Just when you think it's safe....

...to contemplate drowning a fly in water, this happens. Again.



Yeah, that's my old Ford. It's been used and abused, busted and disgusted over the years, but it somehow keeps going, carting me back and forth from the river. He's tired today, two days before Christmas. Just yesterday, he was raring to go, hoping to shuttle me - today - back to the river, which just 24 hours ago appeared to be ready for action by obsessive local fishermen like myself. I walked along the banks yesterday morning, making note of a decent water level that looked ripe for some late season nymphing. As I walked, I even saw a small bit of surface action, trout rising to the surface thanks to relatively mild temperatures and sunshine.

As they say, that was then, this is now. Snow and cold. Again. I knew I should have jumped through the small window of opportunity and at least give it a shot. It's doubtful I would have caught anything picture worthy (which to me means anything, period), but at least I would have known for certain.

At least I know I'm not alone. I take comfort in the fact that there are others out there who share my dementia. Here's my way of coping. The results are ugly sometimes, but I'm learning.



It's clear I need therapy!

Cam, Fishing, and Playstation Baseball

I'm not really sure where this is going to go, but I had to write about it.

Some days are just better than others. I slept in until 8:00 a.m. this morning. I had a cup of coffee. I watched as a Blue Jay plucked seeds from the birdfeeder in the backyard. There's something about a late autumn morning in northern Colorado that's sinister, but exciting. Gray, yet blue. Calm, but stormy. I can't explain it effectively, but today was one of those mornings.

A quick drive up the Poudre canyon led me to more of the above. I had the good sense to borrow a pair of neoprene waders from my Dad to fend off the cold water flowing down the Poudre. I looked a bit goofy, I suppose. Dad's feet are about 25,000 times bigger than mine. My old-school Norwegian stocking cap, complete with ear flaps and a missing tassle on top, adorned my thinning hair, mainly because the cap has brought me good luck on the river.

No exception today. The hat worked. I caught six trout on a day when I figured I'd catch nothing but pneumonia. All small. None "picture-worthy." Just fun.

The miracle for today, however, came in my victory over my 10 year-old nephew Cameron in a heated Playstation baseball game. Cameron routinely kicks my butt in all varieties of Playstation games. And the cool thing about the kid is that he always pays me a compliment. "You're getting a lot better, Uncle John," he'll say after handing me a 7-0 shutout in Playstation soccer. "I just got lucky, Uncle John," he'll say after thrashing me 35-7 in Playstation football.

I don't know how I did it, but tonight, some of the fur/lint from my lucky Norwegian cap must have stuck to my hair. It was the bottom of the 9th. The Playstation scoreboard read 8-8. Cameron had Dontrelle Willis on the mound, while I had Alfonso Soriano at the plate. Crack! Single!

Mark DeRosa fanned two fastballs from Willis. The third pitch came in on the lower right corner of the strike zone. Boom. Over the ivy fence at Wrigley Field.

As I leapt from the couch to do my geeky Uncle victory dance, Cameron calmly placed his controller on the floor and stretched out his hand in a conciliatory, gentlemanly gesture, waiting for me to give him "five."

Kids are cool. That's why most of my best friends are kids.

Like tits on a boar...

It was my Granddad's saying, but I felt the brunt force of it today.

Some things make you feel old and useless, even if they bring you joy at the same time.

Like when you realize that your nephew is turning into a better shot than you with a gun - paintball, .22, or otherwise. I guess youth and good eyes will beat age and "wisdom" every time. Watch the pumpkin head at the lower left:



So...the kid outclassed me with a paintball gun today. I'm halfway tempted to yank him out of school tomorrow and drag him down to the stream to see if he can outfish me.

Don't count your chickens just yet, you little turd. I'll concede the throne when you beat me on the river.

Kids are cool. None more so than my nephew.

Comfort Zone, Schmomfort Zone.

Yeah, stupid title. I know. Cut me some slack, I'm tired.

I'm not a great angler. I just have a great time angling.

Doesn't matter where. Doesn't matter when. Point me to a stream and I'll throw a line into it. And sometimes, I'll actually catch something.

Took a road trip with my brother this weekend to watch a dog show, do a little fishin', and hang out. The tame kind of road trip...the kind that 40 year-old's take. He's very happily married. I'm very happily single, but old and no longer into "partaaaaaying!" We both ate too much Mexican food one night. That's about as wild as it got. We complained about our respective intestinal issues and tried not to ruin each others' sleep with our respective snoring.

Anyway, clear down in Pueblo we were away from our "home waters" on the mighty (and familiar) Poudre. Let me just applaud the town of Pueblo, Colorado and the Colorado Department of Wildlife for essentially creating a tremendous trout stream on the Arkansas River below the Pueblo Reservoir. Chris and I only fished it for a few hours this morning, and neither of us landed anything of significance, but we both had fish hit on nymphs and dries. Lots of great surface action. If we'd had a day or two to learn the hatch and learn the water, I have no doubt we'd have had serious action on the Arkansas. What a great stretch of water, and a reasonable $6 park pass. Beats $300/day for an overpriced guide.

