This creek and I go way back. When I first moved to Idaho 25 years ago, it was one of the first blue lines on the map that I searched out. I found its subtle course through a lodgepole forest in what was then a crisp new copy of DeLorme's Atlas and Gazetteer for the Gem State. That same collection of maps is now a dog-eared, faded compilation of a quarter century’s worth of adventure. The adventure started here. On this modest little willow-shrouded, beaver-dammed trickle through the Targhee National Forest, just outside of Yellowstone National Park.

In lean waters years, I’ve fished the creek as early as mid-May. When winter snows pile up, I’ve had to wait until almost July before I deemed it fishable. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not a terribly special creek, but I love it. And I have my reasons.

First, it’s home to some of the prettiest brook trout I’ve ever seen — little non-native treasures that color up in early summer. They’re not big. They do what brook trout do all over the West – they eat themselves out of house and home and then they stunt. So, the average brookie from the creek might be six inches long. A big brookie might be 10.

Second, it’s the last creek I ever fished with my grandfather and because of that it’s always there, in the back of my mind. Just like he is. He is the author of my fishing – without him, I may never have picked up a fly rod.

Years ago, not long after I moved to Idaho, and not long after I discovered the little creek, my grandfather drove to Idaho from Colorado. He’d lost his wife, my grandmother, a couple of years before, and he was getting along about as well as could be expected. He’d sold the family house, bought a nice new pickup and moved into my uncle’s basement. One early September morning, he decided to take a road trip. At 80, he grabbed his old fishing creel and an old bamboo fly rod and drove 10 hours to come see me.

Still pretty new to eastern Idaho, I steered his just-off-the-lot Dodge up the highway toward the little town of Ashton. We crossed over the South Fork of the Snake on the drive up, and we caught glimpses of the Henry’s Fork at St. Anthony. But we were creek fishermen — we always eschewed the big water and the general lack of elbow room for smaller, more subtle waters. We sought out the creeks and brooks and hidden trickles deemed inferior by other anglers.

And this creek is one such inferior place. It’s literally choked by willows along most of its course, making for a hell of a bushwhack if you don’t know the little grottos and hidden moose tunnels through the thicket. Its water is dark, just a bit stained from its course over the forest loam, and its bottom is slick-as-snot granite. On the best day, it’s a beast to try and fish.

But we did it that day in September, as the willows, turning gold as the days shortened, rustled in the late-summer breeze. We walked the slippery bottom deliberately, and I watched as the old man picked off brookies that, on that day, were exactly where they were supposed to be.

A World War II veteran who fought with the Marines in the South Pacific, my grandfather, I think, found peace in places like this. Quiet, unassuming places where, in order to find the magic, you first have to scrape off the crusty outer shell that might keep others away. There are places like this all over the Rockies, honestly, and my grandfather and I certainly fished our share of them.

But this place was the last place. And because of that, I come back whenever I can.

Now, almost a quarter of a century later, the young muscles and the impervious bones are gone. And, of course, so is my grandfather. Today, I walk the creek with careful purpose. One step at a time. I’m thoughtful as I fish its small runs, taking care not to lose my backcast in the willows. And I use fistfuls of the streamside willows to check my balance, long since diminished thanks to a reconstructed lower back. But I keep at it. I keep coming back to this creek. Its brookies are still there. They’re still small. They’re still beautiful.

Sometimes, I don’t fish at all, an unthinkable proposition all those years ago. Sometimes, when it’s miserably hot, I just drag my trusty old camp chair down the hidden trail to the creek and set it in the water. The creek’s cold flows cool the air near its surface, and it’s a great place to contemplative. I’ll watch the little char rise a few feet above me — it usually takes them about 10 minutes to get used to me sitting there, hovering over them. But once they’re comfortable, life goes on in the creek.

I think of my grandfather often, and I especially think of him when I’m here, on this creek. He cast a mighty shadow over my youth, and I learned a lot from him. But I treasure his greatest gift to me more than anything else. Fishing, of course.

And, on this creek, it feels like he still fishes with me. This creek. This place. There’s magic here in this dark water. My grandfather and I found it all those years ago.