Hook, Line and Soul--Tales from the Big Thompson

Perseverance on the Poudre Pays Off

2012-03-07T09:25:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago I returned to the Big Thompson, only to be blown off the river by 50+ mph wind gusts and sheets of ice covering most of my favorite winter slots. Turning around I drove back down the canyon into Loveland and then headed north, back up to the Poudre. After 2 hours of driving, I was able to start fishing...11 miles from home. But it turned out to be the best long drive to fish close to home.

The change in venue allowed my fishing buddy, Kerrie to join me for a couple of hours. She introduced me to this stretch of water and her previous experience showed. I watched her catch several fish, during which time I managed to only land two.

Kerrie with one of her many catches

Kerrie had to leave, and after a quick lunch break, I returned to the same stretch of water we had fished most of the morning. My perseverance and patience finally paid off. Within three casts I landed two nice browns. The fishing slowed a bit after that, but I enjoyed my solitude in the waning hours of daylight, and catching a few more fish. They weren't as big, but displayed some beautiful coloring..

First Big Brown

Big Brown #2

Some local color...

The evening ended with a small hatch coming off and the rise of several trout at patient intervals. I chased them with a couple different dry patterns, but my efforts proved fruitless. By this point though, it didn't matter. After serveral trips to the Poudre, and hearing stories of sizeable fish, I was finally blessed to enjoy a few moments with some of the larger local residents.

The best part about fishing with a friend;
you get photos like this.

I look forward to getting back on the Big T soon, but for now, the Poudre is a fine place to be.

Vicarious Fishing

2012-02-02T18:47:00.000-08:00

The past couple weeks have been dry times. Family matters, moving faster than summer's run-off, the call of steady employment (for which I am ever grateful), planning for the next PHWFF trip to the Big T (grateful for this, too), initial discussions for an new chapter of PHWFF in Ft. Collins (could be awesome), skanky weather on my weekends and a little bit of writing have all done their part to keep me off of the river.

However, I've reached a point in my fishing life, having been blessed with incredible experiences and memories, that should I never get to fish again, I will expire a happy man.

Still, I wither a little more each day, like the struggling "good luck" bamboo on my dresser, when we don’t get enough water.

Lately, I've been receiving fishing reports from friends who've been able to wet a line and hook a few fish. Thankfully, they are willing to take the time to pass along their moments of joy and interaction with the browns and bows of the Thompson and Poudre Rivers. Phrases such as “I hooked a 14-16 inch brown that jumped three times for me,” and “Awesome day on the river, caught 7 fish and learned a ton,” bring a smile to my face, and a longing in my heart.

A Friends Recent Catch

A snowstorm is moving in tonight and I'll be at a local swim meet all weekend. Sure, the pool is filled with water, but I don't have a rod heavy enough to tussle with a high-schooler swimming faster than I can run. Besides, I'd don't think the safety guards would let me stand in the kiddie pool in my waders and boots. My back cast might hook the frog slide behind me and I think it’s an endangered species.

So I wait, and wonder, and dream of the next chance I’ll have to fish again. I can almost feel the ice cold water press against my waders, sensing the quick shiver that runs up my spine from the sudden drop in temperature around my legs. I know the river, though in constant motion, waits for me, as well.

A River and a Friend

2012-01-29T18:15:00.000-08:00

Not exactly sure where I was headed, I heard “turn right.” Fortunately, this wasn’t preceded by “recalculating.” Maybe I didn’t actually hear the words, but they were inside somewhere; either the car or me. It didn’t matter. I found the parking lot after a brief detour. There was one car, the other four spots were empty, which was surprising for a mild Sunday afternoon in January.

As I rigged up, the window of the other car lowered ominously. I hadn’t realized anyone was inside. The guy, probably someone I wouldn’t initially take to as a friend, asked a few questions about the river and the fishing. He relayed his own catch of a large trout near Walden, taken on power bait and a spinner hook. Not really my style, but a trout bum is a trout bum, regardless of tactics. The lack of activity in the parking lot made me wonder if I’d made a tactical error. But if any of my stuff disappeared, I figured it would be in the hands of a fellow angler. And so it goes.

I waved goodbye and headed west along the path, and then cut onto a dirt trail, weaving through leafless trees. The dry grasses, bare limbs and lack of animal life hinted at barren death. But it felt different. I sensed another version of life here. The vibe was good, like having a friend along, even though I was on my own today.

Not far up the trail, I encountered a fellow angler casting from the opposite bank. We shared typical fishing small talk. I gave him my floatant, made a few casts and then moved upstream. The next guy coming down river said he’d "landed a few up by the bridge." Purposely vague on his part, but enough to keep my juices flowing.

Continuing west, I encountered more fishermen, most without any luck. Likewise, I had yet to hook up. But considering I’d spent more time walking than fishing, I wasn’t alarmed. Passing under Hwy287 I again, crossed the river, this being the fourth or fifth time. The positive vibe stayed with me, but I couldn’t settle on how I wanted to play it. Proceeding under the train tracks and through a small covered area, I again crossed the river. More fishermen ahead, so I kept walking. On past Legacy Park, only to find three more anglers working the pools and riffles. Time was starting to be a factor, if I didn’t want to hike back in the dark.

Around a bend I found what I was looking for; an unattended stretch of water. The river passed under a tree, the riffles deep enough to hold fish and fast enough to press their decisions. The first cast yielded my first catch. A small rainbow, but a satisfying moment, nonetheless. The riffle yielded nine hook-ups, seven of which were brought to net. A short walk upstream and I connected with one final rainbow. I knew it was time to head back.

I crossed the river again, climbing up the bank and heading east. The sunlight faded toward a memory when I stopped and sat in the hollowed stump of a large cottonwood that was surrounded by several other trees. The scene was void of people, the still air poised above the river, seemingly in search of energy and movement. A mystical realm engulfed the surreal setting, with horsetail clouds awash in purple and orange. The silence grew in magnitude, refusing to release its stranglehold. I exhaled; the sound of my breath too loud.

A gentle breeze broke the spell and signaled my time to move on. I crossed the river one last time, my wet boots leaving prints on the wooden span. They would evaporate, leaving no trace. But I will always remember this day, my spirit merging with the magic of this river and the memory of a friend.

Nick's Drift

(In memory of Nick. Thanks for hanging out. No longer fear crossing the river.)

Once Bitten, Nearly Twice Shy

2012-01-27T21:59:00.000-08:00

An open date on the calendar arrived with unseasonable temperatures, a week day, nonetheless, and I had only one thing planned: fishing. A solitary trip up the Big Thompson canyon was the agenda. It was time to revisit the upper reaches of the Big T. The last time I fished here, the calendar had but one page. Now a new one was in place, 12 pages ready to be filled with notes and reminders of trips taken, planned and those still in dream-state.

Sun glinted off the water, and the site of a few red-bands feeding subsurface heightened my nervy anticipation. After tying on a couple midges, I slid into my waders and boots like a fireman shooting down the station house pole. Taking up a low profile position next to the rocks along the river, I scanned the water one last time, preparing my first cast. And then I saw it...the rise of a trout nudging through the surface, followed quickly by a second one a bit further down stream. A breeze picked up, scalloping the surface and I lost sight of the fish. But then more fish rose; I couldn’t see what was hatching, but I knew I had to re-think my strategy.

Selecting a size-20 extended-body-BWO and a smaller juju midge to trail behind, I snipped, tied and clipped, the fish continuing to rise in front of me. My first few casts went unnoticed. The next one blew into a tree 15 feet to my right by a gust of wind that refused to subside. The rises stopped, except for my own as I stretched on my tip-toes to retrieve the wayward flies.

Back to the original plan and five casts later I hooked up. The nice ‘bow curved my 3-wt. rod into a question mark as I stripped in line. I lost focus as I struggled to get my net and the fish slipped off at the edge of the bank. Still, it was a great feeling to connect with such a beautiful specimen.

Ten minutes of effort proved fruitless, so I changed up the midges. The next cast fooled another rainbow, this one taking a tungsten blue poison. Slightly larger than the first and easily longer than 12-inches, I guided this one into my net. It was a great initiation of my Christmas gift from my kids.

The wind stayed constant and strong as I continued to work the 60 yard stretch of river. A couple additional changes of the midge patterns didn’t change my luck. I saw a few fellow anglers upstream, so I took leave of the river and drove into Estes Park to ease the pressure of my morning latte. On the way I noticed every pull out was occupied and 15 cars packed the Dam’s parking area.

The perpetual gusts kept the temperature cold and without new water to work, I decided to head back down the canyon. Reaching the outskirts of Loveland I knew it was too early to call it a day, so I turned north and drove up to the Poudre River. Here as well, several like-minded folk had arrived.

The Smirnoff Drift from North Bank looking West

My only choice was to walk downstream a bit. Happy to find the “Smirnoff Drift” open, I sat and retied to the symphony of rising trout. My 20 casts did little except put the fish down, so I moved further downstream. I walked more than I fished until reaching the upper stretches of Legacy Park. Still more fishermen populated the river, so I turned back toward the car.

