The first thing I noticed were the swallows.
Dozens of them.
Diving out of the slate-gray day and skimming across the surface of the water. Sometimes only millimeters above the rushing river. From the bend upstream where the Colorado River turned toward us carrying water that, less than 24 hours ago was snow high in the Never Summer Mountains, over the riffles and pools immediately before us, and all the way down to the bend below where the river slipped out of sight on it's legendary journey to the Sea of Cortez - there were birds.
"What's THAT mean?" my wife asked when I pointed out their activity.
"Means there's bugs emerging out of the river."
"And that's good - right?"
"Only if we can figure out which ones."
We both squatted and stared across the roiling water, using the dark rock cliff of the far bank as a backdrop.
"THERE!" my wife whispered - pointing to her left. "That?"
Less than 10 feet away, flying just above the riffles of the water.
Pale-yelow body. Gossamer wings.
The mayfly referred to as a pale morning dun.
"That's probably it," I replied as I continued to scan the flowing surface and the ether just above it. Pale morning duns like to hatch when the sky is overcast, and it almost looked like rain to the west. They struggle to the surface from the river bed, shuck their nymphal exoskeleton and float on the surface (sometimes for half a mile) until they're dry and able to fly away. They're delicate and even pretty in an insect-sort of way. And trout love to eat them.
And, as with many things in in life - once you know what you're looking for...... you eventually see it everywhere. Not a heavy hatch, but just enough to get the trout riled up - for the next thing we noticed were the little disturbances coming from underneath the surface of the water.
Not enough to cause an audible splash above the sound of the flowing river, but enough disturbance - where there wasn't one a moment before - to catch your eye. Trout rising to take the insects as they move to break the surface tension, or as they drifted along, just checking out the scenery, (their little pinpoint brains oblivious to the danger of trout wielding knives and forks below them).
I rigged each of our flylines with an appropriate dry fly imitation and attached to the bend in that hook a 12 inch long tippet of spiderweb-thin monofiliment to which was tied a trailing fly that hopefully would resemble a dun trying to wriggle out of it's shuck. The dry fly would float, and the emerger would drift behind, an inch or two below the surface.
Thus armed, I kisseed my wife and walked about 40 yards upstream. Despite our access being on city park and a state wildlife area land with a campground and picnic facilities, we were all alone on the river - and on an early Saturday afternoon to boot. Perhaps the gloomy low hanging clouds that these particular insects sense to signal their emergence were a portent that kept other anglers away. Or perhaps the false assumption that because of it's inherent majesty the Colorado was a difficult river to fish kept the hordes of weekend-warrior anglers from the front range cities at bay. But more likely it was probably because this particular stretch of river got very little press from either the big outdoor writers of the Denver media or the state's division of wildlife weekly reports which tend to concentrate on the more traditionally prolific stretches of waterway. A two hour drive from the masses in Denver, and with easy access from a major U.S. highway - and yet we were all alone......except for the fish.
I could see them surfacing all around now as I stepped quietly into the shallow water that gradually deepened to almost chest-high at the far bank. Before my first cast I heard a quiet whoop from my wife, and looking downstream I saw her rod arched over the water and her line driving swiftly upstream. I've never been one to enjoy watching others catch fish on those ubiquitous fishing shows of the outdoor television channels, but to watch "live" is something else altogether. The trick is to keep the fish headed UPstream where it not only has to fight the natural spring of your rod, but also the flow of water. Some fish never learn to take advantage of heading downstream and using the flow of the water to their advantage.
This one did though.
After a minute of struggling up riner it suddenly turned and headed across, and then down. With encouragement, my wife tried to turn it back up, but it must have realized the futility in that and kept heading down. Gingerly, my wife moved downstream in the knee-deep water, keeping the fish at a 30 degree angle upstream and trying to coax it with the tip of her rod to turn it's head up. She'd be successful for a while, then it would head down again. But heading downstream is a tactic that is only successful if you as the fish manage to get into water below the angler. If you don't, it just brings you closer to the net. After another three minutes of play it was at my wife's feet where I watched her dip the net and raise a healthy 15 inch Brown trout out of the water.
"Well I got MY dinner," she taunted.
With that I set to work looking for mine. Despite the fact that we could each keep two fish on this stretch of river, we'd each only keep one - to eat with some wild rice and buttered beans as a gustatory reward for our endeavors. The rest would be for fun and returned to the water. My dinner hit on the fifth cast as the fly finished drifting through some riffles and into a small pocket of quiet water only 15 feet away. The surface roiled, and my fly that had been floating along so cutely - disappeared.
Setting the hook on a flyrod is a delicate matter. It needs to be strong enough to drive the hook into the fish's lip, yet gentle enough not to break the delicate 3 pound test line that the fly is attached to.