Fun to get out of the comfort zone for a day.

Batting .250

Battle Poudre '09 rages on.

Today's participants:




How much fun did I have today? Too much.

First, let's get the obligatory fish photo out of the way. 'Course it's a beauty, so take a few moments to admire it, if you like.



A lot of fishermen brag about nailing a monster on their first cast of the day. I'll brag about landing this one on the last cast of the day.

I was a frustrated fisherman after about five hours on the water. I'd hooked - and lost - three monsters, all the result of my own impatience, incompetence, and outright stupidity.

I played the first for about a minute before he ran. I panicked and stopped his run. Gone. I let out a long, primal yell, somewhere between excitement and frustration. My more mature fishing partner laughed and shook his head at his son's gaffe. I can't be certain, but I think it might have been the biggest trout I've ever had on line, at least since I was about 14, when I had a monster brown on the White River east of Meeker in my grasp, only to watch him slip away as my Dad tried to net him with a cowboy hat (hey, we forgot the net and Dad made an admirable effort :-))

I hooked the second a few minutes later in a deep, fast run. Let the tension off of the rod. You know the rest of the story.

The third loss was a proud moment that was ultimately ruined by careless tippet selection and a hastily tied knot. I was proud because I floated a dry perfectly and nailed a great fish when it flashed to a Wyoming Renegade. If only I had stopped to think that it DOES matter to tie a secure knot from line to leader. And I hope it's ethical, but I'm not messing with 6X tippet anymore. I played the fish for a grand total of five seconds before leader parted from line. There's a nice fish on the Poudre with a Wyoming Renegade attached to his lip. I hope he can work it out. I hate the thought that I might have damaged such a nice trout for life.

At this point, trout were going crazy on the surface. Dad and I tried every dry we had in our boxes. We just couldn't seem to find the right grub to offer.

As the sun began to descend, I switched back to a nymph and casted relentlessly, but fruitlessly. The old man calmly and responsibly called it a day, wanting to get back home in time to shower and get to church choir practice. As he climbed up the bank to the truck, I noticed a flash in the water near the far bank. "What the heck," I thought. Enough time for me to float one more nymph through the deep water.

Last cast of the day. Big rainbow. A little vindication for me.

Lastly, tip-o-the-hat to Colorado Angler at Fishing the Rockies. Just so you know, my friend, my momentary lapse of reason was cured by your comment on one of my posts! Heading back out tomorrow.

Not so fast!

Well, if you don't like the weather in Colorado, stick around for a few minutes (or a week, as the case may be).




Ahh...peace on the Poudre. Nowhere I'd have rather been today.

Oh for the love of Pete!

Well, I guess fly fishing season may be over for now.



October in Colorado. See y'all on the river next spring!

Big Brothers are Cool

Big brothers always have your back.



I can't really write an accurate caption for the picture above. I have no idea what Chris is saying. Could be "Hey, dumb ass. Don't float your nymph with the rod tip so low to the water." Could be "Nice mend, John." Could be "Catch a fish before I do and I'll kick your butt."

Doesn't really matter. Just shy of a year ago, my older brother probably saved my life and allowed this picture to actually be taken.

Thanks, bro. Next time, I promise some big fish.

A wink from above

I've made up my mind, and nobody can change it.

God loves to go fly fishing. I know this, because today he came along with me. With everything God has on his plate, he took the time to strap on his waders and follow me along the river.



Yesterday at this time I was mired in the middle of madness. A new project at work and way too many nasty people to deal with. I felt stressed, inadequate, completely out of place, and unable to focus. I was just about ready to throw in the towel. I took a quick break and prayed to God, asking him to be with me and bring me some joy in the midst of sheer joylessness.

God answered the prayer, albeit in a sneaky, almost mischievous way, and here's what I think the answer was: "Soon, my friend. Soon. But not tonight."

In any event, God at least allowed me to survive yesterday at work, knowing that I would be off today and free to hit the river. I didn't really know what to expect on the Poudre today. We had our first snow of the year last weekend, and until the past couple of days it had been pretty cold outside. This morning had enough of a chill that I strapped on a goofy looking winter cap that looks like it was knitted in the 1950s by an elf somewhere on the island of misfit toys. I didn't care. I just wanted my ears warm and my bed-head concealed.




When we arrived on the river - me in my cap and Dad looking far more "fisherman-like" - we both noticed that the water had risen significantly, thanks to some drainage from a nearby reservoir. There was no insect hatch on the surface to speak of, and no trout coming to the surface at all. A perfect day to fish nymphs, which is fine by me, as anyone who knows me can attest to my preference for nymph fishing. I tied on a brown stonefly nymph - I'm not sure why - and a bright orange strike indicator, and out across the river I waded.

Turns out that God was wading with me. After no more than a dozen casts, I felt a subtle, familiar tug on the fly and watched the flyline stop its drift downstream. A quick hookset later, a feisty, strong rainbow began his run downstream. He fought violently, thrashing and jumping. I LOVE the way a big rainbow fights.

