To reclaim sanity I did what I do best: went fly fishing in the Canyon. I had went hiking earlier with my family along a small stream in a tight, tall walled gulch. I had inquiring thoughts about this small stream before, thinking that the larger brown trout could use it as a nursery for the fry and fingerlings. Some larger trout might even call it home. On the way out of the hike, Charlie looked over at a small pocket water pool and yelled out, "Look at all the fish!" My fate was sealed...
The next day after breakfast I set off for the small stream. As I went further into the Canyon, the "partly cloudy, calm wind" weather report became more false by the minute. A blizzard quickly blew in from the west, dark gray clouds spewed thick, heavy snowflakes by the millions upon the quiet canyon. As I pulled into the parking lot the wind was howling, snow flakes stinging my cheeks, but from over the snow pile I could see large browns swirling in the beaver ponds above the bridge. It was deathly quiet, beautifully intolerable I rigged up a large stimulator with a small midge dropper and went off up the trail below the limestone cliffs that resemble towering fortresses. At the first pool I came across, I stumbled through hip deep snow to get into the water. I tossed a few casts up stream but a stiff gust of wind quickly over powered my little three weight rod. The line got pushed into some branches and I reluctantly walked up through the pool to get it untangled, watching for darting streaks of gold from under my feet. There were a few small ones, my hopes were actualized! I stumbled back up on the bank, essentially swimming through the snow to get to the trail. Out of breath, I kept going up stream, following the snowshoe tracks that were left by passers by before me.
Its these sort of small streams, the ones that everyone over looks and that go unnoticed while in the pursuit of trout, that I love to explore. They are technical, small, with small fish that can easily outwit me. They harbor the hidden gems of centuries past, like on this stream there is an old mine shaft dug into the base of the canyon wall along the stream bank. Its the intimate feeling you get, that primeval feeling of being watched when you're all alone, the bliss of exploration in water that's maybe never seen a fly before- all these facts are what makes these experiences so meaningful.
The stream made a sharp bend in the canyon after a small incline on the trail. At the top of the incline I looked upstream, the tail snugged up against the wall and pinched the stream in between the other wall. The blizzard was getting worse, wind was picking up. The stream turned into a series of riffles and pockets, and ended up at the bottom of a twenty foot slope from the trail. "God, this is awesome!" I thought to myself. I started down the slope but the snow sucked me in. Up to my stomach in the cold white stuff, I was squirming around like a fool trying not to slide down the rest of the way on my face, more importantly not trying to spook the shadows in the pool below me. Awkwardly, amazingly, I contorted myself out of the snow cave I had apparently fallen into, slid the rest of the way on my butt and stopped before the water. As soon as my feet smashed into the snow, most of the shadows burst from the pool. "Well Shi*...Ha ha ha, God I'm so fu**ing smooth!" I sat in the snow on the bank for a long while, watching the last trout left in the shallow pocket of water. It was sitting on the far side in some slack water behind a rock, its light gold sides shimmering through the clearer than clear water, surely sizing me up as friend or foe. Snowflakes started bombarding the land once again, the wind was howling down the stream, and it was just me and the trout waiting for one of us to make the first move.
Being the smooth guy that I am, I grabbed by rod from the snow and went to make a cast, but as soon as my arm moved (like two cowboys in a duel, reaching for my pistol) the trout shot first and darted upstream into the pocket never to be found again by this angler. I had lost the tense standoff, but at the same time, I was never so happy (or lucky) to be alive. Just another day on the water, I tell people often times on my fishing outings, "Some people got it, some people don't." But what really counts at a place like this is that you try. It gives you an excuse to try again- come the next blizzard, to be humble, to forget the troubles of your busy week and learn from the little stream all that you need to know. Maybe I'm just an optimist, but fish aren't the point of fishing for me.
It took easily ten minutes to crawl back up to the trail, the slope was steeper after I plowed down a path in the snow. I prayed no one walked by to see me cussing and clambering for foot and hand holds, gaining a few feet, then sliding all the way back down to the bank. By some miracle, some inner strength I pulled myself up, got some of the snow out of my waders and walked back to my car. The blizzard hadn't stopped yet, but it just made the walk out, and the sweet defeat, that much better.
iEscaped to a small stream called iron creek. Even though I didn't hook a trout, I saw them, and they kicked my butt! I learned that I love that challenge and sometimes it pays to get a reality check- to realize that there is more to life than the goal at hand; to enjoy the experience more than obsess about fish that were way smarter than I was to begin with.
