Choking Down A Dud

You can have the best intelligence... delicious rumors of un-pressured trout from the most reliable of sources. You can check the charts...plan the best route in and have a perfect plan. But sometimes you can drop a 60mm mortar round right into the fire ring of the enemy camp and nothing happens. Dud. The fish are there, but they ain't eatin'...no big boom. Just one big dud. So you suck it up, strap on the ruck, tell the dog it ain't his fault and you hike your sorry ass back across the miles of scree and out of the mountains. Back to the cabin for a cold beer, because they do make choking down a dud just a tad bit easier...

Heartbreak Ridge (Or: Thank God for Rodgers Pass)

Joe Novosad, Erin Block and I met at the mouth of Moffat Tunnel at 6:30 in the morning with full rucks and good intentions. It was threatening to be another scorcher down below, so we planned to spend the day above 11,000 feet and maybe harass the cutthroat trout in Heart Lake. But the two hour walk up the side of the continental divide does not make for a guarantee of success, as it should. Heart Lake holds some big fish, some of the cutthroat up in the 18 to 20-inch range. But Heart don't give it up easy. The three of us (oh, and Banjo, too) gave it the old college try, the idiot's attempt, the optimist's whirl and even the fisherman's go. But nope. Just Chuck Testa. Shut down like a clown. Between the three of us we could fool only two fish all day long. Crushing. But there was always that smaller lake right on the other side of this misery and the now-'till-forever Heartbreak Ridge. Rodgers Pass Lake. A small lake that gets bypassed on the way up to glory and the promise of big trout. That lake has a bunch of tiny guys, people say. Heart Lake is where it's at! But we had no choice...if we were to salvage the day and our pride. If we were going to somehow justify the four hours of volunteer labor of carting a ruck and rod up and down a mountain...we we going to have to make it up in small fish. But quantity. What we found, however were hundreds of 12 to 15-inch cutthroat slashing at big midges on the surface of the water. The three of us stayed well past the hour we intended to ruck-up and leave.

Left Hand Turns (Or: Thoughts on Dad, Daniel Boone, The Army, Organized Religion, Politics, Finding One's Way and Brook Trout in Left Hand Reservoir)

I learned from my father how to find my way in the woods. Said another way; my dad showed me how to be lost comfortably. We would spend weeks deep in untraveled National Forests every deer season with bows in hand like a small family band of Merry Men...and mom. "How can you ever be lost," my father would say, "When you want to be right where you are?" I have taken his reasoning and adapted it into a life's mantra of sorts. The lesson being something along the lines of home is were you hang your hat...or better yet, your back yard is the bottom of your boots. Because of these influences of my father I have been able to pick up and move or completely dismantle my existing life and take great gambles on something new. Or somewhere. Or someone. But, in hindsight (as my father has firm roots and has always been there for his family) I believe he may have just been misquoting Daniel Boone. I have never been lost, but I will admit to being confused for several weeks.

It wasn't until I was older and in the Army that I learned to navigate the land properly. An infantry soldier walking point has a platoon or even a company spread out behind him relying on his skills and compass function. (This was before any reliable GPS units found their way into the military.) And he has to know on a map where he is...sometimes just to avoid lying to a battalion commander over the radio, but other times to act as the forward observer for an A-10 pilot with an itchy trigger finger.

The most difficult part of always knowing where you are is the ability to walk in a straight line. You may plot a straight route and you may never look away from the fine needle hovering over that moment's magic number. 144 degrees...for 400 meters. But you still have to walk that straight line. Just as it is easy to be moral and riotous standing behind a lectern with a clean robe and full belly before a flock happily marinating in ideals and air conditioning, it is easy to have an unwavering stride on a sidewalk. Add rocks and trees and mountains and your straight line becomes crooked. Blend reality into the recipe and watch the fairytale curdle. Choose one from the flock and follow them out past the big wooden doors...back out into the heat and the real world. Throw that honey badger into the happy nest of bees. Like hunger in The Heart of Darkness which fear can not stand up to...and which turns principles into 
less 
than 
chaff 
in
 a
 breeze. Introduce adversity and obstacle and watch things get interesting--because every protagonist must have the conflict or the story falls flat. And remember...that honey badger just doesn't give a shit!

