Month: September 2011

There’s a small stream up at the head of the valley that I like to visit once or twice a year. The combination of high altitude climate and runoff mean it is usually later in the year, rather than earlier, when I head up there. I like small streams. There’s an intimacy to the fishing experience that you don’t find on larger bodies of water, yet the lessons learned on a small stream easily translate to bigger rivers. Big or small, fish or rivers, their basic requirements remain the same: food, shelter, and more calories taken in than expended.

This particular stream is the outflow of a lake, meandering through a meadow laden with willows and wildlife – I’ve encountered fox, elk, beaver and deer. Half the stretch I fish, about a mile and a half in total, flows through private land. The first time I asked for permission, the rancher looked at me in surprise. After a few seconds of silence, during which I wondered if I’d managed to offend him, he replied “Sure. Its just, no one’s ever asked before.” Now we have an understanding. He knows my truck, and once in a while he finds a twelve pack on his doorstep.

There’s lots to like about fishing small streams. For starters, its easy to figure out where the fish are likely to lie – anywhere. While the bigger ones will naturally gravitate to the best places – insides of bends, undercut banks – the smaller ones don’t need much shelter to hide behind. A small rock in the middle of a riffle, a little pocket against the bank will suffice. You can pretty much cast anywhere you need to, and a single dry fly will usually suffice. In fact, often it is the only way you can fish. The need to tuck your fly under overhanging willows or cut banks often precludes a dropper, prone as it is to tangling and snagging. Fish that live this high, in these harsh surroundings, can’t afford to be as selective as their big river cousins. Get a good drift, and they’ll pretty much rise to anything you throw out there.

Another thing to like is the surprise of the catch. It could be a brown, it could be a rainbow, it could be a brookie, it could be a cutt. It could be four inches long, it could be fourteen. There’s the enthusiasm with which these fish patrol their domain, feeding aggressively on whatever floats by. Big or small, once hooked, they will head for the nearest logjam, rootball or undercut. Battling a small fish with a two weight rod on a stream ten feet wide is in many ways as exciting and challenging as a sixteener on the Arkansas.

And last but not least, there is the overarching peacefulness of the surroundings. Far from any highways, the mountains are closer, the smells and sounds of the forest more prevalent, the air clearer and cleaner.

Its almost time to say adieu to the high country for another year. Hopefully I’ll have time for one more trip up there before it is too late. Temperatures are dropping below freezing each night, the ground is carpeted in yellows and golds, and it won’t belong until the fish are living under ice, theirs a world of darkness and torpor, until spring sets them free once more.

We kicked back on the boat, toasting the day’s first fish to the net – a lovely brown, buttery yellow underneath, silver flanks flecked with spots of black and red. The sun had recently crossed the yard arm on the east coast, removing any moral dilemma, in my mind at least, concerning beer as a morning refreshment.

The sky was an jumbled patchwork of blue and grey, the whiff of moisture in the air. The sun, angling low, reflected silver metallic off the river’s surface. Looking downstream, I watched a group of six merganzas working their way steadily upstream toward us. Keeping to the shallows, they swam with their heads submerged, every few seconds popping up to take air, shaking the water from their crests, before resuming their breakfast quest. Occasionally they would dive from view to re-emerge twenty or thirty feet away, seemingly moving as effortlessly underwater as they did on top.

Approaching the boat, they gave us a wide, respectful berth, murmuring softly among themselves, continuing upriver. They had the look of siblings, doubtless hatchlings this spring, now grown and turned loose into the wide world. Taking the skills learned from their devoted, now departed mother, those that manage to survive the coming winter will no doubt return next spring, to sire and raise young of their own.

Fall is the season for melancholy – how quickly summer passes. This part of the river, a couple of weeks ago a hive of energy and activity, was now quiet, deserted, at least of human activity. The first hint of gold was evident amongst the trees and bushes lining the river, and a slight chill permeated the air. It felt good to be able to float this far up river so late in the season, on account of the higher than normal flows.

As we moved on downriver, the sky changed its patchwork to a solid overcast, the peaks to the west dark under the lowering sky. The fishing improved the further we floated into the canyon, the fish active on the surface, busy taking dry flies with abandon, driven no doubt by sensing the need to fatten for the oncoming spawn, then winter. We lunched on a gravel bar, enjoying the silence and climbed to the top of some nearby boulders for a birds eye view of our surroundings. A movement caught my attention below. A great horned owl, apparently as startled by our presence as we of hers, lifted off from among the rocks along the rivers edge and flew silently to the cliffs, landing a safe distance away to observe the interlopers, dark eyes in a full-moon face.

Late afternoon, as the boat nudged the shore of the take out, the rain began to fall. Thickening all day, their load too heavy to contain any longer, the clouds began to release their precious moisture onto the valley floor. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day. As we drove back towards civilization, I was able to put my finger on why the mood of the day had been so singular. For a stretch of the river that in the summer can see in excess of 400 boats and several thousand people, we had seen not another soul. Only once previous can I recall this happening.

It was without doubt the most beautiful day I have spent on the Arkansas. It was mid-May, 1994, and a couple of guys had booked a rowing instructional. Despite heavy cloud blanketing the mountains, and the forecast for snow later in the day, they wanted to go. By the time we reached the entrance to the canyon, fat flakes fluttered down out of the monochromatic sky, settling the landscape, dissolving into the river with a constant soft, audible hiss. Our world was cloaked in white, the rocks in the river islands of pearl and grey against the iron green of the river. Not a creature stirred, not a breath of wind ruffled the river’s surface. By the time we reached the take out, and the grateful warmth of our vehicle, a foot of snow carpeted the canyon, and icicles hung from the boat’s rigging. I felt we had been blessed, privilege to a scene, a side of the river, not normally shared.

Back at the shop this recent time, we learned the river level had been dropping throughout the day. Come morning, it would be too low to run. It had been a perfect day, a farewell to summer, and time to leave the canyon and its inhabitants to settle in to their approaching winter slumber.