Bright Angel Creek

Bright Angel Creek.... THE TROUT FISHING STREAM IN THE GRAND CANYON

A western yarn variously credited to many local windjammers at Grand Canyon it's Cap Hance or Shorty Yarberry-indicates that there's lots of money in playing poker. "I sure put lots of it in," the story goes, "an' took darn little of it out, so I know there's lots of money there someplace."

I'm the same way about fishing in Bright Angel Creek. I helped plant 10,000 little trout down there in 1947 and how many did I take out? All the law allowed, it's true, but that is only 1/10 of 1% of the original investment. So when the question of trout fishing in Bright Angel Creek comes up, I can quote the old poker players. "Sure. There's lots of fish there. I helped put 'em in, an' all I took out would fit in a ten inch skillet!"

Stand at Yavapai Point on the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, and there, a mile below you deep in the inner gorge, a little spot of green is Phantom Ranch were Bright Angel Creek enters the Colorado River from the north. Three miles air line a mile vertically down-a good pair of binoculars shows a few scattered buildings among willows and cottonwood trees. If the light is right. you may catch the glint of sun on clear water. That is Bright Angel Creek.

It was named by Major John Wesley Powell, pioneer boatman and explorer of the unknown chasms of the Colorado River. He was disgusted with the muddy, heavily muddy, heavily silted tributaries of the Colorado, and when he pulled ashore here and found a clear, cold stream of sweet water. he immediately christened it "Bright Angel!"

About twelve miles of the stream provide good water for fishing. Beginning at the river, it is half a mile up to Phantom Ranch, another mile up to Phantom Creek. and then about seven miles through The Box, a narrow, steep walled canyon where the stream splashes brightly between green fringes of willows, veering from side to side of the canyon so that the trail actually crosses the stream seven times. On up the creek, past Ribbon Falls, The Box ends at Cottonwood Trail maintenance station where the Na tional Park Service has a trail repairman. Two miles farther is Roaring Springs and the power house where the trail from the North Rim drops down to the stream. Above the incoming water from Roaring Springs, a smaller and quieter Bright Angel Creek comes from the east with no trail along it but another mile of fishing water.

We have fish to plant. Before daylight the mules were saddled at Yaki Point on the South Rim as the sky gradually lightened to the east over Wotan's Throne. The truck rolled in with cans of fish brought from Page Springs Hatchery on Oak Creek, and in the flat half-light of early dawn we begin loading. With about 800 twoinch fish to each can, we had twelve cans six mule loads. The mules snorted and trembled as the cold, oddshaped cans were lifted to their backs and lashed into place. One mule spooked and bucked, splashing most of the water out of one can before he could be hauled down. The water was replaced and the can reloaded with the mule protesting vigorously.

The first three mules loaded. we hurriedly check riding cinches and tip-off over the edge into the blue, shadowy darkness. It is early June, comfortably cool. and Bright Angel Creek and the Colorado River lie seven miles down the South Kaibab Trail. At Cedar Ridge. the first wide place in the trail. we stop to check saddle cinches. and the mules shy away and shake with fear as their own quick movements of protest splash cold water from the fish cans onto their shoulders. On the canyon walls aboveand behind us, we can see the next string starting down -black ants creeping against the background of the white Coconino sandstone layer. The first rays of the sun are brushing the tops of the heavy canyon shoulders as we turn and go down. We reach Phantom Ranch by 8 o'clock. After breakfast with Willis Malone, manager of the Ranch, we brush on upstream to Phantom Creek. This plant is to replace fish lost in a 1946 flood that came down Phantom Creek into the Bright Angel, so we go only as high as Phantom Creek, about a mile above Phantom Ranch. It is a clear, limpid, feeble stream entering from the west, and only the trash high in the trees and flood marks on the canyon walls prove the unbelievable spate of water which may rush through here after a quick summer cloudburst inHaunted Canyon at the head of Phantom Creek. Fortunately such flash floods are rare. Following them the National Park Service, the State of Arizona and Fred Harvey Company cooperate to restock the stream. Then the real business of the day began. Buckets full of good advice were offered as I strung up my fly rod and prepared to conduct an investigation into two important matters-first, were there any legal size fish left below Phantom Creek; and second, how were the fish from a previous plant above Phantom Creek getting along. This was almost entirely in the interests of science, I assured my advisers. But, a full strength dose of the familiar anxiety and impatience that strikes any angler on his first day made my fingers shake as I fumbled the line through the guides and leafed through my fly book.

"Got a limit last week on a little 3/0 Colorado spinner," advised John Bradley. "They're having fair luck with bait," offered Willis Malone.

"You won't get anything on flies-no, by gum, you just won't get anything period," suggested a third friend and well wisher.

An hour later and a mile upstream I was willing to confess that the third adviser had probably been correct. My flies had proved completely unattractive. I had neither seen nor raised a fish. I solaced my faith in my angling prowess by deciding that problem "1" of my study could be answered there were no large fish left below Phantom Creek. Later in the season, better anglers were to make a liar out of me but I didn't know that then. I went on fishing.

