Fly-Fishing, Through the Eyes of a Dirtbag

Are these guys. I refuse, and I mean REFUSE to use 6X.

At least I can count on Aurora to jack the flows across the board throughout the entire summer to blow up the Dream Stream. With options being the Blue in Silverthorne (rather organize the sock drawer), below GMR (I’m not feeling that adventurous), it looks like the ‘rado is on deck. I’ll be sure to let you know how many people are wearing waders.

There have been several evenings that I have overheard men of distinction wearing expensive suits and smoking fine cigars, mention hidden streams and lakes where fish have grown to enormous size. These special habitats are not within the public domain and often times these men of distinction would try to impress one another with their stories of grandeur. Before long photo albums (or iPhones now) were pulled from their sheathes as these old rich guys brought out the real fire power. Obese trout being held awkwardly with shit eating grins and happy guides were seen over and over again. Their bellies would stretch over their pants and large sighs were heard as they showed picture after picture to their envious friends.

The photos usually sickened me, what was of interest however was how to get into these places, either legally or not. My first attempt was obviously of the illegal variety. Sneaking in under the cover of night I spent several hours fishing one of the most exclusive and expensive Colorado fishing reserves, with fantastic success. While I got my first taste of fly-fishing aristocracy, having to hide in the bushes as the night patrols roll by isn’t exactly relaxing. My journey continued as I looked for a more legal avenue to get into one of these awesome creations.

This weekend my opportunity presented itself. Nestled in the shadow of a 14,000 foot peak a private set of lakes, accessible only by a dozen or so homeowners was an opportunity I would not pass up. The lakes were small enough in size so that one might be able to cast to the middle from all shores and cover the entire lake without a boat.

They were also fairly deep in the middle, some approaching 20 feet so that the fish were able to survive the winter. The lakes were connected by a series of small streams that dumped into the next lake in the chain. The entire chain comprised some 7 small ponds that were home to a variety of rainbow, brown, and brook trout populations. Because they were all connected each lake had its own unique attributes. The lower lakes reached higher temperatures which produce different hatches than the upper lakes which are essentially cold high mountain alpine lakes. Regardless however, it wouldn’t be fishing without fish, and I went on the offensive trying to beat as many of them into submission as I could.

Find them I did and boy were they big. Each pond had approximately 20 brown trout in the 5-7 pound range and just as many rainbows in the heavyweight class (according to the caretaker). These bruisers had their choice of hors d’oeuvres every evening as countless smaller fish came crashing to the surface chasing damsel flies, mayflies, and caddis. While the smaller fish took the opportunity for easy meals, they did so at the cost of death. The larger fish had become almost completely carnivorous, devouring smaller fish in an instant, with the only evidence being a ring on the waters surface.

I took this opportunity to see if these fish had seen 4” long articulated sex dungeons, circus peanuts, boogie men, and about half a dozen of my own creations that look awful but have big hooks. After 60 foot double hauls with 4 ounce streamers I was rewarded by seeing fish chase my offerings from the depths. Often times the wake of water racing towards the shore was accompanied by a shudder that shook my rod straight to its Korean foundation. Once hooked these fish were furious. Taking you on runs that tested your drag, and into sub-surface structure that tested your luck. .

As with most things my experience ended before I thought it had begun. While it was a managed environment and many will say its not real fishing I will say this. The private management is no different than public management of fisheries, except that it is done more efficiently. Every lake in Colorado that people launch their 15′ Alumnacraft’s on has thousands of stocked fish every year. Many of these fish do not survive or worse yet, carry pathogens that infect the general population. There truly is no substitute for responsible fishery management in a modern world, especially one where the demand far outpaces the supply. It pains me to say that but it is true, just take a single look at any tailwater and you can deduce the importance of fisheries management.

When leaving I couldn’t help but envy those who can wake up and check the conditions on their deck over a cup of coffee. Those lucky enough to carve a piece of paradise for themselves should wake up everyday and feel fortunate. May the God(s) of fishing and/or life see it fit to bless me with these luxuries before I die.

