Skunked in Solitude or Catch in a Crowd

Skunked in Solitude or Catch in a Crowd

     In a place like Cheesman Canyon catching and releasing a nice trout almost seems an afterthought. The boulder filled, pine lined canyon is a photographers, hikers and fly anglers dream. I've fished this canyon in every season and have always been astounded by it's awesome beauty. 

     Brad on the other had fished it once. He laid down the criteria for a good day as "not being skunked","hooking big fish", and "no crowds." He only fishes on weekends so the "no crowds but less than 2 hours away" rule limits us to difficult places to reach.

     In Cheesman Canyon and along the Deckers stretch downstream, a fly angler has to make the choice of risking a skunk in solitude by trekking far from the parking lot or fishing in close proximity to others and catching and releasing smaller more plentiful fish with a short trek. 

     I know there are nice sized fish in Cheesman Canyon and if you're willing to hike an hour, the solitude should be good, even on a Sunday. 

     Guide Pat Dorsey's Blue Quill Angler's stream report gave us fair warning;

                 "Currently, fishing is fair in Cheesman Canyon. Low flows are producing tough, yet rewarding fishing, for those anglers who like to work hard for a few fish." 

      I'd fished with Pat and Fred Miller this summer so I was sure I could show Brad the same places, using the same flies, and certainly catch some of same nice fish (larger now of course). WRONG. If I'd asked Pat what I did wrong I know he'd say; "You fished the same flies and places." Actually, I couldn't even find the same places the flow was so low. Nothing looked the same. 

     

We did however spot some nice fish. But getting a fly to them without spooking them in this shallow water was nearly impossible. We were of course careful to stay out of redds and not interfere with the brown trout spawn.  

     See if you can spot the brown in this video. Can't spot it? Maybe that'w why you don't catch many fish in Cheesman Canyon. Keep looking. It is clearly there.

     Pat Dorsey reported that, "Anglers can expect to see a good a.m. midge hatch, followed by a sporadic blue-winged olive hatch mid day (1-3 pm.)." We did indeed see a good midge hatch and a very steady  bwo hatch from 11:30 to 12:30. Brad switched to dry fly bwo imitations and hooked two nice fish briefly (under the 8 second requirement to count as a Trout Unlimited in-stream release.) I stuck with a pegged egg and foam backed size 20 emerger and hooked one for even a shorter period deep in a cut below a boulder. 

     As we trudged back along the Gill Trail, (thank you very much Cutthroat Chapter of TU) we soon encountered an increasing density of anglers. Observing them from high above on the canyon trail out, some obviously knew what they were doing but did not seem to be hooking up, and some obviously did not but weren't hooking up either. 

     "Well Brad," I said, "You can't argue with the great solitude we enjoyed. I didn't see another angler all day."

     "True," he said. "But I hate getting  skunked."

Detailed instruction on how to get here,  fish this water, and get back to the airport or a Bronco's game can be found in my eBook guide:

"Fish Before You Fly, Denver's Cheesman Canyon." 

   

Red Drum - Black Drum.. It's not just about the oysters.

Acme Oyster House - $1.35 local.

New Orleans for fresh oysters is reason enough. But a focus on food must change to an intense eye straining focus on the marsh water as three well dressed Denver Trout Unlimited fly casters take on the Mississippi Delta where the Denver South Platte river water mingles at last with salt water.

Peche and Cochon two more reason for New Orleans.

Acme Oyster House - Grilled Oysters w/Parmesan

The real reason for New Orleans is powering out into the delta to find Redfish preying on mullet.

After a two hour ride in Capt'n Greg's new pickup to the Cypress Cove Marina, Fred gets the first solo shot with Greg while Nick "volunteers" to guide newbie John and experience Redfish hunter Ned out into the West Bay.

 I'm fishing an eight weight Orvis rod and a weight forward saltwater line, although wisdom on the boat thinks my drag is not strong enough.

Capt'n Nick has tied on a bright chartreuse streamer to help counteract the overcast weather and lack of sun.

 We head out into the West Bay looking for birds, chasing bait fish, and surely the Redfish will be nearby.

 Oil and gas deposits lie under the marshes. The delta has been extensively exploited but the pumping and processing activities are largely unheard and invisible except for the occasional christmas tree valve cluster, loading depot, and gas burn off stack.

After a half hour or so we cruise into a marsh and Capt'n Nick kills the outboard, drops in the trolling motor and mounts the lookout/poling pulpit to spot Redfish and complain about the overcast sky.

Fred's as concentrated on the water in Capt'n Greg's boat, miles away, doing the same thing. The two boats are in constant cell phone contact. "I actually don't know where the hell I am."

Fred's ready.

Who can keep tight loops all the time.

Put it there. THERE. DROP IT. DROP IT. aww shit.