Just a gentle - hello.
Not even capitalized.
And then it's OFF-TO-THE-RACES!
There's something electric about that initial instant when both fish and angler realize that the game's afoot. The adrenalin rush occurs on both ends of the line. The arched rod. The taut line. It's one of the things that has hooked me on this sport. You can almost feel the fish thinking, "Aw....sh-t!"
This one though, wasn't going to have anything to do with the swifter water of the riffles before it, and immediately headed downstream. In an instant it was below me with all it's instinctive energy for the beginning of the fight intact.
Aw..... sh-t!!
All I could do was hold on, letting the fish take out line as I tried to move back into shallower water where I could wade downstream toward it with a bit more alacrity. Walking over smooth, wet river rock in thigh-deep water is never easy. The rocks are seldom stable, and the current disrupts your equilibrium every time you raise your foot. Add to that - the fish tugging on the end of your line and you have the potential for a Chevy Chase skit of Gerald Ford.
But this time I was fortunate. I made shallow water without major histrionics and began to make my way downstream. I've learned the hard way that trying to haul a fish back upstream towards you is fools play. Even if the fish is tired and offering little fight, the flow of current against it's dead weight is often enough to eventually break your line. You have to wade down to it (or float down to it like Brad Pitt in that great scene from "A River Runs Through It" - but nobody really wants to go there!), or at least get it into some shallow or quiet water where the current is much weaker.
With nearly forty feet of line played out, I worked to turn the fish toward the ankle-deep water along the shore as I clumsily made my way downstream. For a moment it would heed my direction, then, as if it knew what I was up to, it would spurt out into deeper water - taking out another ten feet of the fifteen feet of line I had just reeled in. Back and forth we played this game. Ten feet in, then five feet back out. Ten feet in, then FIFTEEN feet back out. For five minutes and nearly forty yards of stream until I was finally able to turn it into the shallows for good - almost at my wife's feet.
"You want me to get this for you dear?" she chided.
Finally, with my 14 inch Brown trout dinner safely tucked away in my creel I headed back upstream. For the next two hours we blissfully caught and released fish. Some smaller. A few bigger. Until my wife finally decided she had had enough and it was time to turn in her flyrod for a massage at the Spa a short walk down the road.
I stayed.
And turned in my flyrod too - but for a cigar instead.
Throwing my waders into the back of the SUV, I took a La Rosa Especiale Mi Favorita Maduro out of my travel humidor and headed back to a picnic table along the bank of the river. Two other anglers were now making their way downstream - having kept a courteous distance for the last half hour of our fishing. And I watched them out of the corner of my eye for any action as I twirled the Mi Favorita in my hand.
I really like these little things. You can get them for about $40 a box on the web (sometimes even cheaper if you check a website when they're having a sale). They're short (I seldom have time for Churchills or corona gordas or bigger) - about 4 3/4 inches long - but with a 52 ring guage that is packed with pleasant tasting tobacco and topped with a flavorful maduro wrapper. Although made in Honduras, I believe the tobacco is almost all Nicarguan.
As I peeled away the tissue wrapper Angler #1 hooked a fish. Some would have been tempted to stop and watch, but I can multi-task with the best of them. So while watching the fishing I clipped the head with my cutter and put the cigar to my lips for a pre-light taste. Woody and slightly sweet, and I need a new clipper I thought, as I spit out some tobacco bits. The wrapper is dark, somewhat veiny, and slightly oily to the touch. Construction solid but not too tight. I toasted the head, and took a draw which was easy with plenty of smoke.
Now being properly lit I turned my full attention back to the fishing. Angler #1 was getting his/her fish close, but not in, and angler #2 was gracefully casting toward the far shore. By what I saw, these guys were good - much better than I was. But that's one of the big secrets of fly fishing - you don't have to be an expert to have fun and catch fish. Yet there ain't nothing wrong with always learning a little more, so for the next 45 minutes I blissfully watched and absorbed what I saw.
The cigar was a tasty compliment to the outdoors. It's woody flavor was underscored with earthy notes of loam and peat that lasted from first light to end. And it had a nice long finsh that hinted sweet. Not inherently complex, but with enough tasty sidebars to keep you satisfied. Plenty of smoke too. Enough so, that as they got nearer, angler #1 sniffed the air and turned his head toward me.
"What ya smokin'?" he yelled from 30 yards away.
I told him.
"Never heard of 'em. Smells good though."
Want one?
"Not NOW."
Well, I'll just leave 2 here for ya when your done.
So I went back to the car, clipped two cigars, put them in a baggie with a Bic lighter and put it all back on the picnic table.
"Wow... thanks!" he waved from the middle of the river. "You done fishin' for the day?"
Yup...it was time to pick the wife up from the spa.