As the fish grew tired and I walked him to the bank, I felt an absolute surge of emotion, some strange combination of a gigantic exhale and a full body goosebump. I was surrounded by beauty, and for a few brief moments, everything was perfect. I don't know how else to explain it. I landed the big rainbow and lifted it up to show Dad. With one last surge of fight, the rainbow thrashed out of my hands and into the shallow water. As I reached down to work the life back into his gills, he flipped his tail and swam away. No pictures, no witnesses. Just a private fishing story between me and God.

I tied on a San Juan worm next and threw my line back out in the current. Shortly thereafter, the story repeated itself. A complete nose dive by my strike indicator signaled the obvious, and I set the hook. In short order, I had caught two of the bigger trout in my insignificant fly fishing career. 18 hours after praying to God for just a small amount of joy, I was suddenly awash in it. The picture doesn't do justice for the fish, but if you look closely, you'll see some gorgeous coloring and get a true sense of how big and solid he was.



At that point, God went to fish with Dad for awhile.




By this time, long past time for lunch, I think God decided he had to get back to work on the rest of the world. I'd hooked another big fish, only to lose him to either a poor hookset or laziness in playing him - I think the latter. Frankly, I could have walked off the river a happy man after the first fish. Nonetheless, I answered Dad's subtle suggestion that it might be time for a sandwich much as God had answered my prayer of yesterday. "Soon, Dad. Soon. Just not quite yet." My nymph was getting hung up frequently on sticks and rocks under the surface, so I popped off the split-shot that was on the line to sink the fly. I began to cast again, and then Dad and I saw a big brown leap clear out of the water right in between us.

Clouds temporarily covered the sun, just for a mere 10 seconds or so. I can't be certain, but at that very moment I think God was winking at me, saying "you're about to get your joy, kid." I drifted the nymph as perfectly as I'm capable of doing, and then watched the end of the line come to a stop. I yanked back on the flyrod and felt as though I'd hooked a moving anvil.

This fish had to be a big brown. Maybe I'm just imagining things, but it seems like browns and rainbows fight a little different. While the first rainbow I caught ran and thrashed and jumped, this fish seemed to be saying "I'm gonna sit on the bottom of this here river and swim back and forth a little bit until you're strong enough to pull me out. Give it your best shot." So I brought in line until he took it back out again. This game went on for awhile until I was able to get him into some shallow water. Only then did he start to thrash a little bit. By now Dad was in the game too, and every time Dad tried to net him, the trout snarled and swam away again.

Finally, Dad scooped him up in the net and we got a quick photo.



As we drove home from the river, I suddenly realized what had happened. God, like any friend, didn't want to hang out with me in a place of misery. Sure, he was there with me in sales hell, but I think he figured I could handle it on my own that day. It was almost as though he were saying "quit sweating this small, insignificant stuff. It'll be over someday soon. Deal with it and look forward to something better."

Maybe today was the preview of something better to come. Maybe not. But of one thing I'm certain. God does answer prayers and he does so with a purpose. Maybe I don't always understand the purpose, but I have no doubt that there is one. I think it's up to all of us to keep looking, keep seeking, and keep persevering.

All I know is this: I never prayed to catch fish. That would have sounded ridiculous to God, sort of like praying before a big game that your team will win, as though God would grant favor to one team over another, or to me over a trout. The prayer was for some joy.

There was joy aplenty today.

Skunked

I believe that's the term for it. I tried, but it just wasn't my day today.

I hadn't planned on anything extraordinary today, just a quick trip up the canyon for some practice. The weather here has taken a turn toward the cooler side of the thermometer, but with a nice overcast sky and a slight drizzle of rain, I managed to coax the old man into coming with me, a welcome addition to my day not only for the company, but for his access to some better water with bigger trout for the taking. I also hadn't planned on having him show me up, but then again that happens just as often as not anyway.

The trout fooled me from the beginning today. It wasn't even a fair fight. I picked up a rock from the river and turned it over, revealing a healthy supply of small leeches on the underside. Weighing this against the significant surface action taking place on the stream, we decided to try two approaches. Dad went with the dry already on his line while I tied on a simple San Juan Worm, the closest thing in my flybox to the small leeches on the bottom of the rocks.

I grew briefly excited as I quickly hooked what felt like a strong trout in the deep water along the banks. Just as quickly, the trout wriggled loose to freedom. I stuck to the same spot, vainly hoping that the fish would take another stab at the lame grub I was throwing his way. I let the nymph drift again and again along the bank for another ten minutes before realizing, much to my dismay, that I was heaving flyless 6X tippet into the current!

Dad wasn't faring much better upstream, despite numerous rising fish. We stopped to look at the hatch, which was significant, and narrowed it down to a BWO for Dad and an Adams for me.

Maybe it was simply a matter of fishing in a target rich environment for the fish, or maybe I wasn't presenting the fly correctly, or maybe the Adams simply lost out to the BWO, but the lone fish of the day ended up on the end of Dad's line. I was in a neat position to see the whole thing from start to finish - the perfect cast; the perfect drift; lightning fast reflexes on the hookset; and an efficient catch and release, interrupted only for a photo. Textbook dry fly fishing.










