Tag: Black Canyon fly fishing

Posted on

Fresh Powder, Dry Flies

I called Kym from Monarch around the middle of the day for a weather report, trying to decide if I should stay where I was, taking face shots of fresh powder in the trees, or head down to the river to fish for the afternoon. “I’d say it would be a good time to fish. It looks like its snowing all around, but down here its overcast and calm. Not too cold either.”

Bless her. While she may occasionally roll her eyes in pity and perplexity at my fishing escapades, she knows good hatch weather when she sees it. Loading my board up in the back of my truck, I headed down the pass, a quick change into waders at home, and off to the river. My mission was to catch a fish on a dry fly. It was March 1, after all, enough of nymphing already.

It seemed like a great day for a midge hatch, so I figured if I wanted to find some surface feeders, I’d need to locate a spot where the water was slow and deep, and sheltered from any wind that might blow a hatch off the water. There’s a place just below town that meets those criteria, and has delivered for me in the past. I’d not been standing on the bank two minutes when I saw the first rise, quickly followed by several others.

So far, so good. The next step was to actually catch one. My experience of fishing such situations is that with all that calm, clear, slow moving water, the fish can be fairly finicky, not to mention spooky. After ten minutes of no action on a parachute gnat, I tied on a small Griffiths gnat behind, using the parachute to sight my flies in the gloom, avoiding using floatant on the Griffiths to get it down in the surface film.

Straight away, the action picked up, and over the next half hour I landed four nice rainbows, and got spanked by several more. By this stage, it was late afternoon, my feet were cold, the clouds were lowering and wisps of snow swirled about. Time to head home to the hearth and contemplate a red letter day – fresh powder in the morning, dry flies in the afternoon.

Share
Posted on

Robins, Harleys and Fly fishing

Never mind the longer days, warmer temperatures and the return of the robins – the surest harbinger of spring is the sight of Harley Davidsons back out on the highway. That, and me getting a hankering to go fishing again. I don’t mind admitting, I’m a bit of a wimp when it comes to winter fishing. If an angler is defined as a jerk on one end waiting for a jerk on the other, this particular jerk doesn’t enjoy freezing his ass off for the privilege.
The other day however, the sun was shining, the air calm, and I decided it was time to dig out my gear, head down canyon and reintroduce myself to the river. There’s a spot below Badger Creek that I’ve often admired from the raft, but never taken to the time to linger and work it from the shore, and this seemed like a great opportunity. The canyon here is wide, gradient mellow and the riverbed benefits from longer exposure to the sunlight.
Experience having taught me that goretex waders provide as much frictional resistance as a toboggan on a snow-covered bank, I walked until I found a place where I could pick my way down in the footsteps of another, prior angler. Tying on a couple of nymphs, a big stone and a small flashback pheasant tail, I began working my way upstream, fishing the edges of the seams and the drop offs where the river bed changes from rocks to deep, inscrutable green. It’ll require a few more weeks of warmer weather before the fish begin to shake off their mid-winter torpor. Takes tend to be slow and gentle, so I was careful to set slow and gentle to the merest stutter of hesitation of the indicator.
Over the next half hour I was rewarded with four fish on the end of my line, two of which I touched, the others managing to slip the hook with a combination of their sluggish cold-water writhing and my cold-fingered ineptitude All this played out under the watchful eye of a grey jay, alighted atop a pinon on the far bank. He sat and watched my progress up river, before chuckling his amusement and flying off, disappearing into the tangle of willows on the opposite bank, bringing to mind Bede’s analogy of the life of man as that of a flying sparrow, entering in at one door and quickly out another, briefly “out of the wintry storm and into it again.”
I came to a slow pool with a gentle back eddy, the low angling sun sparkling in reflection on the undersides of the over-hanging rocks, a cluster of midges huddled in the sunlight, flitting and skimming and doing whatever it is midges do on a late winter’s afternoon. Three fish finned and hovered on the sandy bottom beneath them, disinterested in the meagre protein on offer on the surface, instead preferring to stay down deeper in the water column, feeding on whatever nymphs the gentle back current brought their way. They tolerated my stonefly and pheasant tail for about three casts, before they were gone, and it was just me and the midges.
Not wishing to stick around for any more cries of derision from the grey jay, I wound up my line and headed back up the embankment to the truck, mission accomplished, another season begun.
Share
Posted on

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.

Share
Posted on

Missed fishing, missed fish….

My record for missing fish stands at nine in a row. Bad enough I know, but I was guiding at the time. It was during the caddis hatch ten or so years ago. A sunny spring day when the caddis were just starting to hatch in earnest, and the fish, not yet sated, were pursuing the bounty with aggressive abandon.

