Category: Video Fishing Report

I’m glad this question wasn’t on my citizenship test. I’d faithfully committed to memory the thirteen original colonies, sorted out that it was Francis Scott Key and not Brooks and Dunn who wrote The Star Spangled Banner, and learned that although at that time ( 2002 ) true executive power lay with the office of vice president, this was not the answer my interviewer was looking for. But seriously, when they were handing out the names for fledgling states, why pick a name so close to an existing state? If the guys next door had already claimed Missouri, why not accept defeat graciously and go for something more original like Victoria or North Arkansas ? Thankfully, folks from Missourah have a sense of humor ( I hope ).

As a parent of two young daughters, it gives me great pride and satisfaction to see them develop an interest in fly fishing. I like to think I am passing on to them a gift that will keep on giving, long after I am no longer around, and its about the only thing they will take instruction from their dad about. So I assume, it must be the case in the video with Bruce, fishing with his son Ben, well on his way to becoming a bona fide trout bum – every family needs at least one. Something of us lives on in the memory of another when we are gone, for better or worse. To pass on an appreciation of what matters in life, like clean water, fresh air and time spent laughing with friends and family is a goal we all should aspire to.

In many ways this day typified what I like about fall fishing. The weather was obviously perfect, the water low and clear, and the fall colors just starting to manifest along the river. Looking through the crystal clear water at the shape and tone of the rocks below make it abundantly clear that everything nature does is by design. The color and shape of the fish blends in with perfect harmony, enabling them to materialize and dissolve with phantom like qualities. With the water low and clear, they will tend to seek out the minute troughs and deeper water, darker places where they are better concealed from above. This is also the osprey’s favorite time of the year to be fishing after all.

And so into the last few weeks of the fall fishing season, before winter bites and this fisherman trades in his rod and waders for snowboard boots. There’s still time for a few more good memories to be made, perhaps a last trip to the high country, another float or two, another opportunity to acknowledge nature’s perfection.

This time of the year can certainly be a challenging one for a fisherman. As days shorten and  nights grow cooler, nature begins its slow winding down into wintertime hibernation. Insects that for the last few months have been hatching regularly and prolifically are now reaching the end of their cycle. The birds that fed on them voraciously over the summer months have moved on to warmer climes, while the fish, responding to the cooler temperatures, decreased bug activity and lower clear water, can become more selective in when and where they choose to feed.

Also by this time of the year, they have often seen it all. They’ve lunged at one too many a pmx, watched a few too many stimulators and elk hairs race by, drifting a little too fast and erratically to be true, and mused at the myriad of flies that have landed on the water surrounded by six feet of bright orange fly line. The lower, clearer water makes it harder for the angler to hide his or her blemishes and blushes. And yet, for all that, there is something about this time of the year that makes it my favorite time to be standing in a river somewhere. Perhaps it is the colors, the angle of the light, or the sense of urgency that permeates most living things as leaves turn to gold. Either way, a fall day on a quiet stretch of river is one of life’s undoubted privileges.

A week or so back, I was delighted to be able to accept an invitation to venture over to a lovely little corner of South Park to fish on the Tarryall River at Ute Trail River Ranch. The seventy acre ranch is home to over two miles of the Tarryall River, a tributary of the South Platte. For the top half of the ranch’s property, the river meanders through a lovely open meadow, before dropping into a heavily treed canyon, which was the stretch I fished. The day was perfect for a dry fly – a light overcast and still plenty of bugs flying around – the classic ingredients for getting the fish looking up. Jim and Deb open their ranch up to fly fishing through participation in the South Park Fly Fishers program.

This piece of the river had it all, from beaver ponds and slow moving pools, to riffles and tight, boulder strewn rapids. With the flow low and clear, as it usually is this late in the season, the fish were a little spooky, but I was able to get a few to take a dry fly when I got my drift right. We’ve still got a month or so of great fishing to go before Old Man Winter starts to get the upper hand, so get out and explore while you can. While the Tarryall’s big brother the South Platte gets all the attention, there are many little gems tucked away nearby, offering solitude, beauty and some great fishing.

I have a fishing client, who over the years has become a friend, and who always asks a question that never fails to bring a smile to my face, not to mention a rueful shake of the head.

“So, what’s the secret fly today?” Or another variation – “Where’s the secret spot today?”

Flattered as I am, it shows a fundamental lack of appreciation for what a guide brings to the table, and the realities of the life of a fish. For starters, they don’t eat twenty four / seven like teenagers. The assumption of many fishermen also seems to be that esoteric knowledge is granted us by some dark pact with Beelzebub. We trade our souls in return for a life spent on the river, carefree and immune to the laws of economics and aging. Like Faustus, essence is exchanged for the key to mysteries, mysteries denied mere mortals and especially those who only get to fish a few times a year.

The reality, of course, is quite different. In some ways, the life of a guide could be compared to being subjected to a form of Chinese water torture. Instead of the steady drip drip drip of water on the forehead, we are exposed to the daily drip drip drip of dropped back casts, poor line control, and a stoic disbelief on the part of the fisherman that fish could actually live within three feet of the bank.

