I went and fished the South Platte and the Taylor this past weekend, reflecting on some other times spent waving a fly pole around in the woods.
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| White dungeon eater on the Platte |
I have a terrible memory. I don’t remember the first
time I went skiing, or the first time I picked up a fly rod. I don’t remember
my first day of high school, or even my first day of college for that matter. Obviously
I can’t remember any other important shit I can’t remember. However, we all
carry powerful memories throughout the majority of our lives, and it just so
happens that many of mine revolve around fishing.
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| A rather chilly sunrise on the Platte |
I can remember the very first fish I hooked on the
San Juan below Navajo dam. I was around 10 years old at the time and on a
guided fishing trip with the infamous Rusty. All my previous experiences in
fishing revolved around the tiny brooks of the Jemez Mountains, where an 8 inch
fish was often considered a trophy. Streams like the Rio San Antonio, the East
Fork of the Jemez, and the Rio Guadalupe were my original stomping grounds.
They were filled to the brim with wild browns that detonated on flies such as
my early favorite, the royal stimulator. The very first fish I hooked on the
Juan dwarfed anything I has previously had the luck of tangling with, and I can
still see the fish to this day as it swam towards the boat, framed by a
background of submerged willows in an atmosphere of turquoise clear water. My
initial impression of the likely 16 inch hatchery rainbow was that I had
somehow managed to entice Free Willy into one of my miniscule offerings, and
utter panic took a hold of me as I began to feel the life force of a creature
larger than ever experienced. Just as quickly as that fish came into my world
it departed with a sizzling downstream run which I could not adjust for. I went
on to catch larger fish that day (I don’t really remember but I have the
pictures) but for some reason that individual fish always sticks out in my mind
as a turning point. It might have been the moment where genuine curiosity began
to manifest itself into pure addiction.
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| A pretty brown from the Taylor |
One of my other most vivid memories comes from the second time I fished the Greater Yellowstone ecosystem on a summer trip after the 7th grade. I had done a fair amount of research prior to the trip, reading about the summer hatches of the famed Madison, Gallatin, and Snake Rivers. One of those bugs that I read about held a certain fascination in my mind. Craig Mathews spoke favorably of the Epeorus genus of Mayflies that had taken up a stronghold in the waters of the Madison around Three Dollar Bridge. What captivated my imagination was the fact that these little pink fellers would often hatch below the surface film of the water and rise to the surface as adults, rather unusual for the noble mayfly.
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| Avalanche hole on the Taylor, probably the most hazardous fishing hole that I know of. This thing went full track earlier in the season and ran across the river and up onto the road. Added some good cover to the hole though, making it hard to land fish among the woody debris. |
One evening I was fishing with my father and Jeff
downstream of Three Dollar Bridge as a fierce electrical storm of convective
nature approached. The afternoon had been slow, but as the wind picked up and
the skies turned the ominous shade of black, a pod of fish began working in a
current seam behind a large boulder on the river left bank. As my father worked
past me towards the truck he noticed that I was hooked up and instructed me to
high tail it back once I landed the fish. He didn’t bother to ask what I was
using, and I don’t think he noticed the feverish pace at which the browns and
bows were annihilating the Epeorus duns before they ever reached the surface. Occasionally
a fishes back would break the water like a porpoising great white, but to
really see what was going on you had to look through the water column. Down in
that watery world, which took on the color of a black sky streaked with
lightening, were dozens of fish (giant in my mind at the time) hammering the
pink and olive Epeorus emerger patterns that I had procured at Blue Ribbon
Flies in West Yellowstone. I hooked and played a couple more before the rain
really picked up and then hustled back to the car so I wouldn’t be verbally
berated by my father. When I got within eyesight of him he yelled at
me to drop my rod (a graphite lightening rod of sorts) for he could see the
hair underneath my hat begin to stand due to the build-up of static
electricity. Once safely in the car he asked me what the hell I was using, and
I began to educate him about the little Pink Alberts that Mr. Mathews had
taught me about in his book. I think this memory stands out for a number of
reasons, namely the value in preparedness and my overall fascination with the
weather as it shapes the forms of recreation that I pursue.
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| Big Mama on the South Platte |
Memories can never be fully trusted, but they serve
to remind us of experience, and at the end of the day that is really all that
we have.
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| Another look at the beast |