Dozens of them.
Diving out of the slate-gray day and skimming across the surface of the water. Sometimes only millimeters above the rushing river. From the bend upstream where the Colorado River turned toward us carrying water that, less than 24 hours ago was snow high in the Never Summer Mountains, over the riffles and pools immediately before us, and all the way down to the bend below where the river slipped out of sight on it's legendary journey to the Sea of Cortez - there were birds.
"What's THAT mean?" my wife asked when I pointed out their activity.
"Means there's bugs emerging out of the river."
"And that's good - right?"
"Only if we can figure out which ones."
We both squatted and stared across the roiling water, using the dark rock cliff of the far bank as a backdrop.
"THERE!" my wife whispered - pointing to her left. "That?"
Less than 10 feet away, flying just above the riffles of the water.
Pale-yelow body. Gossamer wings.
The mayfly referred to as a pale morning dun.
"That's probably it," I replied as I continued to scan the flowing surface and the ether just above it. Pale morning duns like to hatch when the sky is overcast, and it almost looked like rain to the west. They struggle to the surface from the river bed, shuck their nymphal exoskeleton and float on the surface (sometimes for half a mile) until they're dry and able to fly away. They're delicate and even pretty in an insect-sort of way. And trout love to eat them.
And, as with many things in in life - once you know what you're looking for...... you eventually see it everywhere. Not a heavy hatch, but just enough to get the trout riled up - for the next thing we noticed were the little disturbances coming from underneath the surface of the water.
Not enough to cause an audible splash above the sound of the flowing river, but enough disturbance - where there wasn't one a moment before - to catch your eye. Trout rising to take the insects as they move to break the surface tension, or as they drifted along, just checking out the scenery, (their little pinpoint brains oblivious to the danger of trout wielding knives and forks below them).
I rigged each of our flylines with an appropriate dry fly imitation and attached to the bend in that hook a 12 inch long tippet of spiderweb-thin monofiliment to which was tied a trailing fly that hopefully would resemble a dun trying to wriggle out of it's shuck. The dry fly would float, and the emerger would drift behind, an inch or two below the surface.
Thus armed, I kisseed my wife and walked about 40 yards upstream. Despite our access being on city park and a state wildlife area land with a campground and picnic facilities, we were all alone on the river - and on an early Saturday afternoon to boot. Perhaps the gloomy low hanging clouds that these particular insects sense to signal their emergence were a portent that kept other anglers away. Or perhaps the false assumption that because of it's inherent majesty the Colorado was a difficult river to fish kept the hordes of weekend-warrior anglers from the front range cities at bay. But more likely it was probably because this particular stretch of river got very little press from either the big outdoor writers of the Denver media or the state's division of wildlife weekly reports which tend to concentrate on the more traditionally prolific stretches of waterway. A two hour drive from the masses in Denver, and with easy access from a major U.S. highway - and yet we were all alone......except for the fish.
I could see them surfacing all around now as I stepped quietly into the shallow water that gradually deepened to almost chest-high at the far bank. Before my first cast I heard a quiet whoop from my wife, and looking downstream I saw her rod arched over the water and her line driving swiftly upstream. I've never been one to enjoy watching others catch fish on those ubiquitous fishing shows of the outdoor television channels, but to watch "live" is something else altogether. The trick is to keep the fish headed UPstream where it not only has to fight the natural spring of your rod, but also the flow of water. Some fish never learn to take advantage of heading downstream and using the flow of the water to their advantage.
This one did though.
After a minute of struggling up riner it suddenly turned and headed across, and then down. With encouragement, my wife tried to turn it back up, but it must have realized the futility in that and kept heading down. Gingerly, my wife moved downstream in the knee-deep water, keeping the fish at a 30 degree angle upstream and trying to coax it with the tip of her rod to turn it's head up. She'd be successful for a while, then it would head down again. But heading downstream is a tactic that is only successful if you as the fish manage to get into water below the angler. If you don't, it just brings you closer to the net. After another three minutes of play it was at my wife's feet where I watched her dip the net and raise a healthy 15 inch Brown trout out of the water.
"Well I got MY dinner," she taunted.
With that I set to work looking for mine. Despite the fact that we could each keep two fish on this stretch of river, we'd each only keep one - to eat with some wild rice and buttered beans as a gustatory reward for our endeavors. The rest would be for fun and returned to the water. My dinner hit on the fifth cast as the fly finished drifting through some riffles and into a small pocket of quiet water only 15 feet away. The surface roiled, and my fly that had been floating along so cutely - disappeared.
Setting the hook on a flyrod is a delicate matter. It needs to be strong enough to drive the hook into the fish's lip, yet gentle enough not to break the delicate 3 pound test line that the fly is attached to.