My long awaited sabbatical from fishing is nearing an end. This weekend should prove to be fruitful as I have secured lodging near Salida and a few friends to share some driving duties. I am also happy to announce that I have booked my plane ticket back to the promised land for a mid September foray before I totally immerse myself in the Brown run.

I have contacted the previously mentioned Komrade Luna and convinced him to join me in this epic journey. Michael Gracie will also be joining us, but I will say I question his logic. When given the choice for an aisle or window the man took a window. Seriously, who does that on a 50 passenger commuter jet? Regardless, I’m looking forward to running him up and down mountains for several days. I’m bringing along bear spray and a defibrillator just in case. That being said several things are assured over the ensuing months.

1. I will catch lots of fish
2. Those closest to me will wonder where I’ve been
3. I will lose dozens of flies
4. I will lose less than 6 egg patterns
5. The man net will make a strong showing

First things first however. In my fishing absence I’ve organized my life and added a few arrows to the quiver so to speak. I managed to come across a Lamson Vanquish that I am going to be able to try out this weekend. Truly the Ferrari of reels (as it should be for $600), just putting this thing on my $150 rod made me feel more like a man. Do I need a conical drag system that boasts 3X more stopping power than other models? Absolutely not. Am I going to tell everyone that I see that my reel can do that. Of course. While this thing may have been designed for blue water I can only speculate as to the advantage it will give me while fighting sub 5 pound fish. With a reel like this you should really be able to lay the lumber to em’.

I am also ecstatic to tell everyone that I have finished construction on my new rod tubes. Since United Airlines makes a habit out of somehow breaking my rod tubes I have converted over to 100% PVC. If something can handle bathroom duty 24/7 I figure it can hold my rod.

I’ve also purchased 2 new lines (factory refurbished of course), some 4X, and a new pair of fingernail clippers. My greatest project however, might just be my new homemade fly boxes. Constructed with art bins from Hobby Lobby, some foam, glue, and an exacto knife they cost me less than $10 apiece and compare to the Bugger Beast which retails closer to $50. The tires are rotated on the truck, the oil has been changed, I’m ready for anything.

After months of intense preparation my girlfriend and I finally boarded our flight at DIA to venture to my homeland of Montana. There we would enjoy a nice week away from high-speed internet, iphones (damn-it), and other “annoyances”. While I was planning on fishing some of the nearby waters of my youth I stumbled upon what I call The Running of the Bulls. The trout fishing ended up being lackluster but we did manage to have quite a good time chasing around the Char species in some cold mountain lakes. The woman actually was the first to bring one in the boat.

I strung up her rod and gave her a few fleeting words of advice as she was looking over my fly selection. She picked a white streamer because she thought it would “work better” (it did). Her first cast was in the water and to my utter amazement after strip number two I heard a splash and her say, “I think I got one”. A large boil accompanied shortly thereafter with a strong run that took 30 feet of line got my attention. After a well fought battle I brought the fish to hand where I learned that this was in fact her first fish ever.

Needless to say this brought about a furious obsession for me that lasted the remainder of the trip.

While I spent the better part of four days trying everything I could to keep pace with my competitor girlfriend she managed to read a novel and catch a few more just

to remind me of my place in the animal kingdom. She did have enough of a soul to inform me that her father had given her some basic casting instruction as well as bored her to tears with fishing stories when she was a kid. She claimed she had some experience but I’m pretty sure she was just trying to make me feel better. If you need me I’ll be suffering alone in the basement.

I’ll be perfectly honest. I haven’t had the greatest days recently. It seems like my summer is having trouble getting started. The solution, of course, was to call up my friend Michael Gracie.

Gracie: “Where do you want to go?”
Me: “The Yampa”
Gracie: “Enough said…”

With that brief exchange of pleasantries we decided to depart on Friday after I dropped my lady friend off at the airport for a bachelorette party in Minnesota.

The Yampa is my cure-all, for some reason no matter what is going on I can always have a good day there and I needed it more than ever. Despite some traffic delays we

arrived at 7pm where I immediately realized that it was a