Hard Work Pays Off (and other lies your parents told you)

It has been a few weeks ago now that I got my ass kicked out on Clear Creek. Had the entire day to figure things out and turn my fortunes around. It was a week day, too…so I had the canyon all to myself. No excuses. There was nothing hatching, but so what? I didn’t want to fish dries anyhow. I dredged the whole damned canyon with nymphs and streamers. All I could find were little brown trout only slightly larger than the streamers I was heaving. But I knew I had a pocket pair of aces up my sleeve. And they were not a box of hot new flies, or (heaven forbid) natural fishing talent. No, sir. My only trump cards—on a river and in life in general—have always just been stubbornness and persistence. So, I put my head down and ground out the rest of the day on Clear Creek. I re-rigged. I waded into all the hard spots. I Czech nymphed. Then I added split shot. Then I dug deep into the bottom of my pack…looked around to be sure no one was watching from up on the road…and tied on a strike indicator. And on the next drift a very large brown trout rose and ate my bobber. Instinctively I set the hook and foul hooked the fish in the tail with one of my dropper nymphs. I fought the snagged trout for a second or two…then snapped off the entire rig. Awesome. Just fucking awesome. But I did not quit. I waded to shore…slipping and falling in over the top of my waders and bashing my bad knee hard enough to wilt me into a little, fetal ball in about eight inches of water. And I still did not quit. Once I was done writhing in pain and wringing out my wet shirt…and vowing to strangle whomever it was at Simms who felt the new Vibram soles on wading boots was a good idea…I re-rigged and kept after it like it was my business. I kept at it because it is my nature. It is what I do. It is because I have always been assured that hard work pays off…or will set me free? Arbeit Macht Frei. Yup. Total bullshit. Will just set you up to have your tattoos turned into lampshades... More often than not all your hard work will get you is a poorly-focused photo of a river and a noticeable limp. But you never dream of throwing in the towel, do ya?

The Locusts are Coming!

Aaaaahhh! Cut the last of the hay and round up the cows! No…wait. Not dust bowl part two, just grasshopper season. Got ahead of myself again. If you go up any of the canyon roads here on the Front Range (Clear Creek, Boulder Creek) you can’t help but notice the coveys of hoppers (yes…I just called them a covey) flushing out of every stand of road-side grass. You hesitate momentarily, mentally stalled between the need to get back onto the creek and whack some more wild browns on big dry flies…and the almost overwhelming urge to catch the nearest hopper and throw it into the best pocket water within easy tossing distance—as though watching a trout slam a real grasshopper struggling back to dry land would somehow be way more cool than watching that same fish unload on your big foam and hair Charlie Boy on 4x. For the record, it is pretty cool. Empowering, certainly. Like a sadistic prince in one of those Russell Crow gladiator movies. Shall he live? Noooo! Thumbs down! Feed him to the Browns! Final word of warning, though. You may think you will, but you will NOT catch the first hopper you set your sights on. Maybe not even the first dozen. But dare to set your fly rod down and make the original effort and you are fully committed. No matter what it takes. Frantic pouncing. Desperate flailing of arms. Passing motorists fumble for cell phones. No reception…half a bar…no matter. They think they have seen one of those escaped Ward militia children…fed nothing but raw chicken and C4 behind a dilapidated shed…finally gnawed through his makeshift bailing twine leash and now is half way back to Boulder….