The Last (Cheap) Best Place

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Clear Creek canyon is my getaway for when I have a few hours. It’s not spectacular – so far the fishing has been ho-hum, and it’s right along one of the busiest state highways around, always crammed full of blackhawk weekend casino traffic when I fish it.

The brown trout aren’t big, there’s busted glass and rusted shotgun shells along the banks, and the river is super high gradient, so there are no long, peaceful runs where fish sip dries. But it is a quick getaway, a respite from the pavement and zero-lot lines and barking dogs of our northwest Denver neighborhood. It’s about 12 miles to the canyon from our front door, and it achieves the desired effect of feeling like a world apart. There are wild fish, crags, cold clear water, and plants that look like the lorax’s truffalump trees – enough of a taste of the rockies for someone like me who started his life in the flatlands of central Illinois.

So, in a word, fishing Clear Creek above Golden is serviceable. It scratches the itch, for fish and/or natural beauty, that, for me at least, starts to feel debilitating after about 2 weeks off the water. But I find myself wondering if just Clear Creek alone would be enough. If it were my only option, would I be content to fish it for years on end?

My wife and I dream about moving somewhere smaller, slower, cheaper, and while it’s not the rule, many of these bucolic kinds of places don’t necessarily come with a world class trout stream running through the middle of town. In other words, there’s a reason why a quarter of a million dollars will only buy you a 1,000 square foot condo in a place like Glenwood Springs – namely, the town’s proximity to what most skiers and fly fishermen feel is darn near paradise on earth.

And so, I have become obsessed with place. No, that’s not quite right. I have become obsessed with finding a place. A place where we can raise our son and he will have warm, golden-tinted memories of his childhood as a result; a place where we can be on quality water fairly quickly; a place with trails and forests nearby; a place where we could someday work part-time and still live a comfortable life; and maybe most importantly, a place where buying a quality house doesn’t also mean mortgaging our son’s future (or ours).

If I could achieve all of the above but not have quality water, I think I’d be willing to make that trade-off. But I’m convinced I can have it all, and it’s become a personal holy grail of sorts. I’ll check back in occasionally with updates on my search for the last (cheap) best place, and if readers have any ideas of their own on this topic, as always, please leave them in the comments section.

In the meantime, keep walking toward the light.

Letting it Come to You

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We were up in Steamboat this past Labor Day weekend, and I fished the Yampa 3 days in a row.  And sometimes, things just line up right, y’know?  And after a year of things not quite lining up right in other elements of my life – a near-miss here, a dropped ball there, an egregious field goal attempt that soars wide left - I’ll take the little victories where I can get them.

This time, I was there when thousands of caddis started drunkenly zig-zagging an inch above the water like tendrils of fog. I put myself in place for a modest sized rising brown trout. I hooked said brown trout, which immediately rocketed downstream. Upon wrapping itself around a boulder, a 19 inch cuttbow took the other dry in my tandem rig, the brown popped off, and suddenly I have a fish on that’s 6 inches longer and about 2 pounds heavier. It took about 5 minutes to get this fish to hand, and swimming in the hole where I eventually landed it were 3 young ladies in bikinis who kindly offered to take my picture.

Sometimes things just line up.

It has been a tough year for a lot of reasons, which, I guess don’t really need to be covered here in this space where fly fishing is the focus.  But I’ll just say that next to the love and support from family and friends, the escapism that fishing provides me has certainly been my most powerful coping mechanism.  It also never fails to give a little perspective either, since there are people who have had far worse years than I have.

For me, time on the river is utterly elemental, and, at its core, translates to a short list of experiences and states of being that bring me back to center.  Among those:

-Water sliding around my shins

-The rich perfumed smells of riparian environments

-The wild, unpredictable, and colorful beauty of encounters with fish

-Above all, an empty and quiet mind

Fly fishing is hours of meditative movement, punctuated by brief moments of adrenaline when a fish is finally on.  Who wouldn’t love that?  When I first started fly fishing, it was those shots of adrenaline that kept me coming back; now, I think it’s all that slow motion time in between.  I’m still not yet to the point where I can sit on the bank for an hour, watching the water roll by as rising trout bury surface duns in a smooth run, but I’m getting closer.  6 years ago I would’ve waded noisily into the run and put the fish down.