From the fresh perspective only available to someone who has never fished in the delta before this is what Redfish fishing seemed to be:

1. A harrowing, bone crushing, fiberglass stressing pounding through light chop at 38 mph in an open boat to a salt marsh cove that looks exactly like the 34 coves we passed on our 40 minute trip.

2. Silent drifting along the marsh reeds while standing on the bow pulpit or sitting down in the cockpit praying not to get hooked during your partner's cast.

3. After 30 minutes of missed opportunities and constructive criticism, powering for another 1/2 hour to another identical spot and doing it all over.

4. Panic on the pulpit as you try to overcome the excitement generated by the Capt'n as he spots a Redfish coming right at you but can't seem to scream the direction, distance or speed in a way you can understand. Finally you just cast and hope for the best which of course turns out to be the worst; in the wrong direction, "NO YOUR OTHER RIGHT",  wrong distance, "10 YARDS, NOT 10 FEET", and stripped with the wrong speed, "AHEAD OF HIM, NOT BEHIND HIM!"

Missed it. Move on past an oil dock.

Move on. 

New fly. This time put it on his nose. 

They're in here somewhere.

Will Fred's immaculate new shoes impact his chances? Only if they're standing on his free loops.

But finally, as they say, even a blind monkey will find the banana.

 FISH ON. 

As I concentrate on keeping tension on the line after the strip strike, I notice that free line is wrapped around the reel seat, so I trap the fly line to the rod with my gloved finger while I feverishly try to unwrap it. 

SNAP. 

The Redfish has turned and started his run, just as I've trapped the line. "Well DAMN." After two of these ballets, Capt'n Greg pulls out a leader spool, hold it up for me to see and says, "Can you read this?"

"50 lbs," I ask? 

"Right. Let's see if you can snap this."

 We are into a huge pod of Redfish and mullet. And it is not long before I get all the acts together and 

Fish ON!

20 minutes later.

 After a dozen runs pulling line past my splice of extra backing, I work the Redfish closer to the boat.

Almost in.

When he decides to give up, Capt'n Greg just reaches over the side, loops his finger around his tail, cradles him under the chin with his other hand in lifts him into the boat. Miraculously, he stops moving and just freezes. What could be going through that Red Fish mind? These fish could be 15 or 20 years old. They are in healthy condition and spectacularly colorful.

Hello Redfish. Nice to have you aboard.

Small forward teeth but massive grinder teeth down his throat for crushing mollusks.

John's Red.

Fred's Red.

Ned's Red.

John's Black Drum.

When the skies clear and the sun comes out, it's obvious why these marshes have such allure. There seem to be possibilities everywhere.

Miles and miles of marsh.

Fishing with Black Velvet

2nd Cousin Lenny shares a dipper of spring water with John and Kathy in 1944

     The Northern Tier of Pennsylvania knows fishing and knows how to send off a fisherman after his last cast.

     If there's one thing that distinguishes the Northern Tier counties in Pennsylvania it's their independent spirit. My cousin Lenny was a good example. When he graduated from high school he cut the bondage cord that held him in unreasonable servitude on my mean grandfather's farm and moved with his mother to a small apartment in town. He was already working 2 jobs to achieve his independence and soon had three. He worked as a snow plow driver, assembly line worker, deliveryman, road crew, farmer, scout master, postmaster, meals-on-wheels driver as well as untold other occupations that I don't know about.

     That independence includes thought and action as well as economics. Lenny was never a slave to conventional wisdom and considered anyone who hadn't figured out what was going on for themselves a damn fool. His actions were always based on doing the right thing even if it was harder, took more energy, or appeared unconventional. When his wife developed Alzheimer's, he told me, "People are afraid to come around Elaine anymore. Hell she hasn't recognized me for a couple years but that doesn't mean she doesn't need and enjoy a good conversation about the weather, TV, the garden, or how's she feeling."

     After the "non-memorial" service at the church where he was a member for 40 years, we were all invited to an informal coffee and cake gathering. Many of the conversations about Lenny seemed to involve fishing trips mostly to Canada and all with some Black Velvet along for comfort. 

     At a gravesite service for just the family, the soon to be ordained minister serving Lenny's church as well as 3 others, intoned the required platitudes and scriptures and then folded his hands and bowed his head for a moment of silence, at which point his daughter Brenda said, "We're not done yet!" Her son when back to the van and returned with a cooler of Coors, a bag of shot glasses, and a bottle of Black Velvet, Special Reserve. We raised a final toast to Lenny and all his fishing trips and good deeds and chased it down with the Coors. 

     Now that's a Northern Tier send-off for a fine guy who knew how to live, how to work, and how to  fish.

Jim, John, Patty, Brenda - Notice the Coors and shot glass next to the ash box.