January 2011 Article

"December Dreams"

With each passing day, the onset of winter continued to slow the Big Thompson’s energy.  Becoming more of an observer rather than a participant, I found new perspectives on many levels.  Though I enjoyed the change, I didn’t experience the same degree of fishing satisfaction; however, the time was well spent as my excursions into the canyon provided new perceptions of the river and of myself.
       

My first two trips in December produced outcomes that I had not experienced in years---I did not land a single fish!  In fact, I didn’t even manage to get any fish interested in the presentations I made.  In spite of this fact, each adventure provided another chance to learn.  The first trip was made in beautiful conditions.   It was a day of bright sunshine, no wind, and low clear water.  The edges of the river had iced up a bit, but there was plenty of open water to fish.  A thick coating of algae covered the submerged rocks along the river bank.  This made the wading slightly more treacherous.  With each careful step, I released more slimy chunks into the river, adding to the bits already drifting in the slow currents.  I had tied up with an extended body blue wing olive, followed by a small flash-backed pheasant tail and a size 22 black tungsten WD-40, and had to clean off the flies after every third or fourth cast. 

I sighted a couple of fish, but neither appeared to be actively feeding.  Regardless, I gave it my best effort over a couple of hours as I worked my way through the upper reaches of the river.  I found that not being interrupted by the fish allowed me to soak in the panoramic beauty.  Those quiet moments allowed me to refresh my spirit, which was fortified through the rhythmic motion of casting and wading.  I decided to move downstream.  As I made my way back to the car, I passed a couple of other anglers.  I inquired about their luck.  They both stated they had caught a few fish, but the catching had been pretty limited.  No offer was made as to what they had used to entice the fish to bite and I did not ask.

 Driving downstream a few miles, I located the section of open water that I noticed on my drive up river.  Though I hadn’t caught any fish, I remained committed to my initial selection of flies.  I eased my way down the icy slope above the river and waded to mid-stream.  Looking west I was graced with the beautiful sight of the setting sun emboldened against the canyon walls.  Included in that panorama was the activity of hundreds of small bugs flitting about in the remaining rays of sunlight.  It was a classic “fishing photo moment,” only the fish weren’t paying attention.  I made a few spirited casts, again to no avail.  Still the moments were not wasted.  I exited the river 20 minutes later, my soul energized by the interaction of water, land, sight, and sound.  Despite the lack of fish activity, it was an enchanted afternoon.

The next trip up the canyon, also made in sunny conditions, came just three days later.  However on this day, the winds howled, preceding the oncoming weather front expected to arrive the following day.  Again I didn’t find many fish and the wind made the fishing more difficult for me.  After a couple of hours without hooking a single fish, I called it a day.  I was unwilling to fight the elements any longer!  I thought about making a stop much lower on the river where some open water remained---but decided to press on home.  It was, again, a bit frustrating.  But the world moves at its own pace and sometimes I am out of step.

The following week I was blessed with my third trip into the canyon.   It was another perfect day to share my soul with the river’s delight.  The wind was light, only gusting occasionally, but it certainly was not troublesome.  The river contained a bit more ice, but much of the algae had been removed.  I sighted a small school of trout basking in one of my favorite stretches of water and quietly approached.  I had fished about 10 minutes when I saw the first rise of the day.  It was just a bit downstream from my location, so I moved slowly toward the area, trying not to disturb the water or the fish.  Two casts later I landed a nice 13-inch brown trout.  It was my first catch in nearly a month!  I continued to fish that stretch of water over the next hour, catching a total of five trout and missing the hook set on three others.  It was a wonderful afternoon on the river, a touch of heaven in a world struggling to find peace.

          My final trip up the canyon was a fitting end to the year.  I enjoyed a quiet and peaceful drive to my favorite spot, only to again find the wind blowing stronger than any of my previous adventures.  I scanned the river for fish, but the wind made it impossible to see into the water.  Though the sun was out, its warmth couldn’t penetrate the biting cold of the wind.  I headed back down the canyon and decided to stop at Viestenz-Smith Mountain Park.  I thought that the park area might be closed, but hoped that the river might still be accessible.  I found the gates locked and posted with signs saying that it was off limits to enter.  This necessitated an additional half-mile drive downstream, where I pulled off the road into a small parking area. 

About four winters ago, long before I knew much about winter fly fishing, I had parked here and hiked down the short trail to the river.  Today I could see open water but wasn’t sure if it was outside of the park boundaries.  Hoping I could reach some good water, I geared up and made my way down the trail to the river.  As I neared the bottom of the trail I happened upon a “No Trespassing” sign.  From there I could see that I wouldn’t be able to legally get to any fishable water.  But the trip down was not in vain.  Away from the highway noise, I stood on the icy shore, next to a 15-foot rock wall and listened.  The sound of the river melded with the gentle breeze that rustled the trees, just beyond the riffles.  The sun was bright on the high canyon walls and snow reflected the energy from above.  Fishing would have only taken away from the beauty of the moment.  So I stood for a few minutes and listened, closed my eyes and allowed it to be.  A shiver crept up my spine.  Knowing that I wasn’t going to be fishing today, I absorbed that which was around me one final time and then slowly made the climb back up to my car.

It may seem strange, but without making even one cast, this last trip of the year was one of my most enjoyable trips of the year.  Maybe I had found a small piece of what Henry David Thoreau spoke of when he stated, “Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not the fish they are after.”  I am grateful for this river and for what it has provided my soul.

© Dean Miller 2010