So, it was somewhere in Georgia or North Carolina on an Army land navigation coarse that I learned to maintain direction despite rocks and trees and unexploded ordnance. It came down to left hand turns. It is instinctual for a right-handed soldier to always veer right to avoid an obstacle, be it a tree or large hunk of metal with fins protruding ominously from the red mud and poison oak. Choosing a path around something and then immediately maintaining the course is how we get though our lives as well our enlistments. The problem is we rarely return fully. Every argument alters a marriage. Every heavy-weight punch to the temple makes you more likely to think a face tattoo is a good idea. Just as every right button hook around a Georgia pine puts you another degree or two off asthmus and away from the way point. And these way points, like truth or salvation or happiness or even just cash money, are very thin metal pickets placed in really thick parts of the forest. So, go right a few times the camouflaged instructors instructed...and then go the other way a few times around. It will most likely even out in the end.

We met our friend on the fisherman's trail

We were headed to where he had been

He was coming from where we where headed

He had the stories and we had the dreams

Our faces where bright and his very nearly blue

Any luck up high? Brookies abound? 

Nope...just iced up guides

Then with peppered chips, cheese and elk exchanged

Our forces bound and like when the major asked the last Mohican

There is a war on. How is it you are heading west?

We and our fishing friend faced north and, real sudden-like

Turned left.

Brainard Lake (Brookies & Moose)

Brainard lake has finally become a fun lake to fish again. Today we discovered that the road in past the pay gates is still closed until sometime about mid-June, so there are just hikers maybe and a token other fly fisherman around...even on a Sunday. (And one poor tenkara dude who stood on the bank dangling with his stick and watched us casting and catching trout.) A dark cloud would roll over every ten minutes and drizzle all over the lake, but then the sun would immediately pop around a soft corner and the lake would come alive with midges, caddis and rise forms. Once every hour or so the lighting and rain would chase us back up onto the bank amongst the shelter of trees. We would wait it out and be right back at it.

The state has apparently not stocked the usual doses of pale-sided cuts in Brainard for a couple of years in a row, so the wild brook trout have no more competition...and they have begun to take advantage of the situation. The average fish we caught was a very solid 12 to 13 inches and fat.

Lakes Revisited

Places revisited. Lakes revisited. It is not taking a step backwards, an emotional demotion—it is, as Kenny and The First Editions used to say, me just dropping in to see what condition my condition is in. There are places that I have been in my life that have meant a lot to me. Usually it is not so much where I was physically at the time…more of a fine mixture, heavy on the cerebral (state of mind and ambition) with the actual surroundings being more the ground pepper—the kick to set the mood. I suppose I have stood in many rooms during pivotal moments of my life…court rooms…recruiting offices…chop shops at VA hospitals. But I do not remember much of those moments. “So…this is kind of an experimental anesthesia!”  What I do remember, quite vividly, are those moments that took place on the water. Alone. Not usually on creeks or rivers…and I am not sure why? But on lakes. Maybe it has something to do with the placid nature of still water—high lakes with stunningly beautiful, yet aggravatingly moody cutthroat trout. Like gigantic Petri dishes laid out up in mountains…begging, culturing the imagination.

The first time I ever visited Colorado (the place I have been calling home for years) was as a thinly veiled favor for my sister. She had just graduated from collage and was taking a job in Boulder. I was helping her move. And I say “thinly veiled” because everyone, including my sister, knew I was tagging along for the promise of trout—and maybe because my restlessness and post-Army-drunken shenanigans were wearing on my families’ patience. It was Big Sisters turn to have a go at the reigns—a mule skinners futile efforts. And somehow, in the last evening of my stay, I ended up at a shallow, yet very remote lake at about 10,000 feet. I remember wading out in cut-off jean shorts and bare feet…out as far as I could bare…and finding a small rock to stand on to get as far out of the frigid water as I could—and casting a four-weight fly rod as far as I had the skill to cast. I did not hook many fish, but those I did were amazing things—greenback cutthroats with colors deep and vivid enough to make your brain melt. (Whatever that means.) I balanced on that rock for as long as I could…legs freezing and the sun setting. I must have known that I may never be able to stand on that rock again. Never be able to get one more cast in, or see one more of those wonderful fish. I guess I knew, all those years ago, that the realities and hazards of life were about to collapse with all their weight smack dab into my lap. And I was right.