The lady I was guiding, Samantha, was having difficulty getting the timing of her hook set right. The situation wasn’t helped by the speed with which the fish were hitting the flies on the surface. When a caddis hatches, it rises from the bottom of the river, often riding an air bubble to the top, wings fully developed and ready to fly. Breaking through the surface film, it is off, like a rat out of an aquaduct, to quote Brian’s mother.

The fish know this, and know too that if they want to have caddis for dinner, they’d better be quick. Accordingly, you have to adjust your reaction time to the rhythm of the fish. Having missed several takes, in exasperation Samantha turned to me, handing me the rod. “You do it, show me how.”

It was then I went 0 for 9 over the next five minutes. Handing the rod back to her, I shrugged and suggested the river was telling us we needed to break for a beer rather than let the humiliation continue.

This time of the year, the takes tend to be a little more languid. Fish are seeing and feeding on a lot of terrestrials. The conveyor belt passing over their heads carries lots of hoppers, beetles and ants, creatures not meant to be in the water, usually inept and helpless when they are. Fish know they have more time, so leisurely inspect their prey before committing.

In this situation, the challenge lies in not setting the hook too early, thereby pulling the fly out of a still open mouth. You get to watch the fish rise up to inspect the fly, sometimes drifting downstream with it, nudging it, before taking or refusing. The bigger the fish, the more time they tend to take. You need to discipline yourself to wait.

In New Zealand, it’s called the “God Save The Queen” rule. Downunder, until they sense something is wrong with their world, the bigger fish do everything slowly and with deliberation. No calorie of energy is expended unnecessarily. A fish rising to a dry fly will sometimes inspect it for five or ten seconds of more before deciding to take or refuse. I’ve seen them open their mouths around a fly, then drift backwards downriver for several yards, mulling their options, before backing away and returning to their station.

When they do take, it is usually so slow and deliberate that the fisherman, knees shaking in anticipation, must discipline him or herself to wait until the fish is back below the surface, mouth firmly shut, before reacting. Hence the mantra “God Save The Queen” before setting the hook.

All of this is a rather round about way of saying that on the day in question, it took me a little while to get my mojo working. For the first twenty minutes or so, and at regular intervals thereafter, I couldn’t hook a fish to save myself. I’ll put it down to lack of match practice – my other job has kept me from the river for most of this summer, which given the state of the economy over the last few years is a good thing, I guess – and keep telling myself that it just wouldn’t be as much fun if you hooked them all.

Share
Posted on

Fishing With Kids

This is a departure from my traditional video posts, brought about in part by a lack of opportunity to fish this summer. This reminisce is part of a longer piece about fishing with kids. The inspiration was a couple of recent camping trips with my daughters, Sophie and Beatrice. Any comments / suggestions appreciated.

The first time we’d been camping with Soph, when she was two, didn’t have the outcome I’d been hoping for. Kym and I fitted out the truck with a big comfy mattress, and we drove up to a mountain lake 20 miles from town, the last five lurching back and forth up a rutted four-wheel drive road. Eating dinner as dusk settled over the mountains, the air was perfectly still, the mirror-like lake reflecting the deepening hues of the evening sky and darkening mountains. Dimples began breaking the surface, intermittently at first, now with greater urgency. The evening rise was coming on, insects hatching from the depths, the fish rising to gorge on the bounty. Nirvana.

I unloaded my one man pontoon boat from roof of the truck, and carried it eagerly to the water’s edge. There would be an hour, perhaps an hour and a half, of the kind of dry fly fishing dreams are made of. No time to waste. I hurriedly strung up my rod, fumbling into my chest pack for a fly box when the first wail split the stillness. I turned, glancing back towards our campsite, to see Kym emerge from the back of the truck, shrugging her shoulders.

Figuring if I ignored the potential problem it might go away, I continued tying on a small elk hair caddis, turning back towards the lake. The risers were now working at least half the lake’s surface, a glutinous display of Caligula-like proportions imminent. The second and third wails came in quick succession. Kym was now holding her, standing at the back of the truck, making an eye contact unmistakable in its intent from 50 yards away. I put down the fly rod and walked toward them. “She doesn’t want to stay here. She doesn’t want to sleep in the truck.” She’d just realized camping didn’t mean eating hotdogs by the lake and then going home.

“Sophie honey, it’ll be fun. We’ll look up at the stars, and you can watch Daddy catch some fish.” The last said in hope rapidly turning to despair. She could be a bear with a sore head if she didn’t get her way. She wailed some more, and I remembered there were a couple of other campers around the lake. It was tough enough having my own sense of serenity broken, let alone being responsible for shattering that of others. I wearily trudged down to retrieve the pontoon boat, the lake now a slow boil of rising fish. Loading up, we headed back down the mountain in the deepening night. She fell asleep almost instantly, but the road was too narrow to turn around. Besides, if she woke up and we were back at the lake, there’d really be hell to pay.

Share