Just a gentle - hello.
Not even capitalized.
And then it's OFF-TO-THE-RACES!
There's something electric about that initial instant when both fish and angler realize that the game's afoot. The adrenalin rush occurs on both ends of the line. The arched rod. The taut line. It's one of the things that has hooked me on this sport. You can almost feel the fish thinking, "Aw....sh-t!"
This one though, wasn't going to have anything to do with the swifter water of the riffles before it, and immediately headed downstream. In an instant it was below me with all it's instinctive energy for the beginning of the fight intact.
Aw..... sh-t!!
All I could do was hold on, letting the fish take out line as I tried to move back into shallower water where I could wade downstream toward it with a bit more alacrity. Walking over smooth, wet river rock in thigh-deep water is never easy. The rocks are seldom stable, and the current disrupts your equilibrium every time you raise your foot. Add to that - the fish tugging on the end of your line and you have the potential for a Chevy Chase skit of Gerald Ford.
But this time I was fortunate. I made shallow water without major histrionics and began to make my way downstream. I've learned the hard way that trying to haul a fish back upstream towards you is fools play. Even if the fish is tired and offering little fight, the flow of current against it's dead weight is often enough to eventually break your line. You have to wade down to it (or float down to it like Brad Pitt in that great scene from "A River Runs Through It" - but nobody really wants to go there!), or at least get it into some shallow or quiet water where the current is much weaker.
With nearly forty feet of line played out, I worked to turn the fish toward the ankle-deep water along the shore as I clumsily made my way downstream. For a moment it would heed my direction, then, as if it knew what I was up to, it would spurt out into deeper water - taking out another ten feet of the fifteen feet of line I had just reeled in. Back and forth we played this game. Ten feet in, then five feet back out. Ten feet in, then FIFTEEN feet back out. For five minutes and nearly forty yards of stream until I was finally able to turn it into the shallows for good - almost at my wife's feet.
"You want me to get this for you dear?" she chided.
Finally, with my 14 inch Brown trout dinner safely tucked away in my creel I headed back upstream. For the next two hours we blissfully caught and released fish. Some smaller. A few bigger. Until my wife finally decided she had had enough and it was time to turn in her flyrod for a massage at the Spa a short walk down the road.
I stayed.
And turned in my flyrod too - but for a cigar instead.
Throwing my waders into the back of the SUV, I took a La Rosa Especiale Mi Favorita Maduro out of my travel humidor and headed back to a picnic table along the bank of the river. Two other anglers were now making their way downstream - having kept a courteous distance for the last half hour of our fishing. And I watched them out of the corner of my eye for any action as I twirled the Mi Favorita in my hand.
I really like these little things. You can get them for about $40 a box on the web (sometimes even cheaper if you check a website when they're having a sale). They're short (I seldom have time for Churchills or corona gordas or bigger) - about 4 3/4 inches long - but with a 52 ring guage that is packed with pleasant tasting tobacco and topped with a flavorful maduro wrapper. Although made in Honduras, I believe the tobacco is almost all Nicarguan.
As I peeled away the tissue wrapper Angler #1 hooked a fish. Some would have been tempted to stop and watch, but I can multi-task with the best of them. So while watching the fishing I clipped the head with my cutter and put the cigar to my lips for a pre-light taste. Woody and slightly sweet, and I need a new clipper I thought, as I spit out some tobacco bits. The wrapper is dark, somewhat veiny, and slightly oily to the touch. Construction solid but not too tight. I toasted the head, and took a draw which was easy with plenty of smoke.
Now being properly lit I turned my full attention back to the fishing. Angler #1 was getting his/her fish close, but not in, and angler #2 was gracefully casting toward the far shore. By what I saw, these guys were good - much better than I was. But that's one of the big secrets of fly fishing - you don't have to be an expert to have fun and catch fish. Yet there ain't nothing wrong with always learning a little more, so for the next 45 minutes I blissfully watched and absorbed what I saw.
The cigar was a tasty compliment to the outdoors. It's woody flavor was underscored with earthy notes of loam and peat that lasted from first light to end. And it had a nice long finsh that hinted sweet. Not inherently complex, but with enough tasty sidebars to keep you satisfied. Plenty of smoke too. Enough so, that as they got nearer, angler #1 sniffed the air and turned his head toward me.
"What ya smokin'?" he yelled from 30 yards away.
I told him.
"Never heard of 'em. Smells good though."
Want one?
"Not NOW."
Well, I'll just leave 2 here for ya when your done.
So I went back to the car, clipped two cigars, put them in a baggie with a Bic lighter and put it all back on the picnic table.
"Wow... thanks!" he waved from the middle of the river. "You done fishin' for the day?"
Yup...it was time to pick the wife up from the spa.
