Willie during a Tweek

Fishing the Willie

 during

 a Tweek

Sometime you hit it just right. The Williams Fork 4/24/2014.

 Fred Miller and I decided against the Colorado because at 1,200 cfs not even Fred's legs are long enough to reach the bottom. That left the Williams Fork which the dam powers-that-be had been running at a consistent high 6x normal, probably in anticipation of the big runoff starting soon. But when we looked at it on Monday night, they'd dropped the release to about 180 cfs. Hmm. If I was a nice healthy brown trout this could be nice and comfortable after the chaos of 380 cfs for many night. For the baetis, they were probably thinking, "Whew. Finally. The surface is not so far away. Time to spread my wings and get a little sex. "

We had discussed, ad nauseaum the night before via email, how we were going to get to the Willie. Would we walk 1.2 miles in from the Breeze Unit parking lot and then across the bridge over the roaring Colorado? Fred insisted the bridge was not there although Google Earth photos showed that it was there. (Anyone know if that's open to public use without gunfire?)  Or, would we take the parking lot just off RT 3 in Parshall and walk 1.0 miles to the Willie near the mouth.

We chose the latter.  Fred said, "It's just over that hill...." Then, "Damn. They've moved the river."

We did eventually arrive at the river to find it crystal clear under bright blue skies and running about 80 CFS at 42F. Perfect. It wasn't long before I had a nice brown (about 14in) on a pegged egg. Fred went on to the confluence with the Colorado just in case he could throw his streamer. 

     We leap frogged up the stream. Fred finally switching to dries when fish started to rise about 12:15 PM. I found a really nice looking spot that unfortunately seemed to have a dead brown lying in state off to the side. Damn. I hate to see that. Then I noticed that the clump of logs and brush it was lying against was actually a huge submerged elk, lying on its side with its rib cage torn open. Hmm. I'll bet that was an interesting story. Neither seemed to me to have been dead very long.

     There was a brown feeding just off the far bank which fell to my powers of persuasion on a size 18 caddis emerger.

     Just upstream of this rock was another brown taking blue winged olives from the surface. This one launched a monster take of my size 16 parachute adams which I was using as an indicator fly. Scared the s..t out of me.

     I stopped to eat my ham and cheese tortilla wrap and a couple malted milk balls and then snuck up on a likely looking pool behind a big rock. I was concentrating on my drift when WHOOSH! What sounded like a 2,000 pound moose hit the water just to my left. 

     "JEEZE!!!" I gasped and fell backwards a couple steps. I looked to the left and a 50 pound adult beaver was madly clawing at the bank from which he must have slipped when I broke his concentration. He frantically started swimming around the edges of the pool toward me and passed about 3 feet as he disappeared under an overhanding rock. My heart rate was 180, which if you know me, is clearly impossible. 

      Later I recounted it to Fred who was only mildly impressed since I didn't actually have a hookup with the beaver. 

      I asked Fred about the dead trout and he said he'd pulled it out and put it on the bank. 

      I asked him what he thought of the dead elk next to it and he said, "What dead elk?" 

     That's the wondrous thing about fly fishing in these wild places. Something unusual always happens and we all experience it differently. 

      Here's another release sequence. Doesn't it make you just feel good all over?

To boldly fish where no one has every fished a fly before.

As Francesca, my young grand daughter, said,"That's preposterous!"

If homo sapiens have been around for at least 250,000 years, it is clearly impossible to find a place to fish with:

• No other human footprint, no fishermen's trail, candy wrappers, cigar butts, Coors cans, McDonalds cups, pieces of auto grill, tree tippet, or

• Is not in "Flyfisher's guide to ______", "Fifty Places to Fish before You Die", " FishB4UFly blog", Field and Stream, Midcurrent, The Drake, Trout, or Scott Willoughby's Denver Post Column, or 

• Isn't on private property owned by a crotchety old miser that hates fly casters.