It was not out of the question to call it a day, but something was nagging me, urging me to continue my quest. I ventured past Shields, finding each fishable stretch occupied. Onward beyond the small dam/diversion I walked, searching for open water. Maybe a half-mile or more on I found a stretch of river that deserved to be tested. Several casts sharpened my skills, but did little else.

The winter sun angled low in the sky, nipping the top of the foothills. It was time to head back. And yet, I had a feeling I’d find something. Back at the dam I saw a fisherman walk out of the river and climb the western bank. At the spillway’s breach a young man sat playing guitar. I longed to hear his melody, but the noise of the river drowned out his magical tune. His presence added to the serenity of the setting.

I made a few casts at the base of the dam, but felt I was not in the right spot. I walked down river, the sun becoming a memory as the sky tinged a deeper blue. I stopped and waited. And then, as I had seen here before, a late afternoon hatch started up. Tiny muzzles poked the surface, their tiny ringlets expanding out across the quiet water.

I had lost my last black dry midge in a tree back at the Smirnoff Drift. Rummaging through my box I selected the smallest dry fly I had; a size 22 white miller. In the fading twilight, I squinted to see the hook’s eye, even with my 2X magnifiers. The tippet slid through on the first try, a good omen.

Fate smiled as a small brown sipped the dry and I managed a timely hook set. The youthful trout didn’t put up much of a fight, but it was satisfying nonetheless. Fishing two rivers on the same afternoon; landing fish from both. Another great memory gifted by nature, created by the divine.

I released the fish and exited the river. There was little else to accomplish. But something harkened, something over my shoulder, something unfinished. I knew I would return, but the mystery would have to wait.

A Passing Grade on the Poudre

2012-01-11T09:23:00.000-08:00

An urban setting for sure; the sunny day brings college-aged kids on Rollerblades, runners, bikers and an occasional horse to the trail that serpentines along the Poudre NW of Ft. Collins. Headphones, bright spandex and chatter highlight the course. Thankfully a few stretches of river exist where the only distractions are the setting sun and the rise of trout.

The lateness of my arrival allowed the upstream stretch of river to be populated. I head downstream, where I've heard tales of rising fish. Sure enough, after three non-productive casts, trout began to rise, their rhythmic slurps sounding like marbles dropped into a bucket of water. The next back cast snagged a limb behind me, the tangled flies just out of reach.

Sitting to re-tie, the symphony of fish eating bugs continued. I hoped the duet would last long enough for me to join their production.

A tiny dry, trailed by an even smaller midge drifts with the slow current. The dry dashes left across the surface. I've missed a take on the midge. Three more fish rise nearby the escaped offender. Cast after cast yields a bumbling effort on my part, disrupted only by one over-excited brown that leaps over the dry. These fish will never grow large if they don't figure out how to improve their feeding habits.

Mildly frustrated, I move a few yards downstream, where I continue to miss fish after fish. Perseverance should prevail, but I'm wishing the small empty bottle of Smirnoff laying at my feet had been dropped unopened. Fishing like a drunken fool, I name this stretch the "Smirnoff Drift."

With waning resolve, I luck into landing one fish that had taken the dry. I still wished the Smirnoff was mine to enjoy, but the small brown has brightened my day. Sometimes it doesn't take much.

I ventured further downstream and made a friend who was new to the area. A fly fisherman from the West Coast, he'd landed a steelhead on a fly the day before moving here. He's checking out the local waters, unable to fish on this particular day. We exchanged stories, contact info and I gave him a few flies to try when he returns.

His departure was followed by another missed fish, the late hook set flinging the flies into a tree branch over head. Thankfully his back was already turned. Out of reach, the flies snapped off at the knot. It was definitely time to head home.

The one small brown bumped my D-grade effort to a C-minus. I, again, wished that the small bottle had been full. It wouldn't have changed my grade, but then I wouldn't have cared as much either.

Riding the Pineapple Express on the Poudre

2011-12-31T22:48:00.000-08:00

Three days from 2012, a planned trip up the Thompson is blown off course. 50+ mph winds shift our focus. After quick communiqués with the day’s fishing friends, we moved our trip just north of Ft. Collins to work several different reaches of the Cache la Poudre River as it flows out of the canyon on its easterly journey through this college town.

We met up at a small park at the gated end of a dirt road, only ¼ mile off HWY 287. Distributing fresh coffee to my compatriots, we make our plans amidst a heavy winter wind that guided us here. We tied up, each selecting different combinations of small midges, finished our overpriced caffeine boosters and headed west. It didn’t take us long to find quality water, a result of the previous warm days unlocking the ice.

Fanning out we worked the river’s deep drifts and shallow riffles. Fishing in solitude as much as I do, it surprised me how easily three anglers can choreograph their different styles and tastes to fit whatever section of river they occupy. The light banter between friends was shared in softened tones as the gusting wind subsided, granting reprieve to the naked cottonwoods that haunt the riverbank.

We fished nearly six hours, covering several distinct sections of the river. Each one was a new experience for me as I had not taken the time, or inclination to explore what the Poudre offers so close to this urban setting. The warm day belied the date on a calendar with just one page. And even though we only landed a couple of fish, it was a great way to cap the year of fishing. Both of my companions are friends I met in 2011, and finishing the year with them on new water magnified my anticipation of more great trips with both of them in 2012 and beyond.

Thanks, Brad and Kerrie, for making this a remarkable year of fishing. To all my friends I've met on the river, and those I’ll meet in the future, best of luck in 2012 on the water you call home.

I’ll see ya’ on the river.

Found the small brown in photo below hiding in the riffles midstream.

Enticed by a small black midge, this was the first fish of the day.

A local addition to natures own art work.

Kerrie, foreground working midges, Brad above working streamers.

A fish eye view if one jumped the falls to move upstream.

Brad on the left, Kerrie on the right, the afternoon sun starting to lay low.
I hated to leave, but this is a great image to end my fishing in 2011.

Big Thompson: December 21, 2011

2011-12-26T16:07:00.000-08:00

A second trip in less than a week...what is this, Christmas? Traveled to the upper Thompson with Marty Straab, fly-tier extraordinaire from Elkhorn Fly Rod and Reel. Started the day at the same drift as the 18th. Marty landed a nice rainbow, I missed one and then we headed upriver 1/2 mile. A good move...

Started the second half of our day fishing this drift. Another one of my faves. Missed the first fish, just above the riffle on the left of the photo. Next cast landed this beauty. He was a little camera shy at first...

Maybe it was because he was the local Santa Bow for the juvenilles in the river...here he is again:

Measured out at just over 12 inches and brilliant spotting. Hooked and landed two more just below the riffle. Marty headed down stream, so I walked up 50 yards to this big pot-hole, coming out of an ice Falls:

First cast, missed another hit. Just not paying enough attention. The possibility of standing in the sun must've distracted me. Finally landed another fish, a smaller rainbow. Missed the next take on the very next cast. Here's an action shot...

Okay...so there's not much action going on, but it's one of the few photos I've taken of myself fishing. Trust me...I'm holding both the rod and the camera. Caught a second small rainbow and was getting ready to head back down stream to find Marty when, of all things I was paying attention, I had another take.

Landed this 14 inch beauty after a bit of a run about in the pool. Worked my way back down stream...here's the view from there:

The small spot of sunlit river/snow is the deep pool I was fishing earlier. We ran out of luck and headed up to the dam above Mall road. Saw one caught, I set the hook on something that took all three midges as I had a knot failure. I'm sure it was a behemoth trout...at least that's the story I'm telling.

Winter in the Rockies...it don't get much better than this!

A Return to the Big Thompson

2011-12-23T16:29:00.000-08:00

An unmarked passage of time, a calling to home waters, finally answered. A welcoming warms the heart, I am grateful for the beauty that surrounds me. I am home.

My favorite winter drift

Kneeling streamside, the first few casts lack rhythm and accuracy. Cast number five hit the mark.

Almost left after this. A great start to the day.

Working the length of the drift I was unable to land anymore fish so I began to work upstreams.

Looking downstream, hooked the bow by the first rock.

I cast to open water, pools riffles. Crossing to the far bank I came upon the following riffle:

And landed this beauty of a brown

Continuing upstream I miss two more fish and run out of time. With less than three hours of fishing time available, I've come back to a place I knew existed, but hadn't seen in a long time. It's nice to be back.

Changing Seasons and a Season of Change

2011-11-05T03:17:00.000-07:00

White clouds roiled over the foothills, obscuring the sunset and foretelling of winter’s arrival. Though fall entered the canyon just four weeks prior, the chilled energy was unmistakably noticeable in the panoramic view. There are many autumn days of good fishing ahead, but I’m anticipating the solitude that winter brings to the Big Thompson Canyon.

My sojourn from spring into fall has been highlighted by change and new experiences. The Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing trip to the Big Thompson River was an incredible event. Even though I didn’t make a single cast on that cold day I in April, lifelong friendships were formed.

