Dick Hailey and the Great Fishing Expedition
Peter Sturges
It must have been the fall of ’72.
I arrived on the river on a perfect day. As I navigated my Dodge flatbed
truck, complete with handmade shingled camper, along the Salmon River Road,
little did I dream of the wild adventures which lay ahead.
I parked in the wide spot at the 11 ½ mile marker and made my
way down a steep trail to the narrow suspension bridge. Crossing over
the emerald and granite exposure of the Salmon River gorge, I knew I’d spend
some time in this place. A quarter of a mile further on, a footbridge
led across the
roar of Morehouse Creek
Picture by Jock Sturges
with the trail leading up to the flat beyond. There I walked into
Eldon and Betty Ann’s new garden and took up residence with them… but
that’s a story for another time. I really want to write of another
adventure I had with Dick Hailey.
Dick was born in the state of Maine, had served in WW II and in Pearl Harbor he met his Hawaiian wife Cyrilla, a.k.a. "Butch". They had take up residence on the Salmon River in the late sixties.
As more young people like myself appeared in the formerly conservative, isolated river communities, disillusioned with urban life and disdainful of it's values, Dick befriend us right off the bat. He was well known for his good deeds toward young and old alike. He was our first visitor to Morehouse Creek gracing the Morehouse trail almost as much as the Jehovah’s Witnesses. With a warning "whoop", packing a .45 on his hip, his friendly frame coming up the trail was always a welcome sight. His incredibly friendly demeanor, can do attitude, and downeast drawl were ever present. He was around fifty five at the time, an old man to us, and was as gregarious and friendly a guy as I have ever known
The winter of '73 produced heavy snows in the high country of the Marble Mountains, with a couple of feet down on the river. By Late March things were getting quite hot and the beautiful weather of April and May spoke of nothing if not fields of flowers and high country lakes teeming with fish. So when Dick invited me to go fishing, I quickly agreed.
We were going to climb 6000 feet up the Crapo Trail to Morehouse Meadows and on to Chimney Rock Lake. There we planned to feast on trout hooked in the marvelous late afternoon light of the Marble Mountains.
We headed out one morning in early June, Dick toting his bulging, wooden-framed, leather Maine guide’s pack, while I had my state-of-the-art aluminum framed pack with just a sleeping bag and pad, as we were going to feast on trout from the lake. We climbed out of the valley into a brilliant blue, green day. Heady stuff.
A couple of hours later, I had to say, Dick was looking a bit poorly.
“Whatchya got in that pack, anyhow, Dick” I asked after a number of particularly grueling switchbacks.
“Oh, the old woman packed it.” He lied, referring to his wife “Butch”.
I could tell he was hurting. Halfway up I insisted on taking some of his load.
Well, right on top of Dick’s pack was a seventeen pound rubber raft he was going to surprise me with when we got to the lake.
Soon all hell broke loose as I opened a cornucopia of cans of baked beans and a slab of bacon, with cans of veggies and more cans of lots of stuff, and a dozen eggs. You get the picture.
We left a lot of food on the side of the trail. We knew the fish were hungry. But, the raft went with us, miles and miles, thousands of feet up and into the snow covered high country with seven foot drifts, and no sign of the trail, on up to the lake. The frozen-over lake. Our hearts were as heavy as Dick's pack.
But, we caught a few on the inky black ribbon of water at the unfrozen edge of the white expanse of frozen lake, and I learned to drink coffee. We camped on the snow and marveled at the scenery and our stupidity.
Dick went home and soaked in the tub for a week. The old woman told us we were fools and she was right.
Good ol' Dick. I sure do miss him.