But these two intrepid explorers of the aquatic unknown stumbled upon just such a spot; so pristine, so untouched, and so unlikely, that their lives have been changed forever.

The explorers pictured under the wing of their flyship,  Enterwater, about to set out on another adventure of a lifetime. John (L), Fred (R)

   The adventure started out under ominous skies but within seconds Fred was into fish on a sparkle wooly bugger. John, more the purist, methodically progressed through his sequence of flies according to a scientific protocol based on what was left in his fly box. He was soon into fish also but Fred was definitely ahead 3 to 1. But who's counting. This is not a competitive sport. Right?
    At the lunch break, the clouds remained threatening but were holding off. Fred was exuberant about "the best day ever." He'd caught and released about 30 browns, the largest a nice healthy 15 incher, all on his streamers.
   "My streamer got so gnarled that I had to replace it three times," he gushed. There was a massive trico hatch but only two fish broke the surface and dry flies were being ignored. Emergers were working for John. 
     The intrepid explorers found that they were not alone. Other fly fishers drifted into and out of the parking lot port-a-potty. All reported slim catches, or were lying through their teeth. One pair of anglers noted, "We stopped upstream but the river was chocolate. We saw heavy equipment in the stream. Someone is really screwing up this fishery."
     Fred and John had seen no discoloration. Strange. 
     After lunch they wandered downstream for more streamer action for Fred and finally some goddard caddis dry fly activity for John. Fifty fish had now been released by the pair, but who's counting. Rain pelted down as the skies darkened along with the mood of the one now soaked unprepared angler explorer.

Huddling back in the flyship during the downpour, John snapped this photo of what looked to the eye like a black caddis but that the iPhone rendered as a green caddis. Strange.

      Fred insisted on checking out the report of muddy water upstream and sure enough it was indeed milk chocolate colored.
     "Well damn," said Fred. "It looks like our fishing day is over. And it was going so well." 
     They stayed suited up hoping for just one more walk into aquatic space. Sure enough, after driving just a 1/4 mile upstream, John shouted, "Fred! Stop. That water looks clear."
     Fred slammed on the reverse thrusters, pulled a 4 wheeled u-ie, and slid into an empty parking lot. We could see yellow tractors slowly clanking to a stop upstream away from the river. It was 4:00PM.
     Making our way up the river we noted plenty of recent construction activity, with piles of fresh gravel, fill, sod placement, construction stakes, and freshly crushed grass. But we also saw finely sculpted pools, glides, and riffles amid log drops and deep rock clusters. 
     "Fred, this looks like a Disney World of trout habitat," John said. 
     They walked upstream the required 100 yards from the parking lot, hoping to get beyond the area were, conventional wisdom has it, 89% of fly fishers never pass. Immediately Fred had five hits on five casts. John leap-frogged upstream ahead of him and had a similar experience. 
     Along the banks there were no foot prints in the fresh gravel. There was no fishermen's trail just off the bank. There was no trash in the river or on the bank. As they continued upstream they noticed fresh chunks of timber floating in some backwaters obviously knocked off the construction timbers by the heavy equipment that was now at rest.
     John shouted back to Fred. "I think they just finished this rehab project an hour ago. Look at the cleat tracks on the bank. These construction stakes and drop logs are  all freshly cut."

     "These fish are just now moving into the new habitat," he hollered back.

     Exploring the unknown we had happened on the creation of a new world. What was moments ago a construction site, was become a natural environment as we watched. Cased caddis were drifting down into an area that an hour ago held compact track Caterpillars. Trout spooked by massive mud disturbances were swimming upstream toward clear water and finding new and wondrous habitat. Swallows that had avoided the area for weeks were once again swooping low over the water to pluck hatching yellow sallies and green caddis. And then the intrepid fly fishers had simultaneously appeared to complete the ecology of the area. Doesn't it make you tear up? 

     Just when things could not get any stranger, John noticed a swallow thrashing in midcurrent. 