Now, I can wait a whole 5 minutes before doing that.

Tight lines,

David

Carpe Diem

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We pursue that which eludes us.

That’s not waxing rhapsodic, nor is it a profound statement.  It’s just simple fact: if it didn’t elude us, there would be no need to pursue it.

And that pursuit is responsible for so much of what we find compelling in this life, isn’t it?  We pursue goals, championships, promotions, happiness, pleasure… love.

And fishermen, of course, pursue fish.

Since first fishing the urban South Platte back in early June, and realizing what a unique and challenging fishery it is, one thing immediately made itself clear: there are BIG carp in this river.  Shockingly big fish.  15, 20, even 30 pound carp.  The kind of heavy fish that almost don’t look proportionate; the kind of fish where you say to yourself, “Is it as wide as it is long?”; the kind of fish that you really, really want to catch very badly.

And so, that became my goal for this summer: to catch a carp.  The only qualifier attached to that goal was that I wanted to do it out of the South Platte, because I would just always rather be in moving water.

Now, you’re probably saying to yourself “He made this his goal in early June, and it’s almost September… what gives?”

Turns out, carp are f%cking hard to catch.  They’re seriously wary, they don’t see well but their hearing is superb, and they understand that a fly line means danger.  Throw in the fact that on two of my last outings the water was up and the clarity wasn’t great (plus I didn’t see any carp, period), and, well, June, July, and August went by in a flash.  With no carp.

Until Friday.

I went out that morning and hooked my first carp.  I didn’t stand a chance.  I tried to set the hook like a trout, tried to fight it like a trout, and it was off in under 10 seconds.

I had a doctor’s appointment at 1:30, and was so geeked about that morning’s marginal success that I had to double down and go back out in the afternoon.  Sometimes you just gotta go back to the craps table and roll the dice again, y’know?

At about 4:40pm on Friday afternoon, I connected with this beautifully colored fish.  After stalking him from the bank on my knees, a short cast to where he was headed, and a vacuuming take on his part (at which point I remembered to strip-strike instead of lifting the rod), he was on.  One of the biggest fish I’ve ever had on my line, smack dab in the middle of downtown Denver.

There will be another post down the line about native/non-native species, urban/wildlife interfaces, and whether you should work with what ya got or strive for an ideal.  But right now, for me, this post is about that moment where the pursuit pays off, and we finally get to experience what we’ve so far only imagined.

Two other highlights of the day come to mind: homeless men and women helped me spot fish from bridges, and even offered me tips on tackle; and I saw my first ever, real live “wild” rat.

We certainly encounter some interesting situations in our personal pursuits, don’t we?  And I guess we’re richer for them, by a long shot.

Though I’m still trying to figure out how I’m richer for having seen a rat.

Stunning water on the Crystal

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We fished the Crystal on the Saturday morning of our Frying Pan trip.  Our campsite was right on the river, so it just made sense to roll out and start fishing without too much of a drive.

My goodness is this river stunning.

To my eyes, two things in particular make it so: Gin clear water that also manages to have a light blue, glacial kind of tint, and a substrate made up of big boulders that are many different colors (no doubt due to the varied geology in this valley – sandstone, granite, and marble).

The morning went according to plan: some fish were caught, and then it was time for lunch.  I’ll say this, though: I can’t wait to fish the Crystal again.

View the full set of pictures from the Crystal HERE.

Here and Somewhere Else

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It’s interesting, our desire to be two places at once.

After a quick morning meeting on Friday, I had the rest of the day off, and since I had dropped the little guy off at his daycare, I had until about 5pm all to myself.  So I went fishing.