With Battle Poudre '09 waning rapidly as the cold begins to settle in, I find myself increasingly less concerned with catching fish. The flyfishing bug has thoroughly penetrated my thoughts, my dreams, and my emotions. The mere exercise of getting on the river, studying the bug life, reading the water for new holding lines, perfecting fly selection, and documenting the results with a camera bring me as much joy as any adrenaline rush experienced by hooking a fish.

Well, almost...

Look to the fish!!

Well, it looks like Bin Laden's gotten his knickers all in a bundle again, picking a fight with Obama on the 9/11 anniversary and now warning the Germans to pack up their NATO-colored lederhosen and get out of Afghanistan.

The poor guy's turban is too tight. Someday I'd like to take him trout fishing, just to see how civilized we infidels (and our fish) are. 'Course I'd like to waterboard him in the Poudre afterwards, but first I'd show him that people, just like fish, can live together in civility. Then again, I wouldn't want his cave dwelling stank to soil my favorite river, so maybe he'll just read this blog sometime and see for himself.



Ebony and ivory (ok, brown and rainbow), living together in perfect harmony. Coexisting peacefully in the very same neighborhood. Imagine that!



Look to the fish, Usama! In a world where nobody can seem to get along, we all need to take a cue from our aquatic friends. It is possible to live with one another in peace

Changes...

Changes.

I'm beginning to learn - finally - that they're a part of life. If there's one thing I know for certain, it's that the only thing that won't change in life is that life will be a constant series of changes. Doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results just doesn't work. This beauty proved it to me today.




Fall seems to have come to Colorado in a sudden burst of cool air, turning leaves, and mosquito-free sunsets. Nowhere was it more apparent than on the river today. The water felt markedly colder to me, and was noticeably lower than just a week ago. One of the neat things about the stretch of river we've visited over the summer is that it provides consistent challenges for admittedly amateur anglers such as myself. Spots that were raging with water just two weeks ago are now too shallow to fish well, while stretches that were previously too deep to even reach now teem with trout feeding on the surface on caddis and mayfly hatches, making them ideal for honing dry fly skills.

Today took me way out of my comfort zone. As I've written previously, I've become an almost full-time nympher over the summer, and I think my success at polishing my nymphing skills has caused my dry fly prowess to suffer (not that it was all that great to begin with). Today I just didn't have a choice. My favorite stretches of river from the summer were too shallow to be fishable. The riffles, pockets, and eddies that were so fruitful last month were non-existant today. I grew frustrated as nymph after nymph became hung up on rocks or sticks, and finally came to grips with the fact that I was going to have to work harder today to catch something. Out came the dreaded dry flies. It's not that I don't enjoy fishing dries, it's just that I have to concentrate on so many different things: watching the fly; mending just enough to keep a natural float without sinking the fly; placing it in the right spot; and being quick enough to hook on sight.

After trying a number of different patterns - an Irresistable, Wyoming Renegade, BWOs, and even a big ol' hopper - I went to an Elk Hair Caddis, the last dry in the small flybox attached to the lanyard around my neck. There was plenty of surface action, but I just couldn't seem to pitch the right bug out. Finally, just as I finished tying on the Caddis, a fish launched into a ferocious rise, consuming whatever prey happened to be there for the taking. "What the heck," I thought to myself, and threw the Caddis out as close as possible to the remaining ripples from the rise.

Much to my delight, he took it. And much to my surprise, my reflexes were instant. 20 minutes later, I pulled the worn-out rainbow out of the water for the obligatory photo. A beautiful, fat, 20 inch trout.

Sure, it's a fishing lesson. You have to adapt to the water, the insects, the sunlight, and the temperature. Sometimes, you can simply get in the water and start dragging nymphs along the bottom. Sometimes, you have to stalk, doing everything possible to minimize your presence on the water. As I walked down the bank of the river to check on Dad and Chris, it suddenly struck me that it wasn't just a fishing lesson, but a good one for life as well.

I used to question God quite a bit in my life. I had no doubts about his power, his omniscience, or his love for mankind. Yet I have to confess that I often allowed myself to get angry at him. Why would he allow unpleasant things to happen? Why wouldn't he simply answer my prayers?

I think I'm coming to understand that God allows us to make our own choices in life, and sometimes he tests our mettle when those choices lead us down the wrong path. How will we respond? Will we keep nymphing, even when it has no chance of working, or will we embrace the challenge and reach for the dry fly when we're least comfortable in doing so?

The glass was half full today. Gotta start applying that perspective away from the river a little more often.

As David Bowie once said (or sang, rather): Turn and face the strange...changes.

Training Day on Black Ice

Is it possible that this little guy could cause one man so much trouble?



Apparently so.