As a result, you might think that when the chance of a day off comes along, most guides would retreat to the confines of their hovels, there to explore the dark recesses to be found at the bottom of a bottle of cheap scotch. While this may be true for some, most of us are drawn, like a moth to a flame, back to the river. There is a need to reaffirm for oneself that fish actually do live where you tell your clients they do, and a good drift with a mend or two makes a difference. There is a need to see a fly presented without three feet of fly line coiled around it like a protective cobra, and to see a gentle, measured hook set rather than an excited, agricultural heave.

But there is also a need to be reminded that we all make mistakes. We like to think that we are immune to the same foibles and failings to which our clients are susceptible, but the truth is usually quite different. You also relearn that fishing from a boat is difficult. With everything that is going on, it is easy to over cast, or mess up a mend, or excitedly pull the fly away from an eager fish. There is a need to remind oneself that it is really only about getting out on the water, enjoying a few belly laughs, and not taking it all so seriously.

So the answers to the questions posited above, as revealed to me by my connection to the Dark Side, are: Whatever fly is presented to where the feeding fish are, and any spot you find yourself on the river.

The other day, my AARP card arrived in the post. Like most things in life, this can be viewed from the perspective of a glass half empty, or a glass half full. While the half empty side is perhaps most obvious and easily contemplated, the glass half full is the prudent one to focus on. OK, so standing against a wall, I can no longer pee above head height, and maybe my bones creak a little more each morning, but growing old is a hell of a lot better than the alternative, and I’ve got a card to prove it.

And the card does mark another milestone in my Americanization. First there was buying my first Chevrolet, then my first hangover thanks to Coors Brewing Company, citizenship, the emotion of my first jury summons – ( trial cancelled – wahoo ) and now here I am, feet even more firmly under Uncle Sam’s table.

Another reason to be particularly happy, is that right now it is July, the river has dropped and is running clear, and the dry fly fishing is off the charts. Gone are the cold winds of spring, the layers of goretex and fleece, nymph rigs and rock dodging at 250 cfs. Right now, and hopefully for the next several weeks, is as close to fly fishing nirvana as you could hope to see around here. Lots of fish, all hungry, sitting tight to the banks, and looking up.

And there is plenty around for the fish to be feeding on. Caddis, stoneflies, mayflies and hoppers. On a recent trip down Browns Canyon, it didn’t matter what fly was presented, as long as it floated on the surface, close to the bank, with a natural drift and the odd twitch being thrown in for good measure.

It is amazing how quickly summer is flying by. Memo to the Creator, whoever he or she may be – why can’t summer pass by as slowly as winter seems to? These conditions, with good hatches, warm weather and stable water flows will hopefully continue for the next several weeks. If you are only going to fish a few times a year, now is the time to get out there. If you are contemplating taking up the sport of angling, now is the time to call up your local guide service and book a trip. And if your spouse or significant other is bitten with the fishing bug, now is the time to loosen the leash and let them get out there for a bit. After all, soon it will be winter again, and then you’ll be looking for any excuse to get them out of the house.

Few things are more quintessential to the Colorado fly fishing experience than a remote alpine meadow, a meandering stream, and a dry fly. Take a look through a copy of the Colorado Gazetteer or similar publication, and there are literally hundreds, if not thousands, of small streams and high lakes just waiting for an angler with a back pack, a fly rod, and the willingness to expend a little time and energy.

We live in an age of the drive thru, drive up and drive in. In the name of convenience, we have allowed ourselves to become sedentary to the point where for some the thought of walking to the mail box, or on anything other than pavement, is an anathema. Consequently, many anglers seldom stray out of sight of their vehicle or the highway. Personally, I think this is great – it leaves plenty of space for those willing to burn a few calories. We are social creatures, after all, so for many fishermen, the presence of others close by can seem comforting. There is a sense of security in numbers, plus the reassurance that if there are others in the same spot casting a line out, then I must be fishing in a likely place also.

So it is fun to be able to step outside of your comfort zone every now and then, leave the crowd and the truck behind, and experience the call of a place that at least has the impression of being wild and remote. Encountering fresh bear poop on the trail serves as a reminder that we are not always top of the food chain. The sight if a fox, scampering through the sage brush, the cry of a red tail hawk as it surfs the thermals, remind an interloper such as myself that I am a guest only in someone else’s domain. This is the time of the year the wild flowers are starting to bloom, the meadows cloaked in a veritable rainbow of different hues.

Of all the different types of trout I fish for, the ones that inhabit these high alpine streams, lakes and beaver ponds are the ones I admire the most. A short growing season, limited food source and long, harsh winters are testament to their resilience. Their ability to conceal themselves from predation never ceases to amaze me, materializing from the rocky stream bed or under cut bank to quickly snatch a passing morsel and dissolving, phantom like, back into their surroundings. Their very presence is witness to the universal push of all living things to survive and procreate.

Late spring and early summer, with the larger rivers swollen and high, is the perfect time to escape to the high country for a little solitude, and with it the opportunity to gain a wider appreciation of the world we live in, and the creatures we share it with.