Mad Angler Hub

Patience—that’s the name of the game—and it’s something I’ve never had much of. With nearly everything, turmoil sits right at the center of my brain. Jourdan, though, she has the ability to stay calm. When there’s an accident, I’m the one yelling, “Call 911! Call 911!” while she stands still, collected, already thinking three steps ahead, and always at peace.

Here’s the thing, though: even Jourdan can lose patience. Not to the point of anger, but enough to quit fishing a beautiful creek named Baker Creek just outside of Ketchum, Idaho.

When most people think of Ketchum, they think of Sun Valley and ski resorts. When I think of Ketchum, I think of money falling straight out of my pockets. A latte set us back thirteen bucks and some change. But hey, I’m cheap. I like cheap stuff, because if it lasts, you know it’s good. Anyone can make a high end reel, but can they make a low end reel last as long as a high end reel?

We wandered into the local fly shop, which opened at 9. We lucked out with parking and walked up a small hill, both of us noting how miserable that walk would have been if we were a hundred pounds heavier. Inside the shop, we were greeted with genuine eagerness—real help, no attitude. I asked the girl behind the counter what we should be throwing on the water. She suggested hoppers. I did see them everywhere, bouncing around the fields like little rubber clothes pins, making that distinct clicking sound locusts make.

She showed us a few hopper patterns. I bought two—one small, one big. The two were for reference so I could tie my own later. It was a simple Chernobyl Hopper, so I grabbed the materials to match it.

While gathering supplies, I looked up and saw whole pheasants for sale—ten and fifteen bucks. I had to get one! Super cheap! Those are the deals I like! I confirmed the price with the clerk, as that was killer, and she was so surprised she said she was going to set one aside for herself. I grabbed some hooks too—TMC 200s, down-eye, 3X long, nymph/hopper/caddis style.

I walked out having spent a little over fifty dollars. Maybe France wasn’t so bad.

The coffee shop itself was homey. Pictures of the owner on the walls, small tables up front, couches in the back. The walls were painted like someone’s living room—someone who liked color. They sold solid breakfasts and desserts: scones, cakes, cookies. Another small frustration. That’s where our money just kept bleeding out. But you can’t go wrong with a scone and coffee!

We killed time by wandering gift shops while waiting for the liquor store to open. When it finally did, there was already a line of people itching for their fix. We were in and out, then back on the road toward camp. By this time Jourdan and I were getting pumped up to suit up into our waders.

Our camp spot was excellent. When I say excellent, I mean top three places we’ve ever stayed. I rank it number three only because number two is still up for debate, and number one will always be Trout Creek—a small tributary of Johnson Creek between Yellow Pine and Warm Lake. Nonetheless, Baker Creek was free—like Trout Creek—and close to the water. When we pulled up, I bolted straight toward the sound of the creek. That’s typical behavior for me. We decided to take the spot. Good shade, mostly level ground, a fire pit. No table, but we improvised.

The downside was the canyon. Beautiful, but a wind tunnel. After getting advise in town and dealing with a moderately windy day, I decided to tie hoppers upon our return. I managed to tie one, but the wind was kicking my ass and I had no table. That frustration chipped away at what little patience I had left. But Jourdan’s patience never waivered. That night we fished for maybe ten minutes. We had little fishing confidence. Nothing was biting or we were fishing wrong. The creek was rushing—loud, tight, and too small for our six-weight rods. Frustration set in for both of us after Jourdan slipped and fell into the stream!

The next day, we went back to town for ice. That’s when the parade hit—we found the town split clean in half—blocked off right through the middle. First, we needed gasoline, but there was a problem. Gas pumps in town had no convenience stores, and the convenience stores had no gas pumps. The only place we could find ice was in Hailey, Idaho. So if you need ice, you know the drill.

The last night, we drunkenly scoped the creek, took pictures, and decided where we’d fish the next time we would visit. Around the campfire, our stories grew philosophical—we had the kind of conversations that only happen when you’re half lit and staring at the Milky Way deep in the countryside. You know? The alien and bigfoot talks? In the end, maybe that’s the real reason I drag my impatient soul out into the Idaho brush. Away from the logic of code and the precision of engines, the world doesn’t have to make sense. It just has to be felt. Under that massive, starlit sky, the frustration of the wind and the price of the coffee felt like background noise in a much larger transmission. We didn’t catch a damn thing, but as we sat there, two small figures in a vast wind tunnel, the turmoil in my brain finally went quiet. I looked over at Jourdan, still as the mountains, and for a fleeting second, I think I finally understood what she’s known all along: the fish are there, but that’s the least of the adventure. The creek is going to keep running whether you’re ready for it or not. You might as well just sit down and listen.