So, it is odd…eerie even, to revisit these places, these moments frozen in time—so many years later—so much trite and figurative water under the bridge. I remember letting that last cutthroat go…watching it swim back out into the clear, but quickly darkening water of the lake…wondering what it would do with its freedom—wondering what I would do with my freedom. Now I return, many years and turns later…to tell what I have done with my time…and catch another trout from the same lake. And see what he has done with his…

The Well-Caught Trout

Fishing with someone new is often interesting...and always educational. An overnight hike into the high country to do some trout fishing on some remote lakes is that...for sure. Educational. You learn about a person. And, then again...they learn about you, too. But you never think about that flip side until the drive home. You know, when it is too late. But, I have known this guy for almost a year and have never fished with him. I knew what sort of man he was...and I knew what sort of fly fisherman he was. He was a man that came across as soft spoken, but serious...mainly because he listened more than he talked. And I knew he preferred solitude and remote areas...and liked to catch his trout on light rods and on dry flies.

I was a bit surprised, though, when he stated that he had only packed in a 2 weight Scott and one tin of dry flies. He was going to have his trout...and have them his way! I felt a little silly with my fast 9 foot 5 weight lake rod. I felt like I had brought a wet suit to an indoor pool. Yeah, a tool. Then the wind picked up on the lake and I felt good about stripping my leech through the chop.

But the wind did not last. The lake died down in the early evening and all lay still. Then the stage came alive with bugs...and the trout began to rise. And my friend took them all...his way.

A Crater Lake Ass Kicking

It is good to be put in your place. Humbled. Taken down a peg or two. If everything we do turns out great and everything we touch does our biding or makes us money…well, we can’t help but get too cocky. Then—if this good fortune continues long enough—we end up wearing a bright green fur coat, gaudy gold chains and fancy walking stick (not to use, just to carry). But a boot to the ass keeps us respectful and wearing proper clothing. It is hard to take sometimes, though…when the beating is administered by the skinny 120-pound bloke at the bar with big ears. Hard to take.  As it is hard to stomach hiking up the side of a mountain for miles to fish a brookie lake and being shut down so hard you look like amateur hour at the keystone cops tryouts. But that is how it went down today. Back casting into pine trees. Losing flies. Bag of pistachios stolen (by a fuzzy brown pika). And brook trout refusing a #24 para-Adams in favor of a floating pine needle. Good grief.  But we got mean and powered on, Erin and I…and did what it took to land fish. We ended up catching a good number of brookies, but I won’t say how long it took! On the hump back down to Moffat Tunnel I cursed the weight of my ruck (didn’t need those damn waders anyway!) and cursed the ability of even high-country trout to occasionally be smart. But also realized how awesome it was to finally have a woman in my life who is not scared of hard fishing, some weight on her shoulders and remote mountain tops. Yeah…maybe I’ll get that green coat after all.

Brown’s Cabin

Brown does not exist. Thus Brown’s cabin can not exist. And the small, relatively untouched pond full of dry fly hungry trout? Nope. Brown’s cabin is a place you imagine and wish really existed. A public-access place that is near home, but just far enough off the beaten path that most have never seen it. A reliable place at the end of an un-named gravel road that you can take those that you love (who have come to visit) during runoff…when every other piece of local water is blown out with surplus snow melt or swarming with noisy weekenders. I had a day dream, while dutifully chained to my fly tying desk…that my mother and father came out to visit me here in Colorado. I would introduce them to my beautiful new girlfriend. And my big sister would be there, too. She would just happen to be passing through—on her way from Australia to some other side of the world. The sun would be out and the wind would finally lay low. We would sit around the table and tell new stories and the old ones from the glory days. The other set of glory days—the ones that came before these ones. And then we would all string fly rods and find another gravel road, another adventure and maybe some trout.

 It has been years since I have gotten to fish with my dad. He was the one who taught me how to thread a worm on a hook and filet a bullhead only shortly after I learned how to walk. And it was his old fiberglass fly rod that cast this spell on me that has held it’s curse for so long. Never fading. Dictating, for better or worse, the outcome of my life. The rod was a 9 foot 7 weight J.C. Higgins if I remember right. God awful thing. But now—in my day dream—it is me who has the luxury of selecting a random $700 Sage from a pile of rod tubes in the corner and offering it to my dad. And a fully stocked “loner” fly box to use for the week…and take home like a good white towel from a ritzy hotel if he pleases. Oh, and the flies inside are of my own design. I am no doctor or philanthropist…but I know my dad is proud. What are you catchin’ them on, Dad?

