March 2011 Article

A Winter’s Dance

      A planned outing to the river had disappeared and then reappeared. I took advantage, though now with less time. Still, I didn’t feel the need to hurry. The time to be in the canyon arrives when it is ready. On the drive up river, I noticed that the previous week's warm weather had opened more water. Nearing the top of the canyon, I was grateful to find my favorite spot unattended. The weather was a bit blustery, but I felt that the effort to battle the wind would be worthwhile. 

      After gearing up I crossed the highway and stood above the rocks lining the river bank. I quietly watched the river. Within moments I spotted a school of trout.  Most of them appeared to be holding their position in the gentle current. Still feeling unrushed in my day, I waited and watched a bit longer. The wind ruffled the slow, moving current, and then quieted. It was then that I saw the first rise of the day. The fish had begun to feed. As stealthily as I could, I maneuvered my way down the rocks. Settling along the edge of the water, I casted. I covered the stretch of river in an orderly sequence, only breaking the routine if I saw a fish rise. When I noticed the rise, I redirected my next cast near the fish, hoping to draw a strike.

       I continued to make my presentations over the course of an hour; however, I was unable to entice any fish to join my rhythmic dance. I decided to move upstream. I walked the quarter-mile at an easy pace to allow the day to unfold on its own. When I reached the next fishable stretch of river, I re-initiated my waltz with the water, casting near, then middle, then across the river… each time following the drifting dry fly. Here and there a fish would rise, but my offerings still did not entice a fish to strike. After changing "the menu," I moved upstream another 30 yards and fished a deep pool that receives the river after it cascades down a drop-off. Finally I had a strike! But I missed the opportunity and landed the flies in the branches behind me. At least I had a chance.

      I decided to cut the leader and tippet to hasten my efforts of getting the flies out of the tree and return to fishing. I, again, changed my choice of midge patterns and colors to activate the fish’s impulse to strike. As I worked my way back downstream, I continued my efforts, refining that which I could, accepting that which I could not. Despite my well intentioned performance, I was still unable to land a fish.

      The afternoon sun danced along the mountaintops, and billowing clouds of white formed in the distance. The word was that snow was on the way, but today granted another hour before the sunlight slipped behind the peaks of the canyon walls. I decided to trek back downstream, but found each stretch of fishable water populated with like-minded anglers. I watched awhile and found little comfort in their similar lack of success. Maybe the day was meant for observation and practice.

       I took leave from this stretch of river and decided to explore an area that I noticed earlier in the day, which was ice free. Arriving after a short drive, I retrieved my rod from the car and made my way down to the river. Just as I got ready to make my first cast, two large dogs came running along the opposite bank. They scampered across the ice toward me, much more sure footed than I would have been. I had apparently violated some invisible barrier. After we exchanged some verbal arguments, they seemed satisfied and headed back across the ice and downstream along the shoreline.

       I returned my attention to the river and spotted a couple of rainbows holding just under a melting edge of ice. I made a dozen casts, but only seemed to scare the trout further up under the ice and out of view. I walked upstream to an area where most of the ice had refused to give way to the warming temperatures. Just below the ice, I spotted a few more rainbows holding in the current. However, the long day of mild frustrations had taken their toll. Not only was I unable to draw a strike, I again did nothing but spook the fish upstream under the ice and out of sight.

      It was time to call it a day. Sitting on the back of my car I watched the sun tuck behind the billowing clouds. Though I had not caught any fish, it was still a day of dancing with the river.

      So far this winter, I have made more trips without catching a fish than I have experienced over the last several years combined. The challenges I have endured have not deterred my efforts. Though I have often failed to catch fish, I’ve found myself surrounded by the beauty of nature, the calming of the water, and the peace that solitude brings. This river has struggled for eons…finding the path of least resistance, shaping rocks where needed, moving around them when it must. In actuality, there are no obstacles here. Only a journey, forever changing, complete in its entirety, all at once knowing and constantly beckoning me to return.

© Dean Miller 2011