Walk a Little Farther

I live in Colorado. I am very fortunate to live within a 20 minute drive of class one trout streams, and an hour and half from gold medal water that people travel from all over the world for. Sometimes I take that for granted, I start to think that everyone has the same

advantages as me, that they can pick up a fly rod at any time and escape to the tall pines and rocky landscape of the mountains that I call home. I know that’s not true but it’s still easy to forget how easy I have it. 

I often talk with friends, who have the same frustrations as all of us who live this close to pristine landscapes and wild trout streams. One of the hardest things we deal with is people. Fly fishing is growing, and that is awesome. I love seeing new anglers hitting the water and trying out the sport that I love. I hope they catch fish, and I hope they find all the great things about fly fishing that I cherish so deeply. Still, it is frustrating to pull up to your favorite section of stream and find that someone is already stomping through it, casting in all the wrong places, and spooking every fish within a quarter mile. 

However, I was reminded last week that even on a stream you find yourself fishing often, you can find new water and new experiences in the most unlikely of places. 

I have a stream that I call my “home water”. I fish it often because it is only 20 minutes from my front door, and it holds a healthy population of wild rainbows and browns, if you’re lucky you can even find the occasional cut-bow or the elusive greenback cutthroat. It is a fun, technical stream that features textbook pocket water and epic scenery as the water cuts through a deep canyon bordered by high mountainous walls of rock. You can often catch glimpses of mountain goats walking on cliffs and the sound of elk bugling will occasionally cascade through the landscape. It is a special place and a stream that I hold close to my heart. 

The problem? Other people are certainly starting to figure out how special this often overlooked stream is. Over the past few years I have seen more people coming out and fishing these waters, and more houses being built on its banks. It’s frustrating because this used to be the kind of stream you could go a whole day on not seeing another soul, even during peak season. 

I was heading to this stream not long ago when I pulled up to one of my favorite spots. Here the river pulls away from the road and you can find some nice pockets that I have caught 18 inch brown trout out of pretty frequently. When I looked at the stream I saw two people fishing my water! I turned the car around and decided to try something new. I had fished this river from the start of the canyon up to the headwaters and at this point knew it like the back of my hand. However there are a couple of sections that are privately owned so I have not had the chance to get on that portion and try it out, though these are often the most “fishy” looking sections of river of course. 

One of these sections I had always thought was private turned out not to be. When I pulled county property lines I learned that the river was actually part of forest service land but is bordered by two sections of private land. What resulted was about a mile of stream between two properties completely disconnected from the road. There was only one issue. That section was a two mile walk up and over a pretty large hump of some pretty rocky terrain, and who knew what the fishing was like. 

I had been holding off hitting this section until the weather warmed up and peak spring season had come. That way I could give it the best chance for success. But given that my plans had been thwarted for the day I figured “What the hell” and parked the car at the closest pull off. 

The ascent to the top of the hump was only roughly 50 yards but I could then look down at the descent ahead of me. It was steep, but not undoable, maybe something my wife would not have approved of, but I have a tendency to do stupid things chasing trout in remote locations. I found a game trail descending the mountain and began to follow it. I took each step carefully, more for the sake of my rod than of any concern for my own well being. Each step had to be intentional and I was thankful for the metal studs in my wading boots. There were a few spots where I started to think how in the world I would make it back out. But I figured that whatever animal had made this trail could make it back and forth I could probably find a way, right? Eventually I found my way to the bottom, and I looked around to take stock of the hidden stream. Had all that effort been worth it?

In short, the answer was yes. I was greeted with a mesmerizing section of stream. A cascading waterfall crashed into a deep pool that created a beautiful pocket of slow water. I could almost imagine all the trout feeding on nymphs knocked loose from the rocks just behind the waterfall. That pool narrowed to a section of fast moving pocket water before hitting a bend in the river that curved against a huge cliff wall, creating another deep section cut under the cliff. The cliff created a shaded zone where the trout could hide from the keen eyes of raptors soaring overhead. 

I only had to look for a moment before I saw them. There were trout, many of them, tucked next to the cliff under a shelf of ice. I watched as they moved from behind boulders in the stream, jetting out to eat at whatever bugs were floating by. I smiled and walked to the bank as sneaky as I could before I began to cast. My fly landed exactly where I wanted and I watched as it drifted by at least ten fish, who all could have cared less about what I had tied on. I casted a few more times with the same fly but again I watched as my fly drifted by uninterested eyes.

