Tag: Arkansas River Stonefly Hatch

November, November

The phone rang. It was Mr Pink on the other end. “Wanna float?’ he asked. I looked out the window, dubious to say the least. The trees were bending before an unrelenting wind, tumbleweed tumbled, even the birds were walking.


“It’s a little breezy don’t you think? I replied. Menacing grey clouds enveloped the Sawatch Range and were fingering their way down between the peaks of the Sangres. A great day to reacquaint myself with my hearth, I thought. One of the reasons why you live a few minutes from a river is so that you don’t need to venture out on days like these.

“Nah, it’s nice down here – barely a breeze, and the sun’s shining.” Pink lives on the river in Howard, in many ways something of a parallel universe to Salida, separated not by a wafer thin membrane, but a few miles of blacktop. “We’ll float from my place to Vallie Bridge. Should only take a couple of hours.”

Not for the first time, my wife regarded me that look that is equal parts amusement and pity as I announced my plans for the afternoon. “You’re doing what?” I shrugged,and seeking respite from her gaze, headed for the refuge of the garage to dig out my waders and gear. The day before, I’d biked Cottonwood , sections of the trail blanketed in six inches of snow, so how bad could it be?

As it turned out, Pink was right. While an occasional wind gust rattled through the cottonwoods, sending dead leaves scratching and scurrying across the ground, the sun rode high over the clouds on the peaks, bathing the river in a late fall glow.

As we pushed away from shore, it occurred to me that this was the first time I’d floated the river in November. Does an aging memory play tricks, or is November the new October, weather-wise? Either way, it was great to be out there again, feeling the motion of the river beneath the boat, trying to guess where a hungry fish might reside on such an afternoon.

While the activity wasn’t prolific, we each felt the weight of a fish on the end of the line, enough stragglers camped along the edges of eddies and riffles to make the afternoon worthwhile, a success by any measure.

All in all, you’ve got to love living in a place where, even when there is snow on the ground, you can mountain bike one day, and float fish the next. Thanks for the call Pink.

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Three days, three fish

Three days, twenty six miles hiked, three fish landed, two broken off. Sounds a bit like the bare bones of a New Zealand fishing expedition, rather than an incursion into the Colorado high country. But such was the outcome from a recent foray to the Flat Tops Wilderness Area with friend and fellow angler “Caveman” Potter.

Like many angling expeditions however, the bare bones of catch rates only tell part of the story. They don’t tell of the stunning beauty of our surroundings, of eating enough bacon to make even Lewis and Clark wince, of a decent dent put in a cooler full of beer, not to mention a couple of bottles of bourbon. They don’t tell of nights under the stars, cold and clear, of the simple pleasure of day’s end, easing weary bones into a camp chair with a cup holder and good conversation.

Despite having lived here for close to twenty years, there are still parts of Colorado that remain a mystery to me, and until this trip the White River drainage was one of them. The White rises out of the Flat Tops Wilderness, flowing west and north through the towns of Meeker and Rangely before emptying into the Green River near Ouray in Utah. I’d heard several stories from other anglers about great fishing in that area, and the fact that it is located on roads less traveled increased its appeal.

Half the fun of these kinds of trips lies in the anticipation, poring over maps, tracing contour lines and drainages, looking for places where the rivers and roads go their separate ways. Hence our decision to largely forego the more well-documented fishing opportunities on the main stem of the White, and focus on the tributaries.

Many things about the conditions reminded me of the New Zealand backcountry. Spruce and scrub oak grew thick down to the river’s edge, necessitating multiple stream crossings and in-river wading, the water cold and gin-clear. The substrate, a mottled mix of greys, browns and reds provided the perfect camouflage for a fish that wants to remain hidden. And not another soul to be seen.

The constant gradient of the river meant quality holding water was relatively sparse. We stalked our way carefully upriver, taking turns casting to the likely spots – the inside of a bend, the eddy behind a larger boulder mid-stream, the quiet of an occasional deep pool. These places were few and far between – sometimes we’d wade a quarter of a mile or more between casts. Caveman had his game on more than me, at least doubling my catch and break-off rate. Yet each night we’d regain camp, weary, thirsty and hungry, and there was no debate about whether we should move on to greener pastures, friendlier water.

I cannot think of more beautiful place I have fished, and the lure of what was up around the next bend kept calling us back each day. On the last evening, getting back to camp as the sun dipped below the ridgeline, we encountered a cowboy, saddling up a pack horse for a trip into an elk camp.

“How’s the fishing?” he asked

“Slow, but man, it’s beautiful up there,” I replied.

“How far up did you get?”

“About seven miles.”

“Doesn’t get good ’till about ten.”

I’ll take him at his word, but that’ll have to wait for next year.

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Three Says, Three Fish

Three days, twenty six miles hiked, three fish landed, two broken off. Sounds a bit like the bare bones of a New Zealand fishing expedition, rather than an incursion into the Colorado high country. But such was the outcome from a recent foray to the Flat Tops Wilderness Area with friend and fellow angler “Caveman” Potter.

Like many angling expeditions however, the bare bones of catch rates only tell part of the story. They don’t tell of the stunning beauty of our surroundings, of eating enough bacon to make even Lewis and Clark wince, of a decent dent put in a cooler full of beer, not to mention a couple of bottles of bourbon. They don’t tell of nights under the stars, cold and clear, of the simple pleasure of day’s end, easing weary bones into a camp chair with a cup holder and good conversation.

Despite having lived here for close to twenty years, there are still parts of Colorado that remain a mystery to me, and until this trip the White River drainage was one of them. The White rises out of the Flat Tops Wilderness, flowing west and north through the towns of Meeker and Rangely before emptying into the Green River near Ouray in Utah. I’d heard several stories from other anglers about great fishing in that area, and the fact that it is located on roads less traveled increased its appeal.

Half the fun of these kinds of trips lies in the anticipation, poring over maps, tracing contour lines and drainages, looking for places where the rivers and roads go their separate ways. Hence our decision to largely forego the more well-documented fishing opportunities on the main stem of the White, and focus on the tributaries.

Many things about the conditions reminded me of the New Zealand backcountry. Spruce and scrub oak grew thick down to the river’s edge, necessitating multiple stream crossings and in-river wading, the water cold and gin-clear. The substrate, a mottled mix of greys, browns and reds provided the perfect camouflage for a fish that wants to remain hidden. And not another soul to be seen.

The constant gradient of the river meant quality holding water was relatively sparse. We stalked our way carefully upriver, taking turns casting to the likely spots – the inside of a bend, the eddy behind a larger boulder mid-stream, the quiet of an occasional deep pool. These places were few and far between – sometimes we’d wade a quarter of a mile or more between casts. Caveman had his game on more than me, at least doubling my catch and break-off rate. Yet each night we’d regain camp, weary, thirsty and hungry, and there was no debate about whether we should move on to greener pastures, friendlier water.

I cannot think of more beautiful place I have fished, and the lure of what was up around the next bend kept calling us back each day. On the last evening, getting back to camp as the sun dipped below the ridgeline, we encountered a cowboy, saddling up a pack horse for a trip into an elk camp.

“How’s the fishing?” he asked

“Slow, but man, it’s beautiful up there,” I replied.

“How far up did you get?”

“About seven miles.”

“Doesn’t get good ’till about ten.”

I’ll take him at his word, but that’ll have to wait for next year.

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Fishing the High Country

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.

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Fishing the High Country

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.

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