Back in 2022 I finished my first Cutthroat Slam here in my beloved home state of Utah, and just as soon as I got my little medallion in the mail I was eager to get started again, and that’s exactly what I did in the summer of 2023. It wasn’t until June of 2024, when I had done some fishing for Native cutts but not really targeting the subspeicies did I notice the DWR tag on my fridge had an expiration date: My birthday, June 30 of 2024. “Shit” was the first word to mind that June 4th.
What followed this month was a clusterfuck of chasing trout as quickly as I could while battling the spring runoff that was still prevalent in most regions, as well as running through all possible venues that were flooded out, news from local word and sat imagery wisdom. A single trip early in the season knocked out both my Yellowstone and Bear River checks, and the Bonneville I had already caught back in 2023. So I only had one to catch, but most of where I knew I could catch the Colorado Cutt were going to be tough access, flooded, or too far out of the way for my schedule to permit: Hell, I just got engaged afterall.
There was one small stream that I remembered, and checking the DWR’s mapping for the Colorados I realized that it fit right smack dab in the territory. I’d been wanting to head back to this little stream for quite some time, a location I found while driving out to the Grandaddy Basin a few years back and had fished once before, noting the absolute perfection of the surroundings that seemed too-perfect for a Utah backdrop, but there it is.
We went out on my birthday weekend, really cutting it down to the wire as my tag expires June 30 at midnight and I had a tattoo appointment that same day, 3 hours drive away. Starting on the 29th, we woke up early in the Huntsville home and made our way down south. Arrival time was around 4pm, which meant I’d have around 5 hours to fish before we needed to pack up and find a place to pitch up the truck for the night.
Getting into the water I immediately hooked up on a nice sized brown, and I felt like we were really getting somewhere. This approach was a real Curtis Creek style setup, crawling through the tall grass to an overhanging ledge, spying on the rising trout for a good 15 minutes before determining the correct fly pattern, and setting it down: First cast, final strike. We got ‘em.
The rest of the night we were able to get into some more hungry browns rising around a pool that provided some fun and even a little learning lesson for my Fiancé, but with each brown I’d take, the more my hope would wane. Once the sun had set and it started getting a little too dark out, we made our way back out and scouted for a campsite, which we found among many other trailers and RV’s in a spot that was just good enough for a late night birthday couple. Like checking into a hotel for the night, we made up a small dinner that was quite surprisingly delicious: a few chicken and steak skewers, chips and dip, a southwest bean salad and goat cheese with thin crisps. A last little birthday hoorah at nearly midnight started the celebration early with a tiny single serving of cheesecake, aptly topped with a twig birthday candle.
The next morning began even earlier than the last, the missus unable to sleep most of the night on account of us leaving the dog in the truck bed beneath us (recently sprayed by a skunk, a WHOLE other story), and myself tossing and turning at the thought of missing a year’s worth of work. We got to the river at 6am this morning, June 30, and we needed to leave no later than 1030. “Shit”, the motif continues.
It’s a hopeful start to the day as well, in a small pool I can see the snapping flicker of light near a shallow tree trunk submerged roughly half way into a slower part of the river, and I tie on one of my favorite streamers, given to me by a dear coworker as a birthday gift the year prior: it couldn’t have been planned better. I set the streamer in, and let it glide down to just in front of the area I saw the striking when it happens: Gold flash, set hook, taught line, slack line. The damn thing snapped my line, I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe it even more when this same occurence happened 4 more times at different points in the water, making our way upstream I started to become more and more frustrated, flustered, and furious. I’d lose 7 more flies before I found the culprit: very bad tippet that had been on the spool for the better part of 3 years had apparently gone to shit, and now all I had was the last little bit of 4x I could find, less than 4 inches.
I’d lost my temper now. I was raging, the fiancé and our husky could feel it, so much so that we needed to go our separate ways due to my impetulant tantrum. I stared at the river, which by now had been still for what seemed like hours without bites, as the clock neared 10:15. I watched that water for ten more minutes, more out of meditative catharsis attempting to resolve my conflict rather than anything else when I saw a monsterous take some 25 yards down. “Another Brown, just my luck”, I think to myself, and plan out the cast. I observe the strikes again, watching the yellow belly run up, take then retreat. Focusing on the surrounds I notice the mayflies are hatching light and large, so I tie on a 14 PMD and let it drift down.
It takes three casts for my white spec to be the chosen one, but as soon as I did, that line went tighter than it ever has before, and I start to see exactly what I’m fighting against: the golden sides, pink and crimson belly, black spots that get heavier near the back… “God I don’t deserve this”, thinking to myself. The rod and reel were both a birthday gift from the girl down the bend earlier in the month, a very fun 7ft 3wt Reddington Butterstick reeling with a Ross Colorado, so light weight action was the name of the game here and this fiberglass rod was just about as bent as it could possibly get.
Once it’s in the net I’m hit with the obvious at fist: This is the biggest cutthroat trout I’ve ever caught. I’m stunned this guy made it’s way out of the little river bend at all, and it’s giving me respect for the size of trout that can be in easily waded waters. And then, I go out to find my family, with a bit of shame on my heart. Once I presented to fish to her, I issued the greatest of apologies I’ve ever mustered, humility and embarrassment covering me like a blanket of sad snow. But she was able to forgive me soon enough, and we decided to keep the might trout for a real birthday dinner of fish tacos.
And with that I ended my second Cutthroat Slam, down to the absolute wire. It was close, it was dramatic, it was fun. I hope my next slam can be so enjoyable, and maybe I’ll be able to help the gal with her first slam this coming year as well.