 Your flies, he says…

 And mom, she could be sitting on the bank of the pond…correct posture and wearing a light-weight summer shirt and straw hat. A sight Monet spent a lifetime attempting to recreate. She would have a clean sketch pad and a collection of pencils. We all would fancy she was drawing us as we were casting, but in actuality she would be drawing in the landscape and maybe the cabin on the hill. We, just some of the trees.

Blended into this family moment would be Erin. Also on the water. Fly rod strung. Willingly throwing her lot in with mine. Gone and joined the circus. In my daydream she would be a stunning sight, making long, graceful casts out onto the still water of the pond…a very visible extension of her own beauty and grace. And she would land fish…and impress the alligator wrestlers and elephant handlers. Even my sister would comment.

She has a really good cast!

And the trout? There would be plenty of them. All eager to rise to a well-placed dry fly. But just as ready to baulk at the last second if things just did not quite seem kosher. The pond behind Brown’s Cabin would have only brown trout in it, of course. Wild ones, too. But…like I said in the very beginning, this place does not exist. I have you properly convinced of that, right?

Brainard Lake, Colorado

If you are looking for a close, but fun area to take the family (maybe camp?) over this 4th of July weekend, may I recomend the Brainard Lake Recreation Area?
The entrance fee for the area is $9 and the pass is good for a week. There are seven different lakes to fish. The two lakes that you can drive right up to are Red Rocks Lake and Brainard...although the latter is the one you should fish if you go up this weekend. Red Rocks is a small lake that you pass shortly after entering the recreation area, and is so shallow it winter kills every year. The state will usually stock it with rainbow trout...but they are not this year. So don't bother stopping to fish it! Brainard Lake has a healthy population of wild brookies, though.
Long Lake and Mitchell Lake are excellent, as well. Fishing them involves only a short walk along a maintained trail...and can be worth it. The fishing is often better and there are fewer other people.
The recreation area is just west of Ward (30 min west of Boulder) You will see the signs on highway 7.

The Road to Brainard

The road to Brainard Lake is now open, allowing access to Red Rocks Lake (which winter kills every year...and this year has apparently been stocked with a handful of 6 to 8 inch rainbows). But, if you are looking for a close, but fun area to take the family (maybe camp?) over this 4th of July weekend, this might be your spot. The entrance fee for the area is $9 and the pass is good for a week. There are seven different lakes to fish. The two lakes that you can drive right up to are Red Rocks Lake and Brainard. Long Lake and Mitchell Lake are excellent, as well. Fishing them involves only a short walk along a maintained trail...and can be worth it. The fishing is often better and there are fewer other people. The recreation area is just west of Ward (30 min west of Boulder) You will see the signs on highway 7.

Fat Stacks of Greenbacks

I have fished Lily Lake for many years. Done well, most of the time…but regardless of the quality of fishing that particular day, I invariably lusted after the middle of the lake. There just had to be more and larger trout out deep. Just had to be. So, I have always promised myself to one day get out there in the middle. Belly boat. Canoe. Hell…one day just tie a streamer onto my ankle with 3x and swim out there! But, I did not have to strip down and swim. Not today. Erin Block and I lashed a canoe to the roof of her Toyota and made haste to the lake. Was a beautiful day, not too much wind and, unlike our last trip to Lily Lake, there was not eight inches of ice covering the entire surface. Lily is slightly less than 9000 feet, so it will usually be one of the first high cutthroat lakes to ice off. It is also relatively shallow, so the water tends to get warm fast. It is already up to 64 degrees, making the fish a tad sluggish after even a short fight—the main reason to fish this lake early and then leave it alone for the rest of the summer.