With record snow pack piled in the mountains, summer’s runoff was longer and higher than historical norms. I garnered invaluable practice fishing the extremely high flows and managed to catch a few trout along the way. In July I got in my belly boat and kick-paddled around a small lake for three hours, something I’d done just once before. An eleven-inch rainbow was the only fish that paid homage to my efforts. The thrill of netting my first catch from this mode of fly fishing created a new memory and another smile.

As summer moved closer toward fall I discovered a new passion: introducing friends to the wonderful world of fly fishing. A co-worker’s wife was the first recipient of my new instructional career. In their spacious backyard we joked about how far she needed to cast to make a decent presentation. Later in the summer I heard she landed her first trout on a family trip to a high lake in southern Colorado. My next teaching experience came on a breezy evening in August. I attended a NOCO Fly Fishing meet-up at Namaqua Park in Loveland. The clinic was a great way to meet new anglers and discuss the basics of fly casting. One week later I enjoyed a reunion with two veterans from the Project Healing Waters event. One of their friends was along and had never cast a fly. We shared a great morning of late summer fishing with everyone landing a few trout.

I did revel in my own trips and found that it took a while to reacquaint myself with the solitude of the canyon. Mixed in with those solo trips, I partnered with Elkhorn’s master fly tier Marty Straab for an evening adventure and delighted in landing several trout on his new patterns. I also joined a nice guy from Tennessee who was visiting the area and looking for trout on a fly. Two weeks later I had the pleasure to take another first-timer on an outing to the Big T. Kerry, a co-worker, had expressed interest in finding some getaway time. Even though the fish were particularly sparse, Kerry's quick adaptation to accurate casting allowed him to catch four trout.

The waning days of summer brought a trip an old fishing buddy, Eric. He and his wife celebrated the birth of their first son in late spring, which happily crimped his time on the river. We found an open evening and fished until we could no longer see our flies. On the way home he commented that although he’s not getting out much now, in just a few years he’ll have a ready-made fishing buddy every day of the week.

My travels continued to open up a world of introductions with interested parties. I’ve chatted with more anglers on the river this season than I have in the past five years combined, met new friends at Elkhorn Fly Shop, and have talked fly fishing with my neighbors and members of my writing group.

Each outing with a first time fishing friend has produced greater joy in their accomplishments, whether in their improved casting, seeing a fish rise, or taking their picture as they gently hold their first trout. Handing my fly rod to rookie-fly anglers while I untangled the rat’s-nests on their lines was something I would have balked at just a few years ago. My goal back then was to catch as many fish as possible in the short hours I had available. Now I am excited to watch the newbies learn the ropes. The anticipation of knowing their drifting fly offers the potential to hook a wild trout has been greater than any I ever felt as a kid eyeing the 32 flavors of ice cream in the glass enclosed freezers. A 6-inch brown has brought the same elated shouts as does a 14-inch rainbow.

As the evening sun paints the sky in hues of purple, gold, pink and blue, and casts dancing shadows across the moving waters, I remember and relish the memories of the changing seasons. But more than that, I’ve been blessed with a season of change that’s brought greater joy to each moment I am with the river. I look forward to meeting you there. You’ll recognize me easily. I’ll be the one with the biggest smile.

Wandering too Far

2011-10-24T21:18:00.000-07:00

The weather cleared enough to head up the Big Thompson Canyon. Driving along I noticed the breeze ruffling the limbs and leaves of the shoreline trees. The sun sparkled in the riffles, reflecting the beauty of the afternoon. Just past Drake I came upon a vacant parking spot. I had not fished there before and decided to continue up the canyon, only to find several like-minded anglers taking advantage of the good conditions. I "shopped" around for a spot to fish, but couldn't find one. Undeterred, I reversed course and headed back down the canyon. Luckily I found the earlier vacant pull off still unoccupied.

After gearing up, I stood on the high bank and scanned the river. There were plenty of opportunities before me. I decided to start my day downstream. I walked one-third mile, entered the river and began fishing behind a large boulder mid-stream. My first few casts yielded nothing but missed opportunities. Finally I was able to bring one fish into my net. As I moved upstream, two fellow anglers stepped into the river 50 yards ahead. I decided to give them some space, so I climbed back up to the road and walked back to where I had parked.

The wind dropped off as I waded to the middle of the cold mountain water. I cast toward a small, upstream riffle just off my left. The third cast produced a beautiful 12-inch rainbow. Two casts later, another hit, and another rainbow in the net. I remained steadfast for the next 20 minutes, making nearly 40 casts and landing 13 of the 16 fished I hooked. A short while later the bite died off. Satisfied with my good luck, I called it a day.

I exited the river and stowed my gear in my car. Gazing up the canyon at the softening sunlight, I realized I'd driven 12 extra miles and walked an additional 30 minutes, only to find a great spot I had previously decided against.

Maybe we spend too much time looking elsewhere for what may be found right where we are?

Heading for the High Country

2011-08-25T06:43:00.000-07:00

With the Big Thompson still running high, I took a mid-July trip to fish with Sasquatch Fly Fishing Adventures, based out of the YMCA of the Rockies in Estes Park, CO. Along was my good friend Ann Marie Rozum. I’d given casting tips to Ann Marie a couple of times and we’d spent a few hours at a local lake refining her skills by catching several small mouth bass and blue gill. It was time to hit the high country in search of large trout.

A quick stop at Starbucks™ in Estes Park fueled us for the morning. Arriving at the YMCA at 8:00 AM we met up with our guides, Alex Thoele and Matt Fitzgerald, along with the rest of the day’s fishing crew. After a brief introduction, followed by a 10-minute drive, we arrived at the private lake and the three ponds we’d be fishing.

While Matt and I made the short walk to the main lake, Ann Marie, geared up and ready to go, took advantage of the casting class led by Alex,. Overhead the half-moon was ready to slide behind Longs Peak while a constant breeze scalloped the lake’s surface, a beautiful setting indeed. All that was left to do was hook into some hefty fish.

I started the day with an elk hair caddis trailing a pheasant tail nymph. I didn’t entice any fish during the first 20 minutes, and by then the rest of the gang had surrounded the lake. Though fish rose on occasion, only two were caught during the first couple of hours, one each by two of the teenagers. Ann Marie and I moved to the other side of the lake where we caught sight of trout cruising along the shore line. I took a chance with a hopper pattern leading a black streamer. To Matt’s surprise, a trout slashed at the streamer. As I worked it close to the bank, my reaction was too slow, and I missed the fish.

The constant breeze kept the morning hatch off the water. With 90 minutes left to fish, our group split in two. Two of the teen boys and I went with Matt to a smaller pond to the north. The rest went south to two ponds situated a short walk above the main lake. I tried a couple of different fly combinations, still a bit unsure of my lake fishing ability. Suddenly a large rainbow bolted from under the small wooden walkway in front of me and smashed the parachute adams I was using. I set the hook late and missed another chance, this time on a sizeable fish.

Five minutes prior to heading back to the cars, I experienced another hard strike. This time I was using a hare’s ear nymph. The quickness and strength of the strike led me to panic and I broke off the fish. Though unseen, I’m sure it was another very large trout. Earlier on, one of my fellow anglers at the small pond did land a nice 17-inch rainbow.

Meeting back at the car, I learned Ann Marie caught one small trout, and nearly everyone else had landed a fish. I was one of the few still without. Possibly taking pity on my lack of luck, Ann Marie and I were allowed a few more minutes at the top pond. I managed to land a nice rainbow on my third cast. The beauty took a size 18 blue poison midge topped with a clear, red bead head. Soon after, Ann Marie landed her second fish. We called it quits a few minutes later since the fish were inspecting what we offered but snubbed their nose at what they saw.

Due to the previous evening’s rainstorm and constant wind, the catching wasn’t stellar, but the setting was. Alex and Matt worked really hard to get everyone on a fish. Next time I’ll show up with less caffeine in my system so I don’t panic when one of the local “hawgs” decide to strike.

For more information on summer fly fishing with Sasquatch Fly Fishing, visit their web page by clicking here.

A Father's Day of Fishing Firsts

2011-07-29T18:49:00.000-07:00

It was time. My fishing guide friends had assured me that fishing The Big Thompson during run-off was not only possible, but quite productive. Record snow pack had the river running higher than during normal run-off, so caution would be the order of the day. I decided to take the plunge, figuratively speaking.

The evening before my trip, I drove up the canyon to see what I would be facing. Stopping past MP 82 at the diversion dam, I scanned the malt-colored river. Right above the dam a quiet pool swirled lazy circles along the rocks. Fish should be holding there, out of the main current. This was definitely a spot to target in the morning. Walking downstream below the dam, I spotted several stretches of river that I thought would harbor fish avoiding the swiftest parts of the river’s flow. Pleased to find fishable water, I departed knowing my first foray into run-off level water looked promising.

Father's Day dawned sunny and warm. I checked the flow report before leaving home. What I saw wasn’t good news: the river had increased over 200 cfs since last evening. Undeterred, I headed out the door. In my head I kept hearing my guides: “You can fish run-off with success.” I figured the worst I could do was wet a line, something I hadn't done for a few weeks.