I clipped my tippet and selected another fly, larger nymph - maybe that would help them see it? Again I cast my line and waited as more fish started to group in the same area. Still the fly went by, completely ignored by the fish who I could see were actively eating something. I thought for a moment. These fish were keyed in on something. I looked in the stream to see what I could see. Each time a fish jetted out to the fast moving water I tried to see what they were eating. Was it large? Was it dark? Was it small? The longer I looked the more I became convinced that they were feeding on small midges drifting by. It was early March so that would make sense with the time of year and I couldn’t see anything drifting in the current, though hard to see, if I look hard enough I can typically see if stoneflies or mayfly nymphs are drifting in a stream. I decided to tie on the smallest midge I had. A size 22 zebra midge. I cast my line out again, it landed right next to the shelf of ice the fish had been hiding under, I felt as the fly dropped in the water column and ticked the bottom of the stream. It drifted by the first fish unnoticed, the second went out to strike it but missed, it drifted by others to the same effect. Still at least they acknowledged this fly. I was about to reset and cast my line again for another drift when I felt my line tight and my rod tip dip hard as something ate my fly, I set the hook and the fight was on. 

I could already tell the fish was larger than I normally catch in this river. Really the average size of fish is somewhere around twelve inches. This fish was much larger than that. It pulled my rod tip down as it tried to swim away but I pulled against it, trying to keep it from going downstream. The fish started to tire and I was able to pull it closer, close enough to catch my first glimpse of the fish. It was big. I estimated the fish was a twenty four inch brown trout. My heart raced. This would take the cake as my largest fish caught so far and would completely trump my best of this river at eighteen inches. 

My heart raced and I could feel my hands begin to sweat as nervousness entered my body. The fish was tired, I had won, now I only had to net the behemoth. Then I realised the pickle I was in. I was standing on an ice shelf overhanging the river, the fish was in the middle of the stream where the ice thinned and would certainly not support my wait. I tried to think quickly, how could I get him close enough to net? I didn’t think quickly enough. The fish found its energy and darted under my feet, under the ice. I tried to pull it out from the ice but the fish was too strong and my rod was at a bad angle. My line went slack as the fish finally managed to wiggle the hook out of its mouth. 

I sat stunned next to the river for more than a little while. How could I not have thought of that? I always tell people to think about how they will land a fish where they are if they hook into one. Doing so allows you to net the fish quickly and get it back in the water, it’s more humane and less stressful on the fish. Do what I say, not what I do. I chuckled at myself and stood back up. I thought through the situation and found a better place to stand where I would actually be able to net a fish to land it. 

I cast to the same spot, but I knew all the fish were spooked. You can’t fight a fish that big for that long and not scare everything in that pod. Still I held on to the hope of that big fish and fished that pool for an hour. Again I broke one of my own rules. I tell people, five casts. Five casts is all you get in a certain spot. If you haven't gotten a take or a bite you move on to the next one or change flies. Do as I say, not as I do. I fished there the rest of my day on the water, with the same fly, in the same spot, and I never got so much as a nibble. 

I turned to begin the trek back up the mountain. The path was steep and the sting of losing such a fish hung with me as I climbed up the mountain side, sweat dripping from my head, and down my back. My lungs burned as I hoofed it through the challenging terrain. Finally I reached the top and got back to my car. As I caught my breath I thought back through the day. It would be easy to beat myself up, to think myself silly for losing that fish, and then to think myself dumb for fishing the same pool for so long, but at least I had the chance. 

I tried a new section and was rewarded with the fight of a lifetime against a fantastic fish, and I had seen no one. Not another soul the whole morning. That had to count for something. Besides now I knew where that fish was. I knew I would be back. 

I stripped off my waders and boots, took a long drink of water, and loaded in the car for the drive back home. My thoughts were filled with large trout and sketchy hikes, my heart was full. I had found a new section of stream, maybe my favorite on my home water, and I had been rewarded with an opportunity I didn’t think existed on that river. And all it took was a little more effort and the initiative to try something new and walk a little farther.