I wrote this a while back, and thought that I'd save it for future reference, possibly have someone read it and gain an understanding of me. That said, it's totally and completely selfish that I start this with it, because I really don't want to lose out on the lessons that I learned that day.
As many here know, I'm a tried and true trout bum. I'd walk a mile uphill in golfball sized hail to throw a dry fly at the one fish in ten miles of water that had even shown an inkling of an inclination to eat. I live it, ok, maybe not dry flies all the time, but trout? It's as though it is deeply ingrained in every part of my soul, part of who I am, part of any sort of "legacy" that I might leave. It's that important to me. More appropriately, it's something that I feel I owe it to those before me to pass on. Just the way it is I suppose...
I had the opportunity this past month to take two people out, one of whom had never trout fished on moving water, and the other hadn't fished in some time. It was a learning experience for me, in several ways. Number one, I never did take beginners when I was guiding, most had at least seen a fly rod before, some might have even cast once or twice. Typically, though, I was in a situation that was pretty easy to manage. I did what I needed to do in order to put these semi-capable to capable people on fish, the rest was up to them. I didn't have to hold their hands, and I didn't have nurse them along the way. Not that I didn't untie windknots, un-tangle countless leaders and watch people break off fish that would have made me cry; because I did. That, too, was part of the gig.
Anyhow, I was having an excellent time fishing for three days prior to running into anyone but an old man and his dog. It was actually a pretty neat setting, the old man was likely not in the best shape to wade the river I was on, and the dog knew it. I'd move upriver a bit and the dog would start barking. He'd just start cutting loose. eventually the man would move up a bit, the dog could see me again, and would then quit. It took me a while to figure it out, but eventually I did. At that point, I moved a little closer down to the old guy, sort of let him catch up to me. I can truly say that I understand what bridging the gap means now. We had nearly 100 years experience fishing moving water between us, his more than double mine. Yet, the only fishing guide on the water that day was the dog. We sat and talked for quite a while that afternoon as the caddis started to come off. The old gent would amble his way up to a nice little run, and manage a superbly technical little drift, surprising even himself sometimes. We'd take turns casting to rising fish, he hooked the better part of them, I landed most of his fish for him. I got the sense that if anyone ever needed his hand held in my boat, or on my beat, this guy was there to do it, and it was probably at the point I needed my hand held. Funny how that works out, isn't it?
Fast forward a couple days to taking two guys that haven't really fished, let alone fished with me. There are a couple guys here that have fished cold water with me enough to know just how thorough I fish. I'm pretty sure that one would say I'm nearly infuriating when it comes to fishing a run. That's just the way I am; I also expect those who fish with me to be in the same state of mind. I don't expect perfection, because I'm far from it, but you'd better give it your best effort.
So here we are on a private piece of water in CO that is known for producing the odd brown to 25 and rainbows in the 20's with regularity. I've got the right patterns out, the bugs are coming off; not a fish is to be found. The further we walk on this section, the more milky the water becomes, and the more yellow-green tint it has to it. given this particular river's proximity to a rather well known mine that has even more well known problems containing its tailing pollution it was as though something shattered in my head. (Again, one person has seen me change from happy to deep-set anxiety when it comes to MY trout water.) I was replaying a moment in my head from earlier in the year when a favorite, and unique, stretch of water was just...gone. I didn't know what to do, how to do it, or what to do it with. No one had told me anything about it, not even mentioned it. I felt really bad for the guys that I had with me, but I was even more angry at the fact that the river in this stretch was the proverbial dead-zone. Yes, there were bugs; not a trout was to be found, however.
I was then reminded of what the dog's person said to me on the river a few days before, "Where you fish and what you catch doesn't really matter. So long as you've enjoyed the company of your misery that day." It was like he had just thumped me over the top of my head with museum piece of a Payne Parabolic that was older than I was, and had surely seen more trout. It was my fishing epiphany; if you will.
The guys didn't quite understand it, and were a little frustrated by not seeing fish, so we decided to move out. We packed up, and headed back over the pass to a little creek I know filled with Cutts and Brookies to spend the time on. Everyone knows that both of those species will eat dries all day long, as long as they're reasonably close to what they're eating in the first place. We sidled up to this little creek, I left my rod in the truck, and proceeded to try to give these two the best morning of dry-fly fishing that they'd ever had. (Granted that isn't saying much but work with me.) Both guys caught trout after trout, hand over fist the rest of the morning. They both also caught natives, which was a rare feat. I'd had as much fun, maybe more, as if I were fishing myself.
The afternoon's first stop was at about 10:30 in the morning. We grabbed a fast, albeit early, lunch then headed out to the next little creek. I'd only been on this creek a half dozen times, and it's been a while, so I didn't know what to expect. Man was I glad that we did. The first stretch of water is listed as Gold Medal, and from what I saw 40' above the river I was completely understanding of why it was. I counted at least a dozen fish lazing, sipping bugs off the surface. I couldn't have been happier to be in that place at that time, given the first experience of the day.
It wasn't long, though, until tragedy struck once again. I'd just received my favorite little cane dry fly rod back from the guy that had just gotten done fixing it; I'd gotten it three days before I left for this trip. The first fish that I hooked cleanly popped the tip section. I was sad for about three minutes, but only because I knew that he was going to kill me; he doesn't like to see rods come back to him for repairs. I'm probably close the point of losing the privilege with this one, really.
I get the guys set, and trudge back up to the truck, string another rod, and get ready to head back down. In doing so, I see that both guys have hooked solid fish by now, one is in the 16" range. Granted that's not a huge fish, but on a 7'-6" 3/4 cane rod, it's a hoot. It's also cool to see a guy that hasn't really fished in over a decade, due to life circumstance, doing it. I'd nearly have been content to see these guys fishing; just to stand and watch. Nearly.
We fished out that section of river pretty hard, me with my trusty Superfine, they with a cane of mine and an 8' #4. It was easily the best day I've had on any stream in the past ten years. We all quit counting after thirty or so trout apiece, ranging from 6" to 21", with two bigger fish breaking off. The hatch had started to taper off at this point, and another guy and his 11 year old son came traipsing down the bank, right into the water, and right into my run. Five days previous to this, I'd likely have been screaming and shouting at him. Instead, I backed off, watched the kid struggling with what looked to be a size 6 hex, walked over, and handed them a few tan caddis. I made my way down to where the other two guys were figuring just how sore their arms, wrists, and backs were, and suggested we grab a beer before the evening PED's and caddis really started to crank up.
As I was walking away, I heard the distinct and definite sound of a young man latching into his first wild rainbow on a dry fly. 20 odd years ago, that was me, and probably why I was likely to disregard the father's behaviour.
That, or it was one very gentle old man and his dog. Two creatures that reminded me of just how great it is to have company on the river, even when nothing else need be said. I only hope that I run into him again and again; for years to come would be excellent, but probably unrealistic. If I never do see the man and his faithful dog again, I know that I got the better end of the meeting, and will treasure it for the next 50 years. Possibly then I'll be able to return that favour.
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