Parking on the small gravel strip along the highway, it was apparent that overnight the river had risen substantially. I geared up and spotted the large, quiet pool from yesterday which now was a turbulent eddy filled with debris. There’d be no need to lay down a cast there.

Local wildlife

I opted for an “otter-bobber” strike indicator, instead of a large dry fly. Below I attached a small split shot and trailed that with three large nymphs; a silver lightening bug, a second one in blue and lastly a copper john. All three are size 12 and sported rubber legs. Although it’s been several months since I fished nymphs this size, it seemed wise with the stained water to go big, and with lots of flash. At least that what I’ve heard my guides say.

My initial effort was up river from the dam, a small area behind a large rock. The view from downstream had been misleading. The water churned around the rock and produced dirty foam that bobbed on the surface. Looking further upstream I saw there were no other possibilities. I began to think this might be harder than it looked. My guides hadn’t mentioned that.

Back at the dam I climbed over the parking barrier and headed down. Midway along the rocky shoreline, I stopped long enough to get a face full of spray from the cascading water. The noise from the falls drowned out the sounds of the highway. I took full advantage and allowed my senses soak up the river’s offerings. Sight, sound, scent and spray filled my awareness. The river, even in its apparent anger, was willing to provide a moment of receptive tranquility.

I made a few casts at the base of the support structure of the dam and quickly learned the raging waters of summer had deposited large limbs, hidden in the milky flows. With the longer sections of tippet trailing three flies, I snagged up twice in a row. While I was lucky not to lose any of the nymphs, I also knew I was getting them down to the bottom.

Having left my waders at home, I clambered along the rocky bank to the next potential spot. I found a small stretch of water that softened as it glided over a submerged rock. I made a short cast and within seconds the strike indictor stopped and then moved upstream. I lifted the rod tip and set the hook. I’d picked up my first fish in the high flow of summer. The ensuing battle was short-lived as I guided the fish away from the current and up on to the bank. It was a decent-sized brown, which took the blue nymph. Maybe my guides were right after all.

I continued downstream, catching fish along the way. At times I was forced to hug the cement wall that supports the roadway because the river covered the rocks. I lost a fish and the copper john it had taken, so I replaced it with a similar nymph. This one was a size 14 in dark green to mimic the caddis larva in the river.

The next cast produced a take, and it’s on the green copper john. I was glad I had chosen wisely. In the net the brown stretched to 13 inches and so far, was the largest fish of the morning.

I reached the end of safety as the river swallowed up the shoreline and caromed off the cement wall. I retraced my steps, catching a few more fish along the way. Near the dam, I saw a seam of water that cut between two large rocks. It was only 4 inches wide, but looked deep enough to shelter a fish. I laid my cast in the gap. As the nymphs drifted through I got a hit and proceeded to land a smaller rainbow.

A final cast to where I’d caught the first brownie yielded yet another new experience. I landed a fish with a pointy nose and a sucker-style mouth. It had taken a bead-head pheasant nymph and was hooked in its lip. I’d never seen this species in the Big Thompson. I didn’t, but later learned they can be found up and down the river’s length.

The morning pushed into afternoon and it was time to leave. I experienced a great father’s day, one filled with fishing firsts. Now I can look forward to enjoying the seconds, thirds and beyond.

Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing Returns to the Big Thompson

2011-07-06T07:17:00.000-07:00

Every fishing trip needs some luck to make it a great one. I received just the stroke of luck I needed to pull off a day of fishing for the ages.

For the previous five months I’d worked with Project Healing Waters Fly Fishing local contacts at the Ft. Carson, CO Warrior Transition Unit, to organize a trip on the Big Thompson River. PHWFF provides fly fishing trips for wounded soldiers to augment their rehabilitation process. After several discussions and emails, we decided to bring the soldiers to the Big Thompson at the end of April. Joining the soldiers from the Ft. Carson WTU would be a few veterans from the Denver VA.

With the support of several individuals and many local businesses, we were ready to go. The only damper was the weather forecast: cold, windy and with a good chance for snow. A final check with the group at Ft. Carson received a two word reply: “Army tough.” The trip was on.

Getting out of bed on the morning of the trip, I pulled back the blinds to check the weather and couldn’t believe my eyes. I smiled upon seeing the clear sky and the sunrise peaking over the eastern horizon. It was unbelievable.

The warriors arrived at the river at 9:30 AM. Each veteran was paired with their guide for the day while breakfast burritos, doughnuts and coffee were served. By 10:00 AM the first fish were being caught.

The soldiers fished throughout the day while receiving instruction from their guides. Nearly every warrior managed to land a fish and many large trout were among those brought to net.

The weather, though a bit chilly with a brief snow shower, stayed "fishable" throughout the entire day. All morning a camp fire blazed, warming those taking a break from the chilly waters. The grill was fired up at 3:00 PM and the afternoon came to a close just past 4:00.

It was an incredible day of camaraderie, fishing and newly formed friendships.

Special thanks to family and friends for their financial support, the Lafferty family for hosting, all of our guides, and to the following companies who donated to the day's outing:

Elkhorn Fly Rod and Reel

Loveland Safeway
Loveland King Soopers
Starbucks Coffee-Eagle Drive
Donut Haus-Loveland
S&B Porta-Bowl Restrooms-Aurora
CJ's Patio Grill-Loveland
Santiago's Burritos-Loveland

To view all collected photos from the day Click Here.
To visit PHWFF Home page, Click Here

A Moody River

2011-06-14T06:51:00.000-07:00

Early in May I planned a morning trip to the Big Thompson Canyon. After three days of snow, followed by two days of rain, I knew the river levels would be high. I checked the river flow report and decided to stay lower in the canyon. This kept my travel time short and put me at one of my favorite stretches on the river. As I entered the canyon, I saw the water was murky in color, but appeared to be fishable. I just needed to take a different approach to the day.

With the faster flows I chose larger patterns. I tied on a size-14 yellow stimulator followed by one of my favorite nymphs, a bead-head, purple and black “Big T” prince. I used a longer piece of tippet, added a small split shot halfway between the dry fly and the prince nymph. To finish my setup, I tied on a size-16 red emerger nymph below the prince nymph. Ready to go, I crossed the highway and made the short walk upriver. Locating the white rock I step on whenever I visit this section of the canyon, (yes I am a bit superstitious) I slid over the guard rail, propelled off the white rock and made my way down toward the river. My descent was accompanied by the loud rush of water as it cascaded over the rocks.

Superstition Rock. I always step here first
when I head down to the river.

I netted my first trout within five minutes. A nice brown trout had taken the red emerger nymph. A few minutes after that, I landed a second brown, also on the emerger pattern. Given the increased volume of water, I was pleased with my early luck. However, over the next 15 minutes I couldn’t coax anymore strikes. The river was rushing so fast I couldn’t make a decent presentation in the pocket waters along the far bank.

I reached the top of a cascading stretch of water and weighed my options. I could wade across an area of swift water to a large rock embedded in the middle of the river. If I made it there safely, I would be able to cast into a deep pool that often held fish. Or I could skip 50 yards of river to reach the next section. The beckoning of the far pool was too strong to ignore.

With great care I entered the river. I made sure one foot was firmly planted before I took my next step. The volatile water pushed hard against my thighs. Half way out it looked like I had made a poor choice. I had gotten myself “cross-legged.” I needed to move my downstream leg; however, that one was supporting the majority of my weight against the current. I figured either direction, back to shore or to the rock, held the same risk. I made my decision. I set my upstream foot against the current as much as possible and plunged my way to the rock. Three quick steps later, I made it, still upright and dry.

I crawled onto the rock and caught my breath. Taking a moment to plan my casts, I realized if I hooked up, the only option to land it would be to guide it to the rapids along the far wall and let the current carry it into a lower stretch of quieter water. That meant a lot of line and a return journey back across the river. But I had perched myself mid-stream for one reason; to fish that pool of water.

"The Rock" during lower flows. The tip of the rock points
at the pool; upper corner of photo beyond the white water.

My first cast fell short. Though the flies landed at the edge of the pool, the line got trapped under the white water that fed my intended target. The force of the cascading water shook my rod as if I had hooked a fish. I held the line against the rod handle and lifted up quickly. The line slipped free of the rapids but the trailing flies caught an unseen limb. Three shakes of the rod tip managed to free the flies. Lady luck was still by my side.

I stripped line more and more line off the reel and began to cast. Forward easy and then softly behind. With increased momentum, I cast forward a second time and behind once more, building rhythm and distance. I brought the rod tip toward the pool one last time and let the line go. Just as the flies lit upon the surface, a large brown trout swallowed the dry fly. I almost missed the hook set because I was focused on keeping the line above the rapids that had trapped it on the first cast. Lifting the rod up, I gave a quick tug and felt the fish’s energy transmitted into my soul. From this position, I had to guide it into the current that plunged downstream.

