like the photos, and b) there was almost no public access. Or maybe I just couldn’t find it. But I spent an entire afternoon driving up and down the valley, made only a handful of casts, and didn’t see a fish or any signs of fish. Another wild goose chase.
So I don’t sound too negative, too incompetent, or both, let me share a few stories about wild chases that turned out to be amazing. When I was a younger man I spent three years working as a teacher at an American school in Brazil. A ripe area to go on wild goose chases! I went to visit a college friend who was working in the Peace Corps in Chile. Someone else he knew in the Peace Corps there was working with the Chilean fisheries division, doing enhancement work on Chilean trout fisheries. He suggested we go to the Rio Concha.
Frank and I spent two days getting there, on busses, boats, and by foot. Among other things, I caught the biggest trout I’ve ever caught, a sea-run brown the length of my arm, nearly seven pounds, on a Wooly Worm.
When we got back to Puerto Montt I learned that the guy who sent us to that river had never even been there. He wanted us to find out if there were fish there or not. Thanks, friend! Fortunately, that one worked out well.
The village of Cochamo, Chile circa 1981, where the Rio Concha is found.
Susan and I went on a boat trip down the Rio Madeira to Manaus, then took another boat down the Rio Amazonas to Belem. Then we took a series of busses, working south down the coast back to the state of Rio de Janeiro. I was looking at a map, and said to her, “I want to go here,” pointing to a spot in the state of Bahia on the map. She wanted to know why. I said, “This point will have good water flow. If there are snook anywhere along this coast, that’s where they’ll be.”
We went there. After the bus, we had to take a ferry, then a long ride in a taxi, then finally, walk the last mile plus. We camped on the beach in a remote area. But I caught three snook there, all nice ones, in three or four hours of fly fishing from the beach. Another wild chase that worked out well.
My last story also happened in South America, this time in Peru. We were staying in Cuzco, and I was studying a map, an activity that often leads to wild goose chases. Susan wanted to go to the market in Pisac, an hour’s ride on a beat-up old bus. “Can I go fish while you’re at the market?” I asked. I could. So the fly rod joined us on the bus with the sheep, chickens, stinky men, and lactating campesinas.
When we got to Pisac, Susan and I made our plans to rendezvous, then I headed up the Urubamba River valley. I’d walked about a mile when I came to the river. Fish were rising everywhere, feasting on caddis flies.
All I had were mayfly imitations. Those fish did not care. Rainbows all, every one I hooked (and it was quite a few) was like a stick of dynamite, taking me into the backing, most jumping off. I landed five or six, some of the most amazing dry fly fishing I’ve ever had. Definitely a chase, no geese involved.
The author, when he was much younger, and apparently not on a wild goose chase.
This piece only scratches the surface of the goose chases I’ve been on. I say, Long Live the Wild Goose Chase! When you spend a day or two looking for Nirvana and only find a field full of cow patties, that only makes the trips that work out all that much sweeter. Because not much is sweeter in fishing than going way out onto a limb on a chase, and coming out smelling both like fish and roses at the same time.