But here’s the funny thing: half of me wanted to be fishing, and the other half wanted to be spending time with my son.  And so, two halves of me were at odds.  On one hand, I know that, as a parent, it’s reenergizing and important to take time to ourselves.  On the other hand, I really love spending time with my guy, and I felt bad about not sharing my day off with him.  I still went fishing, but it bothered me all day, and having something gnaw at you is darn counterproductive to the calm you’re supposed to experience on the water.

Which is why it was karmic, I suppose, that I broke my rod at the end of the day.  I put that negative energy out into the universe for the better part of the morning and afternoon, and it was returned to me in a moment of graphite snapping certainty.  I smiled a resigned kind of smile, reeled in, and went to my stash spot to change back into my hiking shoes.

If you’ve never been to South Boulder Creek at the Walker Ranch open space, it’s worth a trip.  A quick mile hike down into the canyon, miles of high gradient, very cold water (bring hip waders, because wet wading was rough), and a ton of bugs are what you can expect.

Here’s what I learned:

  • Any attractor dry will do this time of year.
  • High-sticking dries on short casts is a necessity, and works very well.
  • Fish are in faster water than you’d expect because they have to be.
  • Leave your emotional baggage at the car.

Tight Lines,

David

Lightning Round on the Frying Pan

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There’s an easy kind of grace that a group eventually achieves on a fishing trip. It’s usually something you just kind of slide into without realizing it; suddenly the hemming and hawing about when to fish and where, and who’s gonna do what, just kind of fade into the background. The cooler gets packed by one guy, another guy gets all the rods strung up and put in the carrier, another makes sure the boots and waders are loaded, and, upon reflection, you realize none of it was even discussed.

You get to the river, one guy steps up and makes the call about where to fish, and time on the water together unfolds in a way that makes you feel blessed, thankful, and destined to catch just enough fish to make it all feel worthwhile. Because, let’s face it, most of us are more efficient anglers when we’re alone – we cover more water, catch more fish, and do it all faster. But it’s nowhere near as special as 4 guys managing to put themselves in the middle of an hour-long blitz of a hatch, thick as thunderstorm rain, on the Frying Pan river the last night of a fishing trip.

Afterward, beers are shared riverside, and hugs, too; moments are relived; stunning pictures are taken that will end up on family room walls or over fireplaces; and the afterglow warms you as the night comes settling down into the canyon.

Dad, Bruce, Tim – let’s do it again soon.

See the full set of pictures from The Frying Pan HERE.

Buzz Lightyear Goes Fishing

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I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that, from the moment he came into this world, I looked forward to the day that my son and I would fish together. And snowboard. And ski. And hike. And play music.

That first fishing outing finally arrived this weekend. My wife was in Iowa for her 20 year high school reunion – which she generously excused me from – so Bennett and I went to Steamboat for a boys weekend. We watched too much TV, ate junk food, played with toys well past his bed time all 3 nights, and went fishing on Saturday for all of 45 minutes. He seemed to enjoy it, though, and that’s all I could’ve hoped for.

(A disclaimer: ultimately, if Bennett never loves any of the things that I love, that’s okay. If he turns out to be a passionate math geek, I’ll brush up on my differential equations and we’ll get down to business.)

We went to a little stocked pond in Steamboat called Fetcher Pond. The Fetchers have been in the Yampa valley for a long time, and they’ve been honored numerous times over with place names. The Fetcher Ranch is still a legitimate working ranch, from what I understand, though I think you can book it for weddings, too. But I digress.

The little stocked rainbows were hitting emergers all over the place, doing that thing where their dorsal, not their mouth, breaks the surface, and if you didn’t look closely you’d think they were rising to dries on the surface. So I tied on a pheasant tail, put some shot above it and an indicator, and cast it out as far as his 2 foot long spider-man zebco would allow. Which wasn’t all that far.

We caught nothing. And he didn’t seem to mind one bit. He was just happy cranking the reel handle and picking flowers for his mom.

Though he’s probably too young to remember it, I will never forget Saturday. And for sentimental reasons, I am so glad our first outing was in Steamboat, his birthplace.

However, next time we’re using powerbait.