It took a few tries to get the fish into the faster water. Repeatedly it swam back toward a submerged plant along the far bank. This one knew how to get free. I pointed my rod downstream which allowed me to use the entire length of my fly rod against his strength. I coerced the big brown away from the vegetation and into the current. From there I let the line fly off the reel as the rushing water persuaded him to follow. Within seconds he was 40 yards down river. Now it was my turn to move.

I squatted and slid off the rock, planting both feet firmly on the rocky river bottom. I knew where I had to go. To get there with the fish still hooked would be the challenge. I steadied myself against the current. The tug on the line provided incentive to get moving. Losing him now could mean a change in my equilibrium. If the current upended my precarious balance, I would be taking a cold plunge down the rapids. Suddenly, he burst further downstream. The line free spooled off the reel. I needed to get after this beast. I held my breath as I took five unsteady strides across the petulant current. I made the riverbank without taking on too much water.

The cold water trickled down my legs as I scampered over the rocky bank. I positioned myself downstream from my adversary and reeled in the excess fly line. He was in the deeper water, and I needed to get him away from any unseen snags. Facing upriver I got a second glance at where I had just crossed the river and realized the potential danger I had escaped. My heart skipped a beat. What had I been thinking? One last run from the trout snapped me back into the moment. I prevented the brown from going too deep and worked him back into shallow water near the bank. He was spent—I won the battle.

In the net he stretched to 17 inches. A noticeable upturn in his lower jaw, this fella had been around for a while. He took a few moments to recover. Then with a flip of his tail, the big brown disappeared back into the depths. I moved up on the bank and into the sun. I sat down, taking a moment to calm my nerves. The radiant warmth, along with the sound of the river eased my senses back to a normal state. The reward had been worth the risk but only because the risk was no longer present.

I ventured upstream past ‘the rock’ and returned to fishing. Seeking refuge from unpredictable flows, trout will move to protected stretches of river near the rocky shoreline. Without changing fly patterns I landed nine more trout, finding success in the safe havens of pocket water behind larger rocks and in slower currents. A couple rainbows measured more than 12 inches, but none came close to the big brown I’d landed just an hour earlier.

A Typical Big "T" Brown

I exited the river and walked down the road to my car. As I passed the rock where I’d hooked the large trout, I reassessed my actions. From this vantage point I realized I should have chosen differently. But with the episode behind me, I was glad I heeded the call of that deep pool and the large brown trout that resided there.

I know the river will continue to rise over the coming weeks. It is spring, a time for all things to refresh and come alive. The river, moody today, has just begun its annual cleansing process. It will scour the silt that has settled. It will rearrange the limbs and debris that have collected over the winter. It will increase the strength of her flows, which will keep me off her banks for a few weeks. When the process is complete, I know she will welcome me back. Just like old friends we are, we will embrace each other’s spirits and renew our friendship.

Spring Fishing, Winter Weather

2011-05-24T20:04:00.000-07:00

I had not been on the river for two weeks. The mid-week snow storm had just ended, and the rain that preceded the snow had me anticipating an “angry” river. On the drive up the canyon, the river below the Idyllwild Dam was indeed, full of fury. The water, stained in a mocha color, rushed through “The Narrows,” like spring runoff, though that event typically starts two months later. I knew my day of fishing would have to start further upstream. Undaunted, I continued up the canyon.

The river’s volume began to subside as I proceeded past Drake. At the handicap ramp at mile post 72, the river began to present itself in a fishable manner. Pulling around the corner at 7 Pines, I encountered the first group of fellow anglers parked along the road. An additional one-half mile upstream, I passed another truck whose occupant had already geared up for the day. My next chance to fish would be three-quarters mile upstream. Rounding the bend, I found the pullout vacant. Since entering the canyon 14 miles back, the temperature had dropped 10 degrees; the car display read 37 degrees. The sun had yet to break through the clouds which skittered across the mountain peaks.

Today’s menu choice was typical for my spring trips, starting with a size 16-orange stimulator for the dry fly/strike indicator. Below that I tied on a copper john, also in a size 16, followed by a size 18-red midge emerger pattern. As I walked downstream to my intended point of entry, I noticed the river was higher than normal, but relatively clear. I also took note that a few sections of river I had fished a few weeks ago would have to be by-passed. The high flow of water would make wading across the river too dangerous. Alongside the road the rocks were draped with melting icicles, remnants of cold weather. I ventured an additional quarter-mile further downstream and began my day.

The sun came out just as I entered the river, which prompted my shadow to dance along the water’s edge. The river flattened out a bit which created a shallower drift, about mid-calf in depth. My first target of opportunity was a small pool of quiet water that rested behind a large rock. I made my first cast. It felt good to be back on the water.

Just three casts later, I hooked up with my first fish of the day, a small rainbow that was smitten with the copper john. I released him and returned my flies to the river. Methodically I plied my efforts, working upstream in concert with the easy pace of the morning. I missed the next fish; then I picked up three rainbows in quick succession, each fish bigger than the previous catch. The wind had gained in strength and challenged my casting skills.

I missed two more fish along the way, including one that took a long study of the dry fly. The next fish I caught was a nice 13-inch rainbow which proved to be feisty as ever. We tussled against each other for a couple of minutes until I got him into my net. I released him and moved a bit further upstream to work a drift along the far bank. Over the course of a few casts, I felt a couple of nudges on my line and knew a fish lurked there. My next cast allowed the flies to drift right along the bank. At the tail end of the drift, the dry fly stopped. I picked up my rod tip and felt a solid tug at the other end. A lengthy battle ensued. At its conclusion I netted a beautiful 15-inch rainbow. Its broad shoulders prevented my hand from surrounding its girth. Its deep red band was beautifully accented by the spots along its entire length. This fish confirmed that nature is the most gifted artist. Releasing the beauty, I stood and took a couple of deep breaths to soak in the surroundings. I knew that I had most likely landed the fish of the day. I could’ve been “skunked” for the rest of the day, and it wouldn’t have mattered.

I waded upstream to the next pocket of water and proceeded to land another nice rainbow. As I approached the next section of water, I came upon a large boulder set a yard or two from the shoreline. I recalled on previous trips I had waded around this rock and had spooked a fish holding on the upstream side. Staying behind the boulder, I laid my flies on the water upstream from the rock. I watched them slowly drift past the boulder. Sure enough a rainbow was scouting for food and took one of the underwater nymphs. Unfortunately I set the hook late and the fish shook the red midge from its mouth. That release, combined with the rod pressure on the fish, put the flies high in the tree behind me. Sometimes the fish win, sometimes the trees win, and in this case they both did. I couldn’t reach the ensnaring branch; but I felt lucky to lose only the red midge, even though it was the last one in my fly box.

Choosing a small, red, San Juan worm as a replacement, I fished through the faster water without success. I elected not to add any weight to my line so it was not a surprise that I came up empty handed. Traversing a rocky section of the river, I came upon a stretch of water that, in the past, has produced large numbers of fish.

Though a couple of smaller fish were in “feed mode,” I didn’t see any of the larger residents lounging about. I managed to coax one rainbow from the seam of water near the top of the drift, and then moved on. I noticed a fellow angler working the river about 100 yards ahead of me, so I took my time and hooked a couple of fish from the pocket water. While the wind continued to pick up energy, I found that mine had faded. The upstream angler had not moved yet, and a touch of hunger told me it was time to pack it in. I exited the water and made my way to my car.

I had some extra time left and thought I could make a secondary stop if the river downstream looked good. I drove five minutes and pulled off the highway. The river was still clear, so I decided to dance with her again. The second cast coaxed a brown from the edge of a rock, but he quickly shook the fly loose. Working upstream I didn’t find any fish willing to play, so I ventured back downstream. The clouds had begun to spit snow and the wind gusts blew the flakes horizontally. Despite the change in conditions, I managed to hook up with one nice brown trout.

I started to get cold, and the clouds continued to thicken overhead. Though the calendar read April, winter refused to let go of the canyon. I knew the time to head home had arrived. I quickly changed out of my waders and found much-needed food and warmth in the car. After a prayer of thanks for the joy I experienced, I pulled away from the river and smiled, knowing that I will return again.

A Winter's Dance

2011-05-24T19:59:00.001-07:00

A planned outing to the river had disappeared and then reappeared. I took advantage, though now with less time. Still, I didn’t feel the need to hurry. The time to be in the canyon arrives when it is ready. On the drive up river, I noticed that the previous week's warm weather had opened more water. Nearing the top of the canyon, I was grateful to find my favorite spot unattended. The weather was a bit blustery, but I felt that the effort to battle the wind would be worthwhile.

After gearing up I crossed the highway and stood above the rocks lining the river bank. I quietly watched the river. Within moments I spotted a school of trout. Most of them appeared to be holding their position in the gentle current. Still feeling unrushed in my day, I waited and watched a bit longer. The wind ruffled the slow, moving current, and then quieted. It was then that I saw the first rise of the day. The fish had begun to feed. As stealthily as I could, I maneuvered my way down the rocks. Settling along the edge of the water, I casted. I covered the stretch of river in an orderly sequence, only breaking the routine if I saw a fish rise. When I noticed the rise, I redirected my next cast near the fish, hoping to draw a strike.