Today, I ventured out on my own. Neither of my regular fishing partners were available, so I drove up the canyon to explore some higher waters for a little practice. I was quite surprised on the drive up as I scanned the river for some solitude. The Poudre is such a great river for fly fishing because of mile after mile after mile of public access to the water. If you encounter a fellow angler in one of your favorite stretches, you either move on or you create enough space to not bother him/her. A couple of things surprised me about today. One, there seemed to be very few anglers on the river. Secondly, the water still seemed to be abnormally high for this time of year. Nonetheless, both the sky and the river were crystal clear. I didn't see much of a hatch on the surface, which was just fine with me as I seem to be turning into a full-time nympher more and more.

I decided to stop and fish a stretch I'd never tried before. This stretch of water had a nice combination of slow moving drifts and plenty of large boulders with nice holding areas behind them. I finally settled on a Prince Nymph for one rod with a Blue Winged Olive on my backup rod.

My troubles began almost immediately. One thing about the Poudre that you can take to the Bank is that the current will be strong. I stepped into the water and began to wade very uneasily to a spot where I could begin to drift the nymph from above a large boulder into the eddy behind it. In addition to the strong current, the rocks on the bottom seemed unusually slippery. I felt as though I were walking on ice with each step, and nearly went into the drink a couple of times before even making a cast. Finally, I stumbled my way to a huge rock that would allow me to sit for a few minutes while I casted upstream.

Fish began to take the nymph almost immediately, and I caught my first fish - a very small rainbow - about five minutes into things. After returning him to the river, I again drifted into the eddy and saw the indicator stop, followed quickly by a light, but very clear tug on the fly. I missed the hook set and casted again. And again, in the same spot, the fish kissed the fly. I slowly stripped in some line and watched as the fish followed the fly until I pulled it out of the water.

This cat and mouse game continued for a couple more casts before I finally coaxed him into taking it. Another nice little rainbow that popped off the line just as I reached down to pull him out. Having done enough in this spot, I decided to wade back to shore and work upstream a little bit.

I didn't bother bringing the fly in as I began to wade back across the river. The current was strong enough to warrant my full concentration, and I was still stumbling over my feet a little as I stepped on slippery rock after slippery rock. I finally reached some shallow water and turned to look at my line, which was harmlessly downstream. That's when the little tiger in the picture above took the nymph. Oh well, sometimes you get a little lucky. When a fish basically hooks itself, I don't stop to question why.

In retrospect, I'm convinced that the "why" in this case was that the fish wanted to have a little fun with me. I started to turn my feet downstream so I could quickly bring him in and move on. As I did so, I took a step onto what I can only describe as "black ice." The ensuing bit of comic relief to follow convinced me that I'm not quite the skilled, sophisticated river rat I sometimes delude myself into thinking I am.

There's a famous scene in the movie "A River Runs Through It." Paul, the younger son, hooks an enormous trout while older brother Norman watches. The fish starts to run downstream, and Paul risks life and limb to bring the giant in. The fish drags him down a treacherous, deep rapid, and as Paul submerges the only remaining sign of him is a hand holding firmly to the end of a flyrod, extended as high in the air as possible to keep tension on the line. Eventually, Paul reemerges in a calmer section of the river, lands the fish, and poses gloriously for the post-catch photo.

Um...yeah. My catch was nothing at all like that. I stepped on the cursed black ice rock, temporarily stood on my other leg, fell on my ass, and sat in water up to my waist. The fish stayed on the line. I think I might have heard him laughing. Rather than risk another ill-conceived step on the slippery rocks, I decided I might as well just sit there. My camera bag is waterproof, and it was safely around my neck out of the water anyway. So I landed the little guy from the cheap seats, not really caring whether he would squirm his way off the fly or not. Since he didn't, I decided to take his picture.

My waders and t-shirt will dry, but it may take awhile to regain the dignity that an 8 inch trout took away from me today.

For the Record...

...the photographic evidence should leave no doubt.

On a recent family vacation, I was given a ribbing over some grievous allegations of "enhancing" or "inflating" my numbers with respect to my accounting of fish caught.

In the interest of full disclosure, I'll concede to having occasionally added an inch or two to a trout I've caught. It's a time honored tradition among fishermen, and who am I to mess with tradition?

But doggone it, pictures don't lie! Today, I have no tall tales to weave. Today's match up in the ongoing "Poudre '09" battle was one to remember, and Dad and I have the pictures to prove it.

Three short hours were all it took to land two of the four biggest trout in the battle so far. Over the summer, we've developed a nice routine. We begin in a fast riffle where someone almost always strikes first blood; fish a long stretch of steady water adorned on the south side by numerous overhanging trees and deep holding areas; progress to "the hub," a playground of sorts where the river ebbs and flows in alternately fast current and deep, slow runs; and finish in a stretch of slow dry-fly current where fish almost always rise to the surface until just before we get in the water.

Following this familiar routine, I started nymphing while Dad went with a hopper pattern. Dad quickly progressed downstream to get the hopper out of the swift water, while I stayed at the riffle a bit longer and drifted nymphs along the bottom. Just as I had about given up on the nymphing, I turned to see Dad's rod tip bending dramatically, twitching back and forth. No more than five seconds later, my indicator sank and I set the hook. I landed a nice, fat rainbow, seen below.