     "What in the world is going on there?" he said. As he mended his drift, he noticed that the swallow mended also. As he retrieved his yellow sallie dry with a RS2 dropper he noticed that the swallow followed.

     "Oh no, I've got a bird to release."

Two new fishers collide while enjoying the new fly fishing habitat. The intrepid gloved humanoid, in it for the fish, and the startled swallow, in it for the fly.

     Before this exploration we had no idea an aquatic habitat enhancement was going on here. We only knew it as an uninteresting State Wildlife area. But now we know this will be a great  habitat for trout, aquatic insects, fly fishers and swallows. We believe that it will rival the existing gold medal waters. Our lives have been changed by Colorado Parks & Wildlife.

To find out the location, sign up to follow this blog or buy one of my fly fishing eBooks at loghouse.com/books
Then email me and I'll probably send you the location after you are properly vetted.

Here's what Scott Willoughby thought about this adventure as he shared it with me two days later:

'New' fishing water an almost instant result of stream repairs - By Scott Willoughby
The Denver Post

Teach the dog to Tie.

Tying some up.

I turn my back for one minute and Rua, the in-house Rhodesian Ridgeback tries to tie her own flies. Apparently she loves the chartreuse bucktail.  Her tying session was not all that successful, but every 5 years or so, I really should thin out the decades of feathers and hair that I haven't used and never will. 

     Back on track, I tied some Goddard Caddis using a video from  MidCurrent, http://midcurrent.com/videos/fly-tying/. A dab of zap-a-gap certainly simplified this complex fly. They also had a caddis emerger pattern but it called for New Zealand white wool. I guess Rua ate it, so I substituted z-ylon.

On to the Arkansas.

Ned convinced me to try upstream of Vallie Bridge on the Arkansas. 

You've always got to share the Arkansas. Rafters, fly fishers, campers, Christos  Over-The-River  (hope not), and apparently horse.

The Arkansas is fishing very, very well this year. Thanks to a mild runoff and lots of bugs last year, and a long sustained runoff this year, the fish are large, healthy, and hungry. 

Later  in a side channel above Wellsville Bridge I found this little pocket on the left,

seam in the middle,

and shelf on the right.

I couldn't seem to do anything wrong. They loved the Goddard Caddis. I caught the rainbow below, clicked and released it, flicked my fly into the water to get ready to cast and wham! This brown decided to take the caddis emerger for the first time today.

 Catch 

This net filling rainbow appears to have had a luck encounter with an eagle that just missed the mark by grabbing to far near the tail. That's why we all call it fishing.

And Release

This is my favorite part of fly fishing. The gentle below the water , stress free release.  The brown just wanders out and moseys off.

 

What worked.

The Goddard Caddis was the winner today but only after I switched to 4x. The monster takes by these large Arkansas browns broke me off before I could even set a hook. After three of these I finally changed. I'm a slow learner. 

Early quest for high mountain cutthroats, boletus edulis mushrooms and exotic brook trout.

     I know, I know. It's still early in the year above 8,000 feet. But I have these 4 tents to test for Field and Stream magazine and a vision in my head of finding little pockets and slow water along the banks of the St. Vrain near my campsite where a pot of coffee is warming, just like John Gerach.
    Am I blessed or cursed with these fly fishing visions of high mountain streams and camping near them. When I read the Rocky Mountain National Park backcountry camping guide, the vision gets a little murky. Those wilderness camping sites are in specific numbered spots arrayed between 30 minutes and a couple hours of hiking. The 1.5 hour forced march, hauling a backpack with boots, waders, lunch, water and a fly rod to Spruce Lake was just marginally doable. Hiking even that distance with the additional tent, bear proof container w/food, sleeping bag and pad, and water filtration equipment would ruin my fishing day. I now have to modify my dream to camp in a driveup camp ground, get early booking on the camp site closest to the trail head, or lease some pack animals. Just like all dreams, reality has a way of mucking it up.
    Here's what happened. Bottom line.. no boletus yet. Middle St Vrain was too high to find the nice soft spots behind rocks and along banks. Only unknown creek out of Rainbow Lakes was charming with a couple of nice brook trout on a dry tricho. There's an interesting story about a lost and then found 12 year old to go with that adventure for a later blog post.