Lily Lake also happens to be the most accessible lake in the Rocky Mountain National Park (along Highway 7 several miles south of Estes Park) so we were expecting not to be alone. And were right…there were maybe a dozen other anglers. About half spin fishermen (having no luck) one hapless, ill-advised old man with a Tenkara pole—it’s from Japan, he told us—and the other half wielding fly rods. All were shore-bound. Erin and I shared the middle of the lake only with a small inflatable raft being paddled around by four or five underdressed college girls. Row row row your boat… They would all try to sing in unison, then smack the water with their paddles and continue a high-pitched blather about dating some boy. Poor boy…hope it was worth it.

We saw no fish rising, but did see some midges around and two larger (when compared to the midges!) callibaetis mayfly adults on the surface. So, we rigged black leeches with skinny tan callibaetis nymphs behind them. When the wind was pushing us around we would set the rods down and troll, only picking them up to cast during the moments of calm. And we caught greenbacks. Not many, though. Ironically, it took us beaching the canoe and casting from shore before we really got into the fat stacks! Blind casting was delivering nothing, either. We found the most productive approach was stalking the bank and sight cast to cruising fish with one of Erin’s micro-streamers. Lily Buggers, we took to calling them…

Boat Fly Boxes

Spinney and Antero reservoirs have been open and fishing very well in the past couple weeks. Many of you have been out to one or the other and done well...or are planning a trip to your favorite lake soon. If you make a habit of lake fishing from a boat I highly recommend putting together a lake specific trout box to carry in your boat. Some time ago I observed Rob Kolanda organizing his boat box in preparation for another fly fishing competition...and I had to snap a couple photos. Impressive fly box! Here at the shop (Rocky Mountain Anglers) we have a good assortment of large boat fly boxes as well as a ton of good lake flies, to include many of Robs own patterns such as the Pandemic and BTS series.

Stockers for Dinner

“Naw whatcha need ta do is git yerself a jar a peeewr bait…git out ta res n catch yerself some them staaawker trouts! Fry em up!”

Snicker snicker hardy har har… We both did our best redneck reservoir fisherman impersonations all the way back home. The snow was coming down sideways across the road in front of us and our pants were soaked and our hands frozen into bright red sclerosis-ish mitts. I was driving, but could not feel the steering wheel.

“Reservoirs full a them stawkers! Yuk yuk…!

The day had begun with fairly noble and complex intentions. We were going to first go check out a local res that was rumored to hold some good-sized northern pike, then shift gears to another spot that we knew would have some feeding carp. I had a Dixie Cup full of a new carp fly tied by a 13-year-old friend of mine. His flies looked like winners and I was eager to give them a try. And the nasty weather reports didn’t scare us none. We both had the day off and were bound and determined to find some sort of fishing adventure…somewhere. But, the wind was roaring hard over 70 miles an hour when we pulled into the parking lot of the “pike-rumored” res… This is gonna suck. “Let’s take a walk up over the burm and see just how bad this is.” And we did. And we could barely stand up against the wind. Whitecaps pounding the rocks and rip rap. Cold spray of water and clouds of dust blowing off the dry dirt path. Yup. Sure gonna suck. Erin rigged up a 5wt with a small Bellyache Minnow streamer for trout (we saw a guy with a spinning rod and a stringer full of stocker rainbows clinging to the rocks) and I strung up a fast action 7wt with a bite leader and big pike fly. And we were off… But the howling wind only brought worse weather. The temperature plummeted and the snow hammered us as we did our best to huck and jive against the ever-worsening elements. A couple hours into the ordeal I was ready to throw in the towel. Admit defeat. Reel in and head for the warmth of the truck. Then Erin hooks a fish. A plump 14 inch stocker trout eats the damn Bellyache. As she prepares to release the fish, I have a wave of inspiration. This is a put-and-take trout fishery. Designed to feed and entertain the nearby townies, and the reason some rouge pike have managed to live high on the hog. Why not keep a couple for dinner? So I found a fist-sized rock and put the trout out of its inbred misery. Whack! Right to the top of the head. Only problem now was we needed another similar-sized trout to round out the meal. And a long, hand and face freezing half hour passed with nary a strike. It was beginning to look as though the plan for dinner was a bit premature…and Erin continually cackled over the howling blizzard, taunting me with underhanded suggestions of what I would be having as she dined on her trout. Oooooh! You could always have potatoes! But I pulled through in the final moments before we both froze to the bank of the reservoir. And a hardy trout dinner was shared!