I turned to get a look at Dad's fish, only to see that he was still playing it, and it looked like it had some more fight left in it.















I made my way downstream, knowing that Dad would eventually land the fish, and I wanted to be there for the picture. The photo op wouldn't happen for another 10 minutes, when Dad finally got the fish out of fast water, having tired it out enough to land it along the bank. A beautiful rainbow, probably approaching 20 inches.















I decided to keep nymphing, wondering all the while if I were making the right strategic choice. My doubts grew as I turned to once again see Dad calmly playing another strong fish. He was close to shore and I was up to my thighs in water, so I decided to stay put. Dad jumped into the lead with a nice brown, the only one of the day.




















By this point, I decided I would give Dad one more fish to prove to me that the hopper pattern was the hot fly of the day. What's the old adage? Good things come to those who wait? I tossed the nymph upstream and concentrated on the float. The bright orange indicator stopped a couple of times, and I responded with a quick tug on the rod, as I was always taught. I assumed I was hitting rocks, which happens often. I thought back to some reading I recently did and told myself to keep setting the hook when the indicator stopped. On the third cast upstream, the indicator took a nose dive. I set the hook and felt the solid resistance. For a split second, it felt as though the fly had lodged securely under a rock. Suddenly, the rock started shaking the line and moving, and then started running downstream. The rock, of course, was a very strong rainbow trout.

The rainbow seemed content to pull steadily and stay in the deep water, and really didn't start to fight until I coaxed him into some shallower current. Initially, it didn't feel like that much of a fish. As I continued to play him in the shallow water, he seemed to get stronger. "I think this one might have some size to him," I remarked to Dad, who by now was watching intently. As the fish finally surfaced for the first time, Dad let me know that it indeed had some weight. "Biggest one so far," he said. A few minutes later I landed him along the bank, and Dad got to do the honors with the camera this time.





What a comeback! Shortly after being safely released back into the river, he must have had the last laugh. As I began to make my way back to the bank following a few more casts, I paid too much attention to casting and too little attention to wading. A quick misstep sent me tumbling face first into the river, thoroughly soaking me from head to toe. Thank goodness for my waterproof camera bag.

The remainder of the day was anti-climactic. "The hub" produced nothing more than a solitary hit on my nymph. For good measure, Dad turned a beautifully casted dry fly into another nice rainbow...just to break the tie. I was too slow on the one trout that came after my elk hair caddis, and then my toes started to turn numb from the cold water that had flooded my waders during my less than graceful fall into the drink.

In any event, Battle Poudre '09 remains tight. And nobody can accuse either of us of embellishment, not one bit.

At least not until the next family get together.

Redstone Diary Part IV - How Proud am I???!!!!

This should warm the heart of even the crustiest old flyfisherman. Pretty darn good form for a 10 year-old's first flycasts. I'm all giddy!!

Redstone Diary Part III - No Name to Hanging Lake

Sunday, September 7



With just a hint of reluctance, I took a break from fishing on Sunday and hopped on the bike for a ride along the Colorado River with Mom, Heather, Nick, and Brenden. We made the drive from Redstone through Glenwood Springs and accessed the trail at the strangely named "No Name, CO." I was certain that there was some kind of clever story behind the name, but at the time I didn't bother to look into it. As it turns out, the Wikipedia entry I found states very matter of factly that it was simply named after No Name Creek and No Name Canyon. As it stands now, I have No Time for anymore No Name research, so we'll leave it at that.

The initial stretch of the trail was pretty much downhill and then flat, and the scenery was less than spectacular. After reaching our first rendevous point, however, it became very scenic and active, with dozens of bikers passing us in the opposite direction.



As I pedaled methodically, I instinctively began to wonder if maybe I should have tried to figure out a way to pack a flyrod with me and leave the biking to the rest of the crew. My fears were confirmed as I passed a stretch of river occupied by two flyfishermen, both of whom were in the middle of fighting trout at that very moment. Having put some distance between myself and the rest of the crew, I stopped to watch as one of the fishermen pulled in a nice looking brown. I made a quick mental note of the location and plugged it into my handheld GPS for future reference. On the return trip, I snapped a photo (below left), which captures both the natural beauty of the ride and the approximate location of the catch.
























We stopped at Hanging Lake Rest Area for a quick bite to refuel for the return trip. Nick's sarcastic wit kept us laughing as we sat just long enough for the older members of the crew (i.e. John and Mom) to stiffen up and develop kinks that would have to be worked out on the return ride.



The return trip was, by and large, one gigantic coast downhill, and we made close to double time on the way back. I proved I could still keep up with the young bucks. All in all, we traveled 14 miles. Granted, we're not ready for the Ironman yet, but not bad for a bunch of weekend warriors. I reassured myself that I hadn't committed any grave sins by skipping fishing that afternoon, and looked forward to another huge meal and time with family around the fire. Not a bad day by any measure!

Redstone Diary Part II - Ferocious Little Monsters.