I continued to make my presentations over the course of an hour; however, I was unable to entice any fish to join my rhythmic dance. I decided to move upstream. I walked the quarter-mile at an easy pace to allow the day to unfold on its own. When I reached the next fishable stretch of river, I re-initiated my waltz with the water, casting near, then middle, then across the river… each time following the drifting dry fly. Here and there a fish would rise, but my offerings still did not entice a fish to strike. After changing "the menu," I moved upstream another 30 yards and fished a deep pool that receives the river after it cascades down a drop-off. Finally I had a strike! But I missed the opportunity and landed the flies in the branches behind me. At least I had a chance.

I decided to cut the leader and tippet to hasten my efforts of getting the flies out of the tree and return to fishing. I, again, changed my choice of midge patterns and colors to activate the fish’s impulse to strike. As I worked my way back downstream, I continued my efforts, refining that which I could, accepting that which I could not. Despite my well intentioned performance, I was still unable to land a fish.

The afternoon sun danced along the mountaintops, and billowing clouds of white formed in the distance. The word was that snow was on the way, but today granted another hour before the sunlight slipped behind the peaks of the canyon walls. I decided to trek back downstream, but found each stretch of fishable water populated with like-minded anglers. I watched awhile and found little comfort in their similar lack of success. Maybe the day was meant for observation and practice.

I took leave from this stretch of river and decided to explore an area that I noticed earlier in the day, which was ice free. Arriving after a short drive, I retrieved my rod from the car and made my way down to the river. Just as I got ready to make my first cast, two large dogs came running along the opposite bank. They scampered across the ice toward me, much more sure footed than I would have been. I had apparently violated some invisible barrier. After we exchanged some verbal arguments, they seemed satisfied and headed back across the ice and downstream along the shoreline.

I returned my attention to the river and spotted a couple of rainbows holding just under a melting edge of ice. I made a dozen casts, but only seemed to scare the trout further up under the ice and out of view. I walked upstream to an area where most of the ice had refused to give way to the warming temperatures. Just below the ice, I spotted a few more rainbows holding in the current. However, the long day of mild frustrations had taken their toll. Not only was I unable to draw a strike, I again did nothing but spook the fish upstream under the ice and out of sight.

It was time to call it a day. Sitting on the back of my car I watched the sun tuck behind the billowing clouds. Though I had not caught any fish, it was still a day of dancing with the river.

So far this winter, I have made more trips without catching a fish than I have experienced over the last several years combined. The challenges I have endured have not deterred my efforts. Though I have often failed to catch fish, I’ve found myself surrounded by the beauty of nature, the calming of the water, and the peace that solitude brings. This river has struggled for eons…finding the path of least resistance, shaping rocks where needed, moving around them when it must. In actuality, there are no obstacles here. Only a journey, forever changing, complete in its entirety, all at once knowing and constantly beckoning me to return.

(Note: This article was originally posted in March 2011.)

Seasons of Life in the Big Thompson Canyon---An Angler's Journey

2011-05-24T19:53:00.000-07:00

Six years ago I took my first winter fishing trip to Colorado’s Big Thompson River Canyon. Finding myself on the river’s icy bank, standing next to a15-foot rock wall, I listened. The sound of the river melded with the gentle breeze that rustled the trees just beyond the riffles. The sun was bright on the high canyon walls and snow reflected the energy from above. I was captured by the stillness.

Breathing quietly so as not to disturb the tranquility, I realize that fishing at that moment would only take away from the transcendence beauty. So I stood for a few minutes, closed my eyes and allowed it to be. A shiver crept up my spine.

In that brief moment, I realized that the canyon had become part of my soul. I moved further upstream, made my first cast and introduced myself to winter fishing on the Big Thompson. Although I found I had much to learn about this place, I quickly discovered that the canyon, the river and the seasons were willing teachers.

Winter

Here in the cold grip of winter, the setting—though often brutally cold and windy—is magnificently beautiful. The snow on the walls provides a frosting effect and helps define the various crags and rock outcroppings. Occasionally a herd of Bighorn sheep will be roadside foraging for food.

On sunny days the snow reflects the warmth, which is penetrating and welcome. At times the sky is cast in passing clouds and with each changing moment, remains perfect. When the wind stays down, the snow muffles all sound, except the soft gurgles of the river, which has quieted due to the lower flows. The surrounding silence is so incredible that it’s almost deafening.

Teaming with life, the river moves with less energy, succumbing to the winter season. The fish are present and are usually willing to play. On many days there are hatches of tiny bugs that keep the fish satisfied and remind me that no matter how small, nothing is insignificant and that each has its place.

Winter also keeps the crowds down and although there are only a couple of miles of open water, it is easy to find solitude. When there is company along the frozen banks, most are willing to share. A fellow angler landing a trout brings smiles to all.

Spring

As winter slowly releases its hold on the river, the water begins to flow freely. Early spring brings more hours of sun, slightly warmer temperatures and the reminder that the cycle of life above river will soon begin again. Wildlife return to the canyon in earnest and the sound of nature becomes a welcome addition. The snow that still hugs the rock walls melts during the day, and then refreezes at night, creating ice forms which, like life, change from day to day.

Activity in the canyon increases as both people and nature welcome the slowly warming days. These early days of spring provide some of the most enjoyable times in the canyon. The river flows are still minimal as spring runoff has yet to begin in full. With the melting ice, favorite stretches of water become available, and the angling pressure remains low.

The fish are awakening from their winter doldrums and are more aggressive for the flies being offered. The cold days of winter with fewer fish give way to larger catches and even bigger smiles.

Summer

Early summer begins with heavy runoff and for a time much of the river is not fishable. The annual event helps move debris and sediment out of the river to provide an ecosystem where the fish can thrive. Though I miss the rhythmic interludes of casting and catching, all things must cycle, so I lay my rod to rest. The reprieve lasts a few weeks, sometimes longer, but the warming weather and longer hours of daylight give me hope that my time off the river will be short lived. But the river knows only itself.

As I re-enter the canyon I find that what was old, is again new. Although the basic shape of the river has not changed there are new wrinkles carved along the shore. A logjam creates a new holding spot and a shallow riffle has been created where deeper, smoother water once flowed. It is here that old friends meet again and though we see the changes, we recognize the original spirit that drew us together.

The first few trips of summer are about rediscovering the joy and the experience of learning. New moments remind me of the old moments. Later in the summer, the "hoppers" return to the banks, providing high-energy food for the fish and constant companionship for anyone who wanders by. The spiders have spun new webs, which are full of the bugs that escaped their watery homes and the fish that try to eat them.

The weather is warm and the fishing fun. Short sleeves, cutoffs and river boots (without waders) provide a freedom not enjoyed during the bundled winter and spring trips. The cold water against my legs brings relief from the stifling temperatures as well as from the bustling city routines. The flowing water reminds me that each moment is different, that change is the normal rhythm of life.

Fall

Early fall fishing brings a decline in "tourist anglers." The shared moments of the previous season with fellow anglers begins to give way once again to the solitude we all seek and need. Colors in the canyon come alive, signaling that winter’s return is not far off. River levels begin to drop. Areas not easily accessible during summer’s high flows beckon a cast or two. The fish are still looking up, aggressively snatching dries off the surface, gorging in preparation for winter.

The sun radiates its warmth and early evening sunsets paint what is visible of the sky above. As the fall cycle nears its end, trees become barren and the greenery soon fades. Again the river changes as rapids become riffles, small riffles become dry and fallen leaves move slowly down stream in the flows that still remain. The fish begin to pool up, just prior to moving into their wintering holes. As the river awaits the first snowfall and impending ice-up, we welcome the return to the quiet, the cold, and the solitude, knowing that below the surface, life and its source will still be found.

Winter’s Refrain

With the onset of winter in Colorado once again, much of life heads to warmer climates, or pursues activities indoors, protected from nature’s cold. And once again, the Big Thompson River and its canyon becomes a beckoning place of solitude and beauty.

On this day, I arrive to find nearly an inch of fresh snow has blanketed the banks of the river. The temperature is well below freezing and not a breath of wind can be felt. The small flakes are falling slowly, as though they want to hang in the air forever, knowing the ground will be their final resting place. I stand and breathe easily, my breath hangs in the still air, melting a flake or two. Out of the corner of my eye I see the first rise of the day and smile, knowing each fish I land is as unique as the flakes that are drifting down around me. Laying my first cast down on the water I am again grateful for this river, and what it has given to my soul.

December Dreams

2011-05-24T19:40:00.000-07:00

With each passing day, the onset of winter continued to slow the Big Thompson’s energy. Becoming more of an observer rather than a participant, I found new perspectives on many levels. Though I enjoyed the change, I didn’t experience the same degree of fishing satisfaction; however, the time was well spent as my excursions into the canyon provided new perceptions of the river and of myself.