“Thems good pan-sized trouts ya got thar, mister! Gonna fry ‘em up, naw!”

Colorado Greenback Cutthroat Trout (A Fisherman's Guide)

When this book came out many of my friends (who spend a lot of time fishing the high lakes) were pissed off. They were upset because many of their favorite cutthroat lakes and the hiking routes were mentioned. This told me one thing: I needed a copy! And, now...that I do own a copy, I am a bit nervous about it. My favorite lakes are mentioned, too. But, here is the final analysis...it is a great book. And every fly fisherman who lives in Colorado and hasn't had hip replacement surgery yet... should own this book. It is as close to a "must have" book as you are gonna find. Perfect bound book, only $19.95 new...full of information and notes. All the good, pertinent stuff for those of us who have fallen in love with the Colorado high country. There is something about being above treeline...makes my blood thicken and my heart race! And, to get back to my friends...and their hurt feelings. This book does not "hot spot" anything. It outlines every spot here in the state of Colorado were we can find our only native trout. A magnificently beautiful fish. Stunning. The book does not give any one particular lake more attention than any other. As I sit here indoors in December...staring at the front cover, I already have two or three overnight trips planned for next summer. Damn! Can't wait!


Colorado Greenback Cutthroat Trout (A Fisherman's Guide). Jim Rubingh & Richard Fritz. Frank Amato Publications, Inc. Buy A Copy Amazon.Com Or, better yet, stop into your local fly shop and get yerself a copy!

Mitchell Lake (An Escape from Brainard)

  Mitchell Lake is one of those high mountain lakes (10,720ft) that you can drive to, but not right up to—you still have to walk a mile. This allows you the luxury of getting in and out quick, some decent alpine Brookies and Cutthroat and (thanks to the short walk) an amazing lack of jackasses. Most of them stay back at Brainard Lake…within arms reach of their lawn chairs which are parked neatly, immediately behind their forked stick and baited Scooby Doo fish pole. “Ya’ll catchin’ any trouts? No? Is it alright if my derelict children take off their shirts, scream insanely at each other and throw rocks into the water next to you?” Sweetness….

McCall Lake (Lyons, Colorado)

Spent a few hours yesterday after the snow storm in Lyons. Did not have the entire day to commit to fishing, so joined the bait and egg crowd at McCall Lake. Discovered that the stocker rainbows absolutely love the new Yankee Buzzer slowly received behind a black woolly bugger. Although, I guess I am obligated to say the family down the bank from me was catching fish on eggs at about a 10 to 1 ratio to me... Wrapped up the day with a couple beers and a catfish Po' Boy at Oskar Blues in Lyons. Was a good day...

Best flies for high country lakes, Colorado

Most of the high country lakes here in Colorado are clear of ice and the fishing has been outstanding, as usual! Our high elevation waters are absolutely brimming with aquatic bug life...this makes up for the rather short fish growing season. The trout are usually more than eager to eat, but I certainly have some GO TO flies in my box when I am heading for the high ground.

I have chosen three of my favorite high country flies... The Pandemic Callibaetis in either #16 or #14, available at most Colorado fly shops. The Moody Damsel #16 and, for the fly tiers, the DLS Leech available only from your own fly tying desk! Use a TMC 777sp #10 hook, thread on a 5/32" pearl white bead, use dark olive arctic fox fur for the tail and build a dubbing loop using dirty olive Sparkle Leech dubbing for the body. Wrap the dubbing loop up 2/3rds of the hook shank and whip finish, then slide the bead down over the knot. Then build a separate dubbing loop (a short one) to finish the front end of the fly. Use a dubbing brush to comb back the long dubbing fibers.

Fly Fishing in Cedaredge, Colorado

Larry Jurgens, Dick Orr and myself were graciously invited down to Cedaredge, Colorado to stay and fish for a few days on Fred Ferganchick's ranch. Fred owns and operates several ranches in the area...a beautiful spread right at the base of the Grand Mesa National Forest. He does turkey hunts, elk hunts as well as fly fishing. We had a great time down there and if you watch the movie I made for him and think it looks like a fun time...give him a call, or check out his website.
Hecoma Game Ranch, ph# 970-856-3693 web: http://www.hecomaonline.com/index.html
Watch a video and learn more about the ranch:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-i-P4bnZ-2g