The Junction of Rain and Mogollon Creek

Piscatorial Memories

The Junction of Rain and Mogollon Creek

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By Stephen L. Wilmeth

             How many sardines have I eaten at the junction of Rain and Mogollon Creek? The obvious answer, of course, is not enough. 

             It was a place, though, that I learned to love to eat sardines out of the can. Some saltine crackers and sardines from a can when you were hungry is a memory that never gets old. It is one of the great standards of life, especially when the occasion is matched with making the decision which fork to take … which fork to fish.

            The Tram and the Cabin

             I believe my first memory of the two creeks comes from the Rain Creek side of the drainage. I seem to recollect a tram across the canyon where Frank Rice’s father had in some distant hope to retrieve mineral wealth from across the canyon. Was that a fact or was it just a vague incoherent memory?

            My Nana told me to look at the creek. She asked me if I saw the fish in it. I hadn’t although I tried.

            The next memory of Rain Creek was when the story was told to me by my grandfather, Carl Rice, about the cabin he and his brother, Blue, stayed in when they worked cattle at the head of the mesa years ago. It had a den of snakes under the floor and when they opened the door and stomped in those snakes would rattle. 

            “Howdy, howdy!” Blue purportedly yelled each time.

             Another story was about some riders who hailed the cabin as they approached. “Hello, the cabin.  Who’s there?”  was the query.

            “We are!” was Blue’s bellowing response. Getting a laugh, such one liners give credence to the assumption that cowboy humor can be based on … not much at all.

            The choice

            Normally, the first choice would be to fish up Rain Creek to the falls. That choice would have been made even before the last sardine was scraped out of the oil in the bottom of the can. A drink of cold creek water would have been taken before the gear was rearranged and the rod was picked up. The movement would have been from rock to rock until rushing water wouldn’t allow.

            If it was early in the year, the cold water would have your feet aching before long. It only felt good when it was hot.

            The creek was known intimately. There were several good places to float a worm or toss a Mepps before the lower end of the box where the falls lay was reached. It was there you had to climb up and around to get through.

            One morning I reached for and then withdrew my hand as I anticipated climbing up over that overhang. Something just told me not to do that, and, about that time a rattlesnake crawled off that ledge and dropped into the cold water below. He swam across the creek and crawled up against the wet rock wall. I tried to hit him with a rock, but couldn’t with the angle. I had cussed him for his existence and the fear his kind always gave me, but he had only laid there against the cold he was now enduring. I thought about hooking him with a spinner and pulling him out, but my anxiety had subsided enough to realize he had put himself in a really bad situation. Laying there in the spray of the cold water in the shade wasn’t good for his cold blooded metabolism. He could just stay there for all I cared. I climbed over the ledge and continued on my way. 

             I never caught too many fish at the falls itself. It was always just above or below that a fish or two could be counted upon to strike. It was a good place to conclude the trek up Rain Creek. Mogollon Creek was the real adventure and it beckoned down stream.

            The big adventure

            The sound of Mogollon Creek was always heard above the sounds of Rain Creek. The water felt different, too, at least most of the time. At the junction of the two creeks we always fished up the creek from the east side of the canyon. The runs were swift and shallow for a long stretch. There were always fish there, but we caught few. The next real destination was Mogollon Creek Falls. That is where we wanted to be. 

            From the east side of the creek you can’t see the falls as you approach. You can hear the roar and you can see the spray of the mist. 

             I remember the first time I saw it. I was there with Frank and Clyde. I was just a little kid and I went running back down the creek to get Frank. He had been dismissive of my exuberance. He had been there too many times before.

             I always caught a fish at the falls. In fact, it was a place that you could always count on catching a good fish. Bright colors, hooked rostrum, and pink flesh could always be counted upon from those fish. It was a good place.

            Into the upper world

            By the time Hugh Reed and I were fishing Mogollon Creek together our real destination was the world above the falls. It was there that the general public did not venture. It was there the wild trout existed.

            The climb over the falls was a big deal. It was not for the weak of heart. There was only one route around the falls and it was steep and it was not easy to navigate. The better part of an hour would be consumed making that climb. It was like climbing into a new world.

            There were a couple of lesser falls just above the main falls and we would always fish through them. Above them was a stretch of water that made trout fisherman out of boys. It was heaven.

            Hugh is a great fisherman.  His life was spent making a living, but his talent is on the water. He has no peer and I have been around more than a few good fishermen to make that judgment call.

            We perfected a billeting technique much like rock climbers. The lead fisherman would make a cast or two and then drop back to allow the lagging fisherman the same casts. This continued unless a fish was hooked. A hooked fish meant dropping back and allowing the lagging fisherman to continue the routine. As silently and deliberately as we could, we worked our way upstream. We got good and it was orchestrated by Hugh who always caught more fish. 

            Reluctant decision

            There was an internal clock that called the ball on quitting the northward march up the creek. At some point, we would reluctantly turn and make out way back toward the falls. We seldom fished in that direction. We always had too far to go and we were always late starting back.

            The climb back over the falls was dreaded, but it was part of the routine. Finally, the bottom was reached and we picked up the pace southward toward the Inman Place where our truck was parked. 

            Hugh’s Gramp and Granny owned the Inman Place. The house itself was a solid little structure on the east side of the creek where the road came off the hill from the mesa. We would usually walk up around the vacant house checking and looking. There was always a special treat if the lilac bush that was planted just downstream from the house was in bloom. We would grab those lilac clusters and breathe deep inhaling breaths. I loved the smell of lilacs then just as I love them today.

            The Conclusion

            There was a special hole in front of the house that always beckoned one last cast.  I once took my future wife there and she caught fish after fish out of that hole. I watched her catch a particularly green trout that afternoon. The fish jumped five or six times casting a mist that caught the light like a rainbow. We turned her loose. Any fish that fought like that needed to stay in the creek. Perhaps her genes would remain. I hope they did.

            It was then one last crossing to the truck and our trip out of the canyon would commence. We would look for deer as we drove out. We would also look back as we neared the crest. Mogollon Creek lay there in a narrow ribbon in several places.

            “Hello, the cabin … who’s there?”

            “We are … our youth and our memory will remain with you forever.”

Stephen L. Wilmeth is a rancher from southern New Mexico. “Mogollon Creek is one of the great places on earth. It has changed … the USFWS poisoned the great brown trout fishery in the east fork … and the Whitewater Baldy Fire now impacting the area will kill everything in the creeks with ash and suffocation, but the history of the people who made it home remains.”