Saturday, September 6

Sleep always comes difficultly to me on the initial night of a camping trip. A small breeze sounds like a cyclone; a chipmunk grows exponentially in size; snapping twigs sound like falling timber; and the smallest rain conjurs up images of typhoons. I awakened this morning to the sounds of a 10 year-old who had no such difficulty getting a good night's sleep and his grandfather, who sees sleeping past 6 a.m. on a camping trip as a waste of imminent sunlight. I struggled to my feet, my back feeling just precisely the way it should after a night spent horizontal on solid ground, softened ever so slightly by a half inch of foam rubber "sleeping pad." Once vertical, I fought with the zipper on my tent's door and splashed some frigid water on my face.

Fire would soon warm my hands enough to blissfully reach for a steaming hot cup of coffee, brewed in a well-used metal percolator. My mood quickly improved at the sight of Cameron's campfire dance, some sort of morning aerobics routine he seems to have just invented.



After an enormous breakfast and some relaxation with family, feeling sufficiently warmed in temperature and spirit, I couldn't wait any longer. Trout were calling me from the river. Time to gear up. Having scouted a few spots the day before, I noticed a large holding area teaming with trout. They looked small, but they were devouring everything on the surface of the water. I tied on a size 14 Adams, liberally greased with "Gink," and gently placed the fly into the flat at the end of a strong run. Almost immediately, a quick flash of water consumed the Adams, so fast that I missed the hook.

I returned my fly to the same spot upstream, this time with my complete attention on the fly. Another quick flash. BOOM! Set the hook and felt a small but fierce little fighter dive deep underwater and run downstream. With any luck, in a few years he'll have some additional weight to him and give some other fisherman the thrill of a lifetime. Today, he got caught.






The fun lasted for about an hour, with fifteen or so similar results. None of the small rainbows measured more than 12 inches, but they fought with the ferocity so typical of the rainbow trout. It turned out to be great dry fly practice. By the end of the hour, they began to slow down as the sun reached its peak and the temperature rose. The perfect time to leave the pool for someone else and grab a quick bite of lunch.

It's a beautiful thing, this obsession of mine.

Redstone Diary - Part I

Friday, September 5

Day 1 began in typical fashion as we prepared to leave town. Most of the prep time was spent packing the trailer and truck, trying to fit two bicycles into Dad's camper and arranging food into every nook and cranny of refrigerator and cooler space. I slept a little later than anticipated, so I had to hurry to make sure I got packed in record time without forgetting the important things (cameras and fishing gear!).



On roads relatively free of Labor Day weekend traffic, we pulled into camp around 4:30 p.m. and got set up. The scenery is breathtaking and the setting perfect for a family reunion of sorts. I'm immediately struck by how much better I feel. While my thoughts turn immediately to the river, I decide to stay put for the afternoon. There'll be plenty of time for fishing.



Mom finally breathed a sigh of relief when Chris, Christel, Matt, Heather, and the boys pulled into the campground near 10:00 p.m. Mothers never stop worrying, a fact I know from personal experience, as Mom has never stopped worrying about me and never ceases to know when things are wrong with me. It’s a lesson that all children learn in the course of life - some sooner than others, but eventually a man or woman realizes that his/her mother will always be able to tell when they are hurting. With all safely in camp for the night, I think she finally can rest easy, although the camp host’s warning about bear sightings in recent days did cause her to realize the wisdom of me having a firearm in my tent with me.

Speaking of firearms…that’s a good place to start the trip diary. As always, I dutifully packed my Glock .45 along with Dad’s .357, both secured with trigger locks and separately stored ammunition. Trouble is, trigger locks don’t come undone without a key. As we left Fort Collins today, I stopped to do a final mental check of supplies and conveniences that I like to have with me on a camping trip. I glanced at my keys, sitting prominently on the living room coffee table. I thought to myself, “why would I need to bring my keys along? I’m riding with Mom and Dad. May as well just leave them here.” The reason for bringing my keys hit me square between the eyes as the camp host told us of a menacing bear that had been frightening campers within the past couple of weeks. The key to the trigger lock for my Glock, of course, sat securely on my key chain on the living room coffee table, next to a recent issue of the NRA’s American Rifleman. How ironic. I can see the headlines now. “39 YEAR OLD KILLED BY BEAR. INOPERABLE FIREARM TO BLAME.”

Brenden and Nick appear to be having fun so far, joined at the hip as always. Cam, God bless him, arrived fast asleep in the back of Christel’s Jeep, bundled up in a small flannel blanket. I looked at him with envy. So peaceful, so innocent, so much life ahead of him. The little bugger is out like a light on the couch inside Dad’s camper, the spoils of being the youngest.

Matt and Heather operated with typical efficiency in setting up camp, adorned in matching His and Her headlamps. What a great idea. I’ll have to pick one of those up. Christel and Chris set up an absolute monster of a tent. My battered, well-traveled two-man, by comparison, looks like the Christmas tree in the Charlie Brown Christmas special.