A 26in Rainbow on a 5Wt with 5x on a size 20 Blackbeauty? Or Two?

What do you get when you mix light weight tackle, tiny flies, nasty weather, and a huge Gore Canyon Colorado Rainbow? or Two. 

A. A very tense, adrenaline pumping, terrifying, rod bending, backing pulling, totally absorbing, bicep exhausting, reel spinning, live connection with a vigorous wild fish.

Winter Fishing in Colorado

Winter Fly Fishing 40 minutes from Denver Colorado

If you want this kind of experience, you have to make your way on a less traveled path. The fish are smaller, the hiking is tougher, the roads are dirt, but the outdoor experience is breathtaking. 

A day after the foothills near Denver got a foot of snow I headed up Coal Creek Canyon Road (RT 72), turned right on Crescent Drive, then right on Gross Dam road (dirt) to an unplowed pulloff just past Gross Dam. 

 Down a couple hundred feet on a trail, carefully avoiding the cougars to South Boulder Creek that was running at a respectable 106 cfs for the past 10 days. Water temperature was 40 degrees at 1:00PM.  I dropped a bead egg below a pheasant tail and worked the far side of this pool slow and deep.

A little patience and this nice rainbow fell for the egg.

 

Striking when the trout hits the egg will pull the barbless size 20 hook into a nice spot even a studded goth chick wouldn't mind. 

 A little while later, in the same pool, this rainbow also chose to ignore the pheasant tail and went after the egg. Both hook-ups were very clean outside the jaw, as predicted by Clint Packo who taught us how to rig this egg pattern.  It's not easy to entice trout at 40 degrees but the quiet beauty of a healthy Colorado stream in the winter is reward enough.

Return to Pinecliffe

November 7, 2012

I need a photo to go along with a piece I'm targeting to The Drake entitled, "The Tunnel. World Class photographer Randall Paeztold of Carp Slam and Skylark Lounge fame who has a similar goal of getting something published in The Drake, and of fishing in interesting places came along with his gear. (UPDATE !!. It was accepted and published in The Drake Winter 2012-13, pg 58. Get a copy at your flyshop.) 

I had carefully carefully calculated the time to the second that the California Zephr would be  passing through the S. Boulder Creek Canyon above Gross Reservoir using the related rate algebra necessary on college board exams. (You remember, "If Ohmar left Casablaca at 6:00 AM on a camel traveling east at 4.25 mph, and Eloise left Mumbai at the same time, traveling west on the Concorde at mach 1.2, where could they have lunch?" ) The East Bound California Zephr leaves Glennwood Springs around noon and the West Bound California Zephr leaves Denver at 8:06AM. 

Randall carefully set up the shot with the sun exploding behind the mountain, the bridge where the train would appear slashed across the frame, and me stealthily casting into the stream in the lower third of the frame. Of course the California Zephr did not appear on schedule. This isn't Austria you know. Amtrack passenger schedules should be considered suggestions. America is a vast country with unknown dangers and events destine to destroy a departure time. 

I fished that hole another 20 minutes, very much against my practice of 4 good drifts and move on, and eventually hooked a nice rainbow that struck my miracle midge out of desperation. 

No sooner did we move on than, by the law of event photography, the Zephr appeared. 

Back to fishing. Randall used his best stealthy techniques and a hook cast to present a red copper john.

Always prepared he's sitting on a railroad tie he brought along in case he'd have to fight off a cougar to claim his catch. Before his release of course.

 On the way back to the car we encountered what I believe is a reddish brown caddis. Next time I'll bring a couple of these tied in matching elk hair.