My first two trips in December produced outcomes that I had not experienced in years---I did not land a single fish. In fact, I didn’t even manage to get any fish interested in the presentations I made. In spite of this fact, each adventure provided another chance to learn. The first trip was made in beautiful conditions. It was a day of bright sunshine, no wind, and low clear water. The edges of the river had iced up a bit, but there was plenty of open water to fish. A thick coating of algae covered the submerged rocks along the river bank. This made the wading slightly more treacherous. With each careful step, I released more slimy chunks into the river, adding to the bits already drifting in the slow currents. I had tied up with an extended body blue wing olive, followed by a small flash-backed pheasant tail and a size 22 black tungsten WD-40, and had to clean off the flies after every third or fourth cast.

I sighted a couple of fish, but neither appeared to be actively feeding. Regardless, I gave it my best effort over a couple of hours as I worked my way through the upper reaches of the river. I found that not being interrupted by the fish allowed me to soak in the panoramic beauty. Those quiet moments allowed me to refresh my spirit, which was fortified through the rhythmic motion of casting and wading. I decided to move downstream. As I made my way back to the car, I passed a couple of other anglers. I inquired about their luck. They both stated they had caught a few fish, but the catching had been pretty limited. No offer was made as to what they had used to entice the fish to bite and I did not ask.

Driving downstream a few miles, I located the section of open water that I noticed on my drive up river. Though I hadn’t caught any fish, I remained committed to my initial selection of flies. I eased my way down the icy slope above the river and waded to mid-stream. Looking west I was graced with the beautiful sight of the setting sun emboldened against the canyon walls. Included in that panorama was the activity of hundreds of small bugs flitting about in the remaining rays of sunlight. It was a classic “fishing photo moment,” only the fish weren’t paying attention. I made a few spirited casts, again to no avail. Still the moments were not wasted. I exited the river 20 minutes later, my soul energized by the interaction of water, land, sight, and sound. Despite the lack of fish activity, it was an enchanted afternoon.

The next trip up the canyon, also made in sunny conditions, came just three days later. However on this day, the winds howled, preceding the oncoming weather front expected to arrive the following day. Again I didn’t find many fish and the wind made the fishing more difficult for me. After a couple of hours without hooking a single fish, I called it a day. I was unwilling to fight the elements any longer! I thought about making a stop much lower on the river where some open water remained---but decided to press on home. It was, again, a bit frustrating. But the world moves at its own pace and sometimes I am out of step.

The following week I was blessed with my third trip into the canyon. It was another perfect day to share my soul with the river’s delight. The wind was light, only gusting occasionally, but it certainly was not troublesome. The river contained a bit more ice, but much of the algae had been removed. I sighted a small school of trout basking in one of my favorite stretches of water and quietly approached. I had fished about 10 minutes when I saw the first rise of the day. It was just a bit downstream from my location, so I moved slowly toward the area, trying not to disturb the water or the fish. Two casts later I landed a nice 13-inch brown trout. It was my first catch in nearly a month. I continued to fish that stretch of water over the next hour, catching a total of five trout and missing the hook set on three others. It was a wonderful afternoon on the river, a touch of heaven in a world struggling to find peace.

My final trip up the canyon was a fitting end to the year. I enjoyed a quiet and peaceful drive to my favorite spot, only to again find the wind blowing stronger than any of my previous adventures. I scanned the river for fish, but the wind made it impossible to see into the water. Though the sun was out, its warmth couldn’t penetrate the biting cold of the wind. I headed back down the canyon and decided to stop at Viestenz-Smith Mountain Park. I thought that the park area might be closed, but hoped that the river might still be accessible. I found the gates locked and posted with signs saying that it was off limits to enter. This necessitated an additional half-mile drive downstream, where I pulled off the road into a small parking area.

About four winters ago, long before I knew much about winter fly fishing, I had parked here and hiked down the short trail to the river. Today I could see open water but wasn’t sure if it was outside of the park boundaries. Hoping I could reach some good water, I geared up and made my way down the trail to the river. As I neared the bottom of the trail I happened upon a “No Trespassing” sign. From there I could see that I wouldn’t be able to legally get to any fishable water. But the trip down was not in vain. Away from the highway noise, I stood on the icy shore, next to a 15-foot rock wall and listened. The sound of the river melded with the gentle breeze that rustled the trees, just beyond the riffles. The sun was bright on the high canyon walls and snow reflected the energy from above. Fishing would have only taken away from the beauty of the moment. So I stood for a few minutes and listened, closed my eyes and allowed it to be. A shiver crept up my spine. Knowing that I wasn’t going to be fishing today, I absorbed that which was around me one final time and then slowly made the climb back up to my car.

It may seem strange, but without making even one cast, this last trip of the year was one of my most enjoyable trips of the year. Maybe I had found a small piece of what Henry David Thoreau spoke of when he stated, “Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not the fish they are after.” I am grateful for this river and for what it has provided my soul.

(Note: This post was originally published January 2011)

A Winter Day in the Canyon

2011-05-24T19:38:00.001-07:00

The weekend had arrived and another chance for some winter fly fishing was on the calendar. The forecast weather was for 35 degrees and light winds. I headed out of town, hot chocolate in hand, ready to explore the snow-frosted canyon. I pulled off Highway 34 and parked the car. I discovered the temperature was as forecasted. However the wind was blowing at nearly 30 knots! I took a positive stance on the situation, seeing that the unexpected high winds had kept the crowds away. I was the only one on this particular stretch of water, just five minutes downstream from Estes Park.

In anticipation of my trip, I had pre-selected my choice of flies the night before; a size 20, extended body, blue wing olive (BWO) for my strike indicator, followed by a small red copper john with a size 24, black zebra midge trailing behind. All I needed to do now was get into my warm clothes and waders. Thankful that I had brought an extra layer, I bundled up against the cold and crossed the highway to the river. Light snow covered both banks and the flow of the river presented plenty of fishable water. It took a few casts to work with the wind. After figuring out how I could get my flies in the desired location, I began to fish with earnest. In less than ten casts, I had my first take, a feisty brown trout grabbing the BWO; however, a sudden reaction on my part promptly broke off the fish! Not the best start to the day---losing the fish and all three flies. It was obvious that it had been a few weeks since my last trip. The rookie “snap hook set” was a shining example of that! But it’s always good to see a fish rise.

Huddled against a large rock in a failed attempt to stay out of the wind, I retied my gear. The only change I made was using a size 22, blue poison midge behind the red copper john. I moved a bit upstream, setting out to sight some browns feeding in a small back current along the far side of the river. I landed two from that hole---one on the extended body BWO dry and the other on a blue poison midge. A bit later I netted a third nice brown just further upstream, this one taking the red copper john. It put up the best fight of the day so far and measured just over 13 inches!

The wind increased in intensity and really challenged my casting skills. I worked my way up-stream, seeing fish along the way, but I couldn't entice any of them to strike. However, the solitude in the canyon was more than enough reward for braving the conditions. Needing a break from the wind and cold, I made the short drive into Estes Park. After downing an energy bar and another cup of hot chocolate I was recharged, ready to battle the wind, and find a few more fish.

Driving downstream from town, I stopped at a small patch of quiet water. Once again I was surprised to find no one fishing there. Feeling a change was in order, I retied my flies. I stayed with the extended body BWO as my indicator fly. However, I followed that with a size 20, yellow emerger pattern trailing a size 22, flashback ju-ju bee midge. I could see a few fish feeding and cast again. The wind was still blowing hard and it took a while to get my routine down. In spite of the wind, I managed to coax three small rainbows to accept my presentation. It was an orderly affair: The first fish took the dry, the second took the yellow emerger, and the third took the ju-ju bee midge. From here the message was clear. The fish had literally reached the end of my line!

Because I was no longer willing to withstand the wind and cold, I took leave of the river and its soulful energy. I stowed my gear, stripped off a few layers of clothes, got in my car, and headed back down the highway. The fading afternoon sun glanced off the snow that hugged the canyon walls, providing a kaleidoscope of colors on my journey home. Though straining against the wind for the entire day, I had that familiar relaxed and easy feeling that the canyon and river provide. Without having to worry about time or crowds, I was able to move through the day at my pace. I enjoyed the changing skies, the early winter landscapes, and the joys of the river. It is always good to know your place of peace and then go there often.

The Fall Harvest

2011-05-24T19:33:00.000-07:00

One Saturday morning earlier this fall, everyone in the house headed out by 8:00. I, without restrictions or requirements to society, suddenly found the door swung wide open for me to take an unplanned fishing trip! The opportunity to fish was at hand...and it was a hand that needed to be firmly grasped.

I anticipated a crowded day on the banks of The Big Thompson River. Still there was no need to rush. I was open to fishing whatever stretch of river that provided some solitude, willing to take the moments that would be defined on the water. I bumped into my first crowd at the local Starbucks. Not usually part of my pre-fish routine, but today seemed to call for something extra along the way. The wait wasn’t long and soon I headed west toward the canyon that holds so many of my dreams.