The moon sparkles brightly, peering out slightly above a rugged, rust colored ridge to our west. Nearly full, it sits inches, yet light years away from a solitary bright star. The camp is now quiet. The right kind of quiet - not isolating or fearful, but grand and peaceful. The sandman calls, and I must answer.

Like a kid on Christmas Eve...

...I'm anxiously awaiting the Sandman's arrival so I can quickly kill the next six hours and spend a long weekend with the best people in the world - my family. My waders are patched (again), flies tied, reels packed, tents cleaned, camera charged, and food for an army prepared. Tomorrow we're off for a long weekend in Redstone, Colorado - all ten of us! I'm hoping to get some quality angling time in on the Crystal, Roaring Fork, and Frying Pan rivers, but mostly I'm just excited to have a few days with parents, siblings, and the three coolest nephews in the world.

I'm not certain that anyone outside the ten of us will really care all that much, but I'll do my best to document the laughs, quibbles, and idiosyncracies that will undoubtedly give us all lasting memories. Getting the ten of us together for more than a few hours anymore is an accomplishment in and of itself. So forgive me if I overdo it with a laymen's version of photojournalism over the next few days.

Predictions:

1) Bears will be frightened away by high decibel snoring emanating from two separate tents and one hard-sided camper.
2) Matt will triumph on the bike ride.
3) Mom will beat me in Flinch.
4) Brenden will succumb to pyromania, and we'll all be warmer for it.
5) Dad will turn truck packing into a meticulous, precise, science.
6) Nick will learn how to flyfish (he has no choice, he's my nephew).
7) Christel will wonder what she's gotten herself into, and Matt will give her the "I told you so" look.
8) Cameron will make a brilliant legal argument about a yet to be decided issue.
9) Heather will be organized, efficient, and game for anything, as always.
10) Chris will avoid stepping over barbed wire in his fishing waders (that's an inside joke).
11) I will be at peace, if only for a few days.
12) God will travel with us and bless us.

Happy Labor Day weekend!

Bye Bye, Brownie...

6:00 p.m. seemed like a bit of a late start to me for a "Poudre '09" matchup, but it proved to be a couple of hours of peace and some darn good fishing on the Poudre. Dad sped back into the lead tonight with a couple small but mighty rainbows and one nice brown.





I landed a small but beautifully colored rainbow myself, and then the real fun started. Just as I was struggling with my footing in some deep water, I heard the old man give a yell. Normally Dad just catches and releases in silence, so my heart skipped a beat as I turned upstream and saw his rod tip bending dramatically forward, his line as tight as a drum. He'd hooked a brown that proceeded to strip line into the fastest part of the river. Dad was walking swiftly (using the term loosely) downstream as the fish continued to run down river. I fumbled with the camera bag around my neck and managed to capture some of the action.



After a few thrilling minutes, the beautiful, wild brown grew tired enough for Dad to land him along the bank for a quick photo op.



My evening wasn't going quite so smoothly.

Try as I might, I never seem to cover every detail, particularly for an impromptu, spur of the moment outing such as this one. I've known for awhile now that I don't have enough fly line on my reel. It became apparent a few days ago when I was playing an abnormally strong, heavy rainbow. The rainbow was stripping line out rapidly and eventually pulled the line out all the way to the backing. By some miracle, he tired just as the line reached the end, and I was able to quickly retrieve enough of it to lead him to the bank. Today, I wasn't so lucky. As a 3/4 moon began to rise in the east, we dropped some nymphs in a deep run in a unique spot in the river. This spot is a fly fisherman's dream. The water runs slow and deep along both banks, with an island in the middle that causes the river to briefly break into two forks. The result is a stretch of water that combines riffles, pools, deep slicks, and eddies on all sides. I stood directly in the middle and worked a San Juan worm upstream to both banks, into the eddies downstream, and through the riffles. My indicator seemed to drop straight down on every cast, and if I really knew what I was doing, I wouldn't have missed setting the hook so much. I was, however quick enough to catch a brown of my own before hooking another really nice fish.

Having already made the mistake of not re-spooling my reel, I made a ridiculously amateur mistake. I hooked the fish in calm water and relaxed. The fish decided he wasn't done, and started running. He started a fast run upstream in the calm water. Rather than keeping the tension on my rod tip toward the calm water, I allowed the fish to continue running wherever he wanted to go. Seemingly in slow motion, I watched the fish run upstream and then abruptly surge across the river, headed for a fast, heavy stretch along the bank. When he hit the fast water, he simply sprinted with the current. I swear he was waving goodbye to me as he passed. As the line left my reel with the distinctive buzzing caused by a fish stripping the hell out of it, I waited with resigned anticipation for the moment when the line would reach the backing and the fish would pop off to freedom. And then...well, you know the rest of the story.

I reeled my line back in and looked at the river around me. Twilight on the river. I have no photographic evidence to support my version of events, but it happened, down to the last detail. It's moments like this one that fuel my addiction to fly fishing. In the end, I'm not sure I'm all that disappointed. It was just enough for me today, enough to ensure that I'll keep coming back to new experiences and new challenges. On occasions like this one, it's not about the destination, but it's all about the journey.