Autumn is my favorite season. It seems to me that the natural world awakes from its summer slumber to prepare for winter. That might sound funny to most but in the mountains where I live the Elk, the Moose and the Deer move to higher, cooler and very remote territory during the summer. It also seems to me that the fish disappear under cut-banks and rocks, finding refuge from dwindling water supplies and rising temperatures. But in late September the nights become very cool and cold fronts bring rain and even snow. One can feel the rivers and forests come alive. That is also why it fall is my favorite season to fish. Big Browns, Salmon and Steelhead all make their way to their spawning grounds. The Moose, the Elk and the Deer return to their herds and move to lower elevations. So as I prepare for upcoming trips like Steelhead Fishing in New York and pre-spawn Browns out west I recall past experiences, flies that worked and ones that did not, people who I have enjoyed meeting and some I have not and fish I have caught and ones I did not. Here is a story about some of the stranger people I have met while fishing in autumn. I had seen the old man fishing a few bends down. I watched as frustration poured onto his face. He had fished the river for years although at the time I did not know it. Never mind him I thought to myself. He is just some old hick who does not know what he is doing. The fishing was not great that day but I had landed a few nice ones. It was unusual to see anyone else in that section of river and I could not help wondering who the old man was. I made few more casts and decided to move down river. As with most autumn days in the Rockies the air was crisp and cool. The sun peaked in and out of bushy clouds. Light breezes carried hints of winter. The fall is my favorite time to fish. Often times when the clouds thicken and the skies turn gray the big fish get hungry. They too can feel winter coming and they gorge themselves on anything the can. Often in the fall large streamer patterns work well but on this day small flies and fine tippet was the name of the game.Over the five years I fished the river it had been fighting an upward battle against irrigation, drought and reconstruction. For some reason the department of wildlife thought the river was unhappy in its former location. So they moved it. But this year was not the first time the river had been moved. That occurred over a century ago. I can’t help but think the natural way of things would run its course, eventually and the river would find its own way again. But I guess with dams and people and farms and bureaucrats it would be endlessly caught up in the battle against those who thought they knew what was best for it. At least they had left some of the original stretches intact.The section of river I was headed for was one of those left behind by the reconstruction. It was a long, rolling riffle narrowing into a deep pool. The banks were undercut and lined with Willows. I had hooked large Browns in there before but never landed one. It seems all the big fish know where the snags are.Rounding the corner I saw the old man again, emerging from the Willows with fly rod in hand and discontent on his face. He was short and heavy. But not heavy in the way most old men are. Not soft and round from years of working behind a desk but heavy the way a blue collared life makes you. Heavy the way a man gets when years of hard work catch up with him. When he is too old to swing an axe or throw hay bails. Later I would find out his name was Jack Hagan. A professional light weight boxer in the forties but a local farmer in his second life. Closer now I could see his face tanned and lined from years in the sun. His hair was white and thinning and grey stubble clung to his face.“How’s it going.” he said. His voice was high and rough.“Been catching any?” he asked. My response to this sort of question rarely reflects the truth. Some people don’t deserve a truth full answer. This was an exception.“Got a couple” I replied “how ‘bout you?”By this time the old timer and I were face to face and he peered at me with steel blue eyes.“None for me” he said.“What are you using?” I said as I scanned his set-up. His fly was unlike any I had seen before. At least not in books and surely not in any fly shop. It was much larger than any needed for the day and it did not look like any streamer pattern I had seen before. In fact it was not a streamer at all. It was more like a red feather haphazardly wrapped around a hook with gold tinsel and something yellow. And his line was thick. More like something from the BASS tour not a trout stream.“This Caddis pattern” he replied “But it’s not working”.My helpful nature often takes over in this situation.“Maybe your line is too heavy?” I said. With that the old man lowered his shoulder and bumped me in the chest with it. I stepped back wondering what he was doing and he stepped forward. He did not seem to be angry just letting me know he was there. “You guys these days with your tiny flies and your tiny tippet. This is all you need” as he spoke he reached into his vest. Although the nudge he gave me was not enough to be instigative I was fearful of what he was searching for. Then old man pulled a cool whip container from his vest partially opened the lid and quickly returned it to his pocket. I was unable to make out its contents. Before I could say anything he did it again, a little slower repeating “THIS is all you need”. The container was overflowing with a tangled mess of brightly colored feathers and fur strapped to hooks. It was an unconventional fly box filled with unconventional flies. Now it was obvious to me this guy was nuts. My thoughts of whether or not this old man ever catches fish were interrupted by another shot to the chest. “SON” he said (I am 35 years old) “Do you ever catch any fish here?” “Well SIR, like I said I caught a few today, up in the new section”.“New section?” he said in an elevated tone.Then he went on rant about how he had been fishing the river for over fifty years and nothing had changed except “that damn dam” and how before the dam the fishing was great and everyone caught 5 pound Browns, all the while running into me with his shoulder. I have to say my nervousness was out-weighed by my curiosity. How could a guy fish this river for fifty years and not notice the whole thing had been moved? And why did he feel the need to bump into me every time he said something. To say that the old man was strange would be an understatement. Although, he was not the first or the most insane fisherman I have met on a river. The most insane would have been at the Miracle Mile a few years earlier. That encounter started with a cloud of dust and the dirty blue steak of a station wagon racing by my camp site. I was car camping of course. It seems I enjoy that more than anything. Don’t get me wrong I still sleep in a tent. The car is just close by. But to me camping is only a way of waking up closer to the river. Seeing a dirty old car drive by on the dirt roads of the Miracle Mile is a not an unusual site, but seeing one race by several times at 50 plus mph, back and fourth, on a rutted, potholed dead end dirt road does catch a person’s attention. It was not until his fourth time past that he stopped. At this point I was paying close attention to the details of the car. I already felt I would need this information for some kind of police report and I had not even met the driver yet. But all I could make out was it was rusty and blue. Now I am not one to pass judgment because of one economic capabilities. I have driven my share of rusted out bombers in the past. Some might say the car I own now would be “less than desirable”. I do however use ones behavior as a gage for how “friendly” I am, especially in the middle of nowhere Wyoming, alone. He climbed out through the passenger door and my concerns were validated. He was short with a beer belly. His chest and shoulders had the out line of a tank top torched into them. His eyes were devilish and bloodshot. A strong odor of booze followed him towards me. It was early in the afternoon. The midday sun had just started to bake the earth. The morning hatch had ended and I was sitting at the picnic table tying flies for the evening. Behind him through the unclosed door I could see empty beer cans and bottles. It looked as though a lives worth of belonging had been winnowed down just enough to fit in the back of a station wagon. There were boxes, clothes, books, magazines and empty Pringle potato chip containers-hundreds of them. I also saw a few random furniture legs, maybe a book shelf or table. As he approached he asked if I had seen his dog but before I could answer he said he was kidding and did not have a dog. Then he started loudly calling out “here boy” and “c’mon pup”. This guy was certifiably insane. As with the old man I participated in mundane conversation until my curiosity ran out. I parted with an obligatory “good luck” be it with fishing or finding an imaginary dog. These encounters are just a part of fishing in remote parts of the west and the fall brings out the big fish, the squirrels and the nuts.