Septober
Mike Lawson“Best of all, he loved the fall [. . . .] with the tawny and grey, the leaves yellow on the cottonwoods, leaves floating on the trout streams, and above the hills the high blue windless skies.”
— Ernest Hemingway, Graveside Eulogy for Gene Van Guilder, Sun Valley, Idaho, November 3, 1939
As a young man, I first read those words, sleeping under the stars at the Hemingway Memorial in Sun Valley with a high school friend. They’ve stayed with me ever since, and when the time comes, I can think of nothing more fitting for my own eulogy.
I love the fall because the weather is always right. There is no more beautiful time to be on a trout stream than a crisp, bright day when the cottonwoods flare yellow and the air carries just enough bite to sharpen your senses. If the skies are gray and the wind is calm, I strap on a four-weight and search for risers with a box of Blue Winged Olives. If the wind stirs, I reach for my six-weight and knot on a dark streamer to a fast-sinking leader. Whatever the weather brings, fall makes it right.
Just last week, on the lower Henry’s Fork near home, I found myself rigging in a way that is not usually part of my DNA: a pair of bead-head nymphs beneath a bobber. The water was calm, the air in the low seventies, and nothing stirred on the surface. The run was perfect—four feet deep, a fast current sweeping the outside bend, quieter water along the inside, and a cobbled bottom rolling steadily beneath. I hooked and landed a string of browns and whitefish, lost a heavy fish to fine tippet, and even had my heart thump from a couple of big suckers, hard fighters to start, but with limited stamina. My best fish was a 17” brown, but the one that lives in my memory was a huge brown that cleared the water before it came unbuttoned.
Another day, I launched my skiff at the Fun Farm, only fifteen minutes from home. The clouds were low, the sky was gray, the water was quiet, and the season edged toward the Blue Winged Olive hatch. I found a small pod of risers, fooled one with a size 18 no-hackle, and lingered as the clouds broke and the sun slowed the feeding. A half dozen trout up to sixteen inches came to the net before I rowed back to shore, satisfied in the way only a solitary day on dry fly water can satisfy.
Robert Dotson and I later crossed over to the Teton Valley near Driggs, in pursuit of big Cutthroats and Rainbows rising in the clear water of the Upper Teton. We hoped for Mahogany Duns and BWOs, but the big Gray Drakes poured off. The fish were wary, as always, and every cast felt like a test of patience and humility. I spooked my share, but finally laid a Gray Drake perfectly ahead of a slow-moving bank feeder. He ate greedily. After a stubborn fight through weeds and current, I slid him into the net—a cutthroat taping out at twenty-three inches, the best of my summer.
On another day, the sky was unsettled, the wind restless, and the Fork called for streamers. I attached an articulated Kelly Galloup monstrosity to my 1X tippet with a loop knot and went to work. Streamer days are often more casting than catching, but when the strike comes, it is electric. The browns and rainbows that day were not giants, but enough fish came to hand to remind me why I keep a box of heavy patterns and stout tippet ready for autumn.
Some anglers avoid this season, fearing an early snow. And yes, a sudden storm can sweep through. But more often, the days are jacket-weather perfect, with air that makes you breathe deeper and colors that make you linger no matter what is happening with the fishing.
For me, fall is not just a season; it is "the season." I live for it. I even have a name for its best stretch: Septober—September 15 through October 15. Nearly fifty years of fly fishing has taught me that anglers always ask, “When is the best time to come?” The answer is simple. Septober.