However, the next half hour above Phantom Creek in the lower part of The Box produced no better results. But by this time I was completely content with things as they were. I was wet to the waist, my shirt tail was out and torn, my hands scuffed from sliding over rocks and fighting through willows, my arm aching from casting, creel empty! The day was perfect! Scoffer No. 3 would crow loudly, scientific interests would never have a report from me that would be helpful in planning, but it was a warm, clear day, the water curled and splashed musically, and I was fishing!

I was fishing from the bank, rod held high across a line of short willows that fringed the stream, flies cast well up and across to get a good drift. No results, except that as I whipped the rod up for the retrieve, I had a strike! Elation replaced simple contentment. There were fish, and at least one was interested. He might be the most simple minded fish in the creek, but I have not found that a fish's I.Q. influences the flavor in the frying pan!

Another cast, shorter this time to drift the fly over the same spot-no break of water, no splashing run to take the fly. As I picked up the line for another cast, I had him! Then he swirled to the top, rolling and fighting, but the whip of the rod cushioned his power so that the light line held him and in a moment I lifted him over the willows and had him in my hand to admire. A ten inch Loch Leven may be commonplace somewhere, but when it is the first fish of the season, when the day is perfect and you are so far from civilization that you and nature are alone and in quiet harmony, any fisherman understands that life for that instant is beautiful.

I continued up the stream, using shorter casts, making frequent retrieves, letting the flies sink and then picking them up quickly. The next run of rapid water proved the value of the change in method. On the second cast another fish was firmly hooked and soon joined the first one in the creel. This fish took the Coachman. Hard work would do the rest!

The next spot was a blank, but upstream a rock reached out into the creek, and from it I could float the flies down a swift channel to swirl into a small pool below an overhang of the bank. I crashed through the willows with brief hesitation about possible rattlesnakes, and found that the cast would work as planned. The first try, the flies curled into the pool briefly and I picked them up cleanly. The second cast I let them go farther and when I picked them up, a solid weight indicated a sizeable fish. This one came out of the water at once in a driving leap that showed clearly his brilliantly spotted sides. I was forced to give line, a lot of it, but the untiring whip of the rod wore him down and I splashed downstream and slid him onto a sandbar. Sixteen inches, I guessed, and the finest fish of the day!

In another hour I had the legal limit of ten. Of these, I saw or felt only one actually strike. That one, with poor timing for him, came to the surface immediately across the creek from me and leaped clear of the water to take a bug off a blade of grass hanging low over the water's edge. I crossed the stream well below, approached quietly, and with a short line dropped the Hackle almost to the water surface beside the grass. The fish immediate-ly leaped for the fly, got it, and I took advantage of his momentum to lift him on out onto the grass.

By 2:30 in the afternoon I was back at Phantom Ranch, my fish cleaned and being frozen in the refrigerator ready to pack out the next day. From then on the day was a lazy success. I had confounded my critics, I had fish to prove that flies would work, and my smoke screen of scientific research could be dropped and I could swap fishing stories with freedom.

The lower end of The Box was all that I had covered, but is not all the fine fishing water in Bright Angel Creek, however. Anglers who fish the stream frequently, report that near Ribbon Falls or near Cottonwood Camp the fishing is often better. Also, there are enthusiasts who swear that the best fishing of all is had by coming in from the North Rim. On one such trip, Assistant Chief Ranger Art Brown and Ranger Naturalist Kit Wing fished a large pool only to find a big male beaver in possession. Moreover, the beaver resented the intrusion and charged them, forcing them back to the bank. This incidental view of wildlife, unmolested in its native home, is one of the unexpected dividends of such a trip along Bright Angel Creek. Water Ouzels are frequently seen, an occasional duck, beaver homes and cuttings, and many water and shore birds that seem strangely located in the midst of the arid northern Arizona country.

Also of interest to anglers is that the trail to Clear Creek turns off to the east shortly above Phantom Ranch and leads nine miles across the desert of the Tonto Plateau to Clear Creek open for fishing the year around. It's tough to get to, but fishing is reported good.

Fishing in Bright Angel Creek is governed by Arizona laws with a state license required and season followed. The limit is ten fish in one day.

A free public campground at the mouth of Bright Angel Creek is maintained by the National Park Service and there is another one at Cottonwood, eight miles above Phantom Ranch. Thus hikers can make the trip as well as those who make reservations for mule transportation, and accommodations at Phantom Ranch. The bottom of Bright Angel Canyon is low in elevation and in the summer is quite hot. Observation does not indicate that this deters anglers to an appreciable extent.

The trip out the next day was routine. Willis Malone had my fish frozen as hard as ten sticks of oak wood. Well-wrapped in paper and burlap they arrived on top still solidly frozen. I helped to put in 10,000 fish - I took out only ten. I'm going back this year and check up on that other 9,990. They ought to be legal size by now. I should find out about it. Purely in the interests of science, you will understand! Purely in the interests of science!

PAGE TWENTY-SIX OF ARIZONA HIGHWAYS FOR JUNE, 1948 It takes a long hike to get there but Bright Angel Creek in the bottom of Grand Canyon offers the trout fisherman a lot of sport. This bright, gay creek enters into the Colorado River near Phantom Ranch. It is noted for sparkling water.