The sun was already above the canyon walls, shining brightly on several fellow anglers working the lower reaches of the canyon. I had no need to worry. The morning waited for me. Shadows danced in and out of the sun roof as the temperature continued to climb with the altitude. Passing a pullout off of the highway, there were more cars and anglers gearing up. It was a good sign of more friends that I had yet to meet.

Driving through Drake and rounding the bend in the road, I smiled at the sight of an empty gravel turnout. The temperature had risen to 74 degrees. Upon exiting my car, I detected only a light breeze. Taking a quick moment to greet the river, I anticipated it would offer several moments of joy, along with a few of frustration. There is balance in everything. The warm temperatures had prompted me to stay out of my waders. I looked forward to the cold water on my legs. Tying up was easy--- a chartreuse stimulator followed by my favorite red ant pattern with a small copper john trailing behind. Nothing fancy today. I kept things simple without realizing I may be counteracting the complexities of nature. More balance in life.

I decided to walk downstream before entering the river. Along the one-third mile trek, I happened upon a single feather lying on the trail. It was perfectly formed, not a tear or missing vane to be found. Feathers mean birds, birds mean flight, and flight means freedom. My soul became a bit lighter, a bit freer. At the end of the guardrail, I turned down toward the river. A large boulder had been perfectly placed, creating a nice back eddy pool. There had to be a fish just waiting to ambush an unsuspecting bug. My first cast was met with an aggressive strike. It had chosen the dry, and I missed the chance. I tried a few more casts to entice the fish back, but failed to draw its attention.

Two quick steps upstream and a soft cast into another small pool, I hooked my first fish. It was a nice rainbow that put up a decent fight. Guiding the fish into my net, I drew a deep breath and gave thanks. It was a great start to the day. I spent the next 90 minutes working my way upstream, landing several fish along the way. The ninth fish looked like the fish of the day. Measured out a full 15 inches, the rainbow was a stunning sight. This ‘guy’ was one big fish. My thought was confirmed as the next three fish laid end to end failed to match the length of the previous rainbow. Reaching the location where I parked the car, I took a break and realized I’d already landed over twenty fish.

After a quick snack, I spent a few minutes sitting in the sun along the river’s edge absorbing its warmth and the energy of the flowing water as well. So far no one else had decided to join our dance. I was left to enjoy nature’s beauty in spiraling solitude.

Making my way toward midstream, I fished again. It didn’t take long to draw another strike, this time from a large brown trout. It headed straight downstream, running through the riffles along the far bank. The line screamed as it exited my reel. I followed as rapidly as possible, focusing hard not to lose my footing on the wet rocks. Another burst of energy came from the fish---its spirit being transmitted through line and rod into my soul. Finally netting the big brown, its length is fourteen inches, but it was much fatter than the large rainbow caught earlier.

Over the next hour, I worked my way up-stream, steadily taking (and missing) fish of all sizes. All three flies were inducing fish to strike, in nearly equal quantities. I had only had to re-tie once---losing the ant and the trailing copper john on a submerged limb. Eyeing another enticing pool, I laid the flies gently into the top of the pool. Quickly another strike! It was on one of the lower flies as the dry stimulator was visible just above the water’s surface. Without warning, a large brown attacked the dry and snapped off the unseen fish on the lower fly. One fish was free, but the other one was still in battle. It swam right at me. I got my net in hand just in time and guided the fish in and then quickly set it free. A flick of the fish’s tail splashed water on my sunglasses and I laughed at the fish’s parting shot.

Taking just a few minutes, I re-tied with another ant and small copper john. There was no need to change what had been working so well. I was just below Waltonia Road Bridge as I returned to the river. There were two large pools that were calling for my attention. The first cast produced a large splash and a take on the dry. The fish immediately turned downstream. I reached my rod as far across the river as possible, hoping to avoid breaking the fish off behind the large rock where it had taken refuge. The fish took a break and I was able to maneuver myself below him. A three-minute fight ended with an incredible brown breathing hard in my net. It lay heavy in the water. A full 19 inches long, it was the second largest fish I’d caught in The Big Thompson. Unbelievably this was the forty-fifth fish I’d landed that day. I fathomed the possibility of reaching the fifty fish mark and decided to stretch the day a bit longer.

Back below the bridge, I made my second cast, this time into the nearer of the two pools. The dry fly moved slowly in the current and suddenly disappeared below the surface. I set the hook and a large rainbow leapt out of the water shaking its head violently. This one had taken the ant pattern. We thrust and parried our way to the shoreline where I was able to lead it up on the sandy bank. It’s another beautiful specimen, laying out at 17 inches. Its colors were dazzling in the early afternoon sun. I was amazed at the incredible luck I’d experienced!

The last battle had tangled the copper john in the tippet. I decided to cut off the nymph to save time. Upstream from the bridge, I missed two browns rising to the stimulator. Finally I hooked a rainbow and netted fish number forty-seven. As I walked along the large rocks on the bank, I continued to “ply my trade.” Another miss---but in ten minutes I landed three more fish, each one taking the dry. It was done. I’d landed my 50th of the day.

I took a moment to sit on a rock before heading back to my car. It had been an incredible day, netting fifty fish in four hours. I never had to change the patterns to entice fish to strike, and I never fell into the river. I finished the day happy and dry.

It was an easy stroll back to the car. The warm sun worked out my fatigue, the hunger in my belly letting me know that it was tired of waiting any longer. Reaching my car, I found a fellow angler working the river just below. I allowed him to maintain his focus on his fly as I slipped by unnoticed. Within a minute, there was a hook set and a netting of a fish just a few hurried paces downstream. I smiled at his accomplishment and assumed he is smiling, too. I wondered if he is aware of how many fish are waiting for him.

(Note: This was originally posted November 2010)

A Chance to Settle In

2011-05-24T19:18:00.000-07:00

Fall has arrived, bringing with it the anticipation of the coming winter. The outside world responds with a gentle sigh, and begins to settle in. If I allow myself to absorb this reduced pace, it will bring calmness to my inner world as well. A recent trip into the canyon to fish with a friend revitalized the process of observation, of acceptance and of slowing down. It is early October. The weather is magnificent; sixty-five degrees with light winds. The river flows have dropped and the angry rapids are replaced by soothing sounds reminiscent of backyard fountains. The energy of the river is alive as always, yet seems to accept that now is the time to enjoy the journey, instead of rushing into the present.

Each trip into the canyon brings new excitement and the anticipation of a stirring in my soul. Walking along the river's edge, I again find the peace and serenity that the river offers. I accept its greeting of beauty in both sight and sound. Today we will play together, complete in our journeys, opening new doors and strengthening our friendship. My fourth cast entices the rise of the first trout. It is a smaller rainbow that has chased a red ant pattern. I am slow to react and miss the opportunity. Shortly thereafter I hear a muffled holler from downstream. I witness the delight of my friend, his rod bent into the shape of a question mark, and smile as he lands the first fish of the day. Life has allowed itself to be unfolded through another joyous moment.

An hour passes without any more fish being brought to net, but the time has not been wasted. Gentle breezes cleanse my soul, which has been warmed by the radiant sun. With my shadow casting a threatening form, fish scatter away from the river's edge before I can lay my flies on the water's surface. A pair of ducks feed across the way, acknowledging my presence and accepting our proximity. I watch my friend work a section of water, patiently casting time and again, and then slowly moving downstream to restart the process. Even he is working the pockets of water at a slower pace. His rod is now bent again. We both smile as he turns his back to the river to untangle his flies from the naked limbs of a small tree. A small distraction and a necessary part of the why we are here.

It is nearly two hours into the day and I have yet to land my first fish. I have ventured further downstream in hopes of solving the mystery of the river. Climbing down the rocky banks, I encounter a large beaver lodge, constructed within the last three weeks. I often see signs of beaver activity along the banks...downed limbs lying in the water or along the shore, the tree trunks stumped in a gnawed and pointed fashion. This is the first completed beaver structure I have found. It is a magnificent piece of work, another gift of the river. Just upstream from the lodge, I manage to hook another rainbow...a bit larger, but he, too, manages to break free. I smile at our moments of play, the interaction cut shorter than I had planned. Sometimes I am not in complete control. It is only a short while later that I land my first fish of the day! It is another beautiful rainbow, this one taking a small copper john nymph. He is slightly larger than the other two fish I failed to land. After getting him into the net, I gently release him back to his world, grateful for his beauty, thankful for the moment.

The sun is now glancing off the top of the canyon walls as I return home. My desire to stay has been pushed aside, because I cannot enjoy another day in the canyon until this one ends. Later that evening my Tai Chi session runs nearly twice as long as normal. The flowing movements are much slower and are filled with the gentle energy from the river; fitting the resonance of the day now expired. The background music fills the mood expertly, knowing too, that all is reduced in pace and absorbed in completeness. I close my practice, gently swaying to the movements of water and sound. Life's energy is reverberating through my hands and then escapes into the universe beyond. Another journey into the canyon lies ahead...moments of time to be captured in the riffles of water, moving towards a destiny yet to be discovered.

(Note: This post was originally published in October 2010)