This part one of a serialized account of a trip my wife and I took to Colorado & Wyoming earlier this summer. I will release subsequent editions over the next few weeks. Part Two
Back in late June, Colleen and I flew to Colorado for a good friend’s wedding. My friend is a fly-fishermen, and his bride is an avid hiker, and they made the brilliant choice to get married in Fraser, Colorado, 90 minutes west of Denver at the Devils Thumb Ranch. Being that it was near to the 4th of July, we decided to make a road trip out of it and continue onto Jackson Hole, Wyoming for the holiday.
Renting an economy clown car for a week was expensive, so we did the millennial thing and used an app called Turo to rent Sergei’s 10-year old Saab for half of what Enterprise wanted to put us in a Kia Rio. Turbocharged Swedish luxury has us at the ranch in time to swig a few brain-grenades before the rehearsal dinner. I met up with my parents after dinner and my dad excitedly told me that we were nixing tomorrow’s plans to fish the public section of the Fraser River, and had instead hired a guide on the private Ranch Creek.
Saturday morning came, and I threw on my Chacos and fly vest and quietly slipped out the lodge holyshitit’sfreezingcold to meet our guide. He was impressed with our punctuality and we got a timely start on the hike to the lower section of the creek. Once we passed the formalities of who’s who and whatnot, we began to discuss fishing. It was early, I was cold and a little hungover, but I knew it was coming Five four three two one, – “Have you ever heard of this fly called a Condor?” My dad, the man who curated my passion for fly fishing and to whom I owe so much, my dad picks flies with a mocking disdain for tradition and process. It would be easier to dismiss his avant-garde choices if they didn’t work, but they do.
<<Flashback – Madison River, Ennis, Montana, July 2002. Counselor Jenkins sneers at a size 16 green drake and instead ties on a 5” lead-headed double bunny that looks like the backyard moles that the family cat used to kill. The guide, Brad Pitt’s casting double in A River Runs Through It, rolls his eyes, but the brown trout do not. They come over the gunnels of the clackacraft in waves, and one of them even spits out some rabbit fur before returning to the stream (reminder- this is all true). >>
The Condor is a dragonfly or damselfly imitation, designed in Virginia for smallmouth fishing, but my dad has found that the trout like it too. He cannot have a trout-fishing conversation without bringing it up, and it is his default fly on any water – Mossy Creek when nary a damselfly can be found, Soda Butte Creek during a thick caddis hatch, a certain springtime tournament on the Rose River when it’s 45 degrees and everyone else is fishing streamers. We have four hours on a private Colorado stream with a guide, and my dad wants to start the day with a creature that was probably an extra in a Harry Potter film. Surely our guide will gently suggest a pale morning dun emerger. *Guide examines fly* “The trout here like the damselflies. This is a little big, but I like where your head is at. I’ve got a similar, but smaller pattern that should work well.” OMG he approves. Dad is glowing as he trots off to the first riffle, vindicated by the expert.
I began with a double dry – caddis & adams. <<Flashback – I suddenly realized I haven’t truly dry-fly fished since August 2009, South Fork of the Snake River – Palisades, Idaho. I absolutely blew it that day. Wanting to impress my new girlfriend in the stern of the drift boat, I proceeded to miss every rise that day, striking way too soon, while she landed several respectable trout, even after falling out of the drift boat and soaking her new designer jeans.>> What the fuck is mending? This fly is tiny, where did it go? How is a 15 foot cast this hard? Fly fishing was easy when you watch the bobber & nymph float by or when you strip a wooly bugger through a deep pool.
I continued to hear Condor, Esq. gleefully announce his hookups while I dragged my flies back and forth across the creek. The guide switched me to the blue damselfly and led me to a beautiful riffle where I could see trout rising. Remembering my hair-trigger reaction that wrecked me on the South Fork, I vowed to keep calm and set the hook slow. Cast. Mend. Rise. Gulp. God Save the Queen. Strip, strike. I worked my way up the riffle through five different eats, all misses.
Guide – “You need to set the hook sooner”
I don’t remember how it turned on for me, but it finally did. Casts began to land right on target. Mends were setting up good drifts. I finally connected on a rise, and put a fish in the net. My frustration faded and my competitive streak took over. My fish count began to eek towards my dad’s already impressive tally. We leapfrogged upstream through the cutbanks, pools, and riffles, fooling at least 30 brown trout in the 10-15” range. He had me on numbers, but I landed the biggest fish.
We ran out of time, and I had to go join the wedding party to get ready for the evening. It was a wonderful celebration of two people I care for deeply, and as I drifted off to sleep that night with the room spinning, I was certain that life is good.
