Honoring the legacy of 'Grumpy Dad' at Snodgrass Gulch

Ian Davison and I ventured into our favorite brook trout haunt the other day.

I’m talking about Snodgrass Gulch, of course. Yes, that difficult-to-access gem that zig-zags over border lines at the magical spot where the states of Vermont, Louisiana and Montana converge.

If you have the “special” map you too can find it.

I’m being coy here because Snodgrass Gulch is home to a particularly fine population of wild brook trout and it would be disastrous if legions of people started tramping through it, throwing beer cans around and killing these beautiful and gullible char.

It’s also not listed in any state fishing guides. I suspect there is a good reason for this.

It was cold when we embarked, 50 degrees, which felt like sub-zero after the summer we’ve had.

Getting in requires a pretty hefty hike, and my right knee entered a formal objection to the program.

Both of us were using fixed-line or Tenkara rods. I deployed the Dragontail Foxfire, a noodly zoom rod well suited to this sort of thing, and Ian brought an 8.5 foot Temple Fork rod.

We have different styles. I generally chuck a big dry fly around at first, to gauge interest. Think Parachute Adams or Chubby Chernobyl, size 10.

Ian was more subtle. He used something called the Animal, which looks to me like a Griffith’s Gnat, in smaller sizes.

The stream was on the low side, and several runs and pools were reconfigured by downed trees.

One pool in particular was unrecognizable, but somewhere in my mind a memory stirred.

I made my way across the stream into some fairly dense forest and looked around.

Aha!

Affixed to a tree, and facing away from the stream, was a wooden plaque of sorts, a memorial to “Grumpy Dad.”

Deep within Snodgrass Gulch is this tribute. The wooden plaque is facing away from the trail and stream. Only by chance did an angler discover it. Patrick L. Sullivan

I spotted this some years ago, chasing after an errant backcast that got hung up on a passing spruce tree.

Grumpy Dad’s dates are given as 1/6/36 to 1/20/10, and there are 11 names carved in the wooden block.

Some of them are getting a bit hard to read.

I wondered why the thing was facing away from the stream, where only someone like me would see it. Perhaps that was a favorite camping or picnicking site before it became a thicket?

Maybe someone will read this and provide more details.

Anyway, we clambered along, hooking and losing fish. This is known as the “compassionate release.” This is also known as a “rationalization,” or “lame excuse.”

Wild brookies on Tenkara rods are extra-wriggly, so a compassionate release here and there is no big deal.

On this trip it became a theme. I uttered many bad words and phrases completely unsuitable for a family newspaper.

In deference to my advanced age and creaky knee, Ian skipped over the relatively easy to reach spots. It dawned on me that this was similar to the compassionate release but opted not to pursue this line of thought.

He did balk momentarily when I asked him to scramble down a particularly nasty bit of rockslide so I could photograph him in action.

I also tried my hand at shooting video. I thought it would be funny if I ad-libbed like a golf announcer.

“Ian Davison approaches the 14th pool at Snodgrass Gulch. He lines up the cast, using 5X nylon tippet and The Animal, size 16. And here’s the cast. It’s floating, floating, floating…”

What I discovered is that watching someone fish is indescribably boring. The ratio of action to waiting is very poor, say one minute of action to 50 of standing there looking at a bit of fluff floating on a stream.

It’s enough to make a guy grumpy. So when the time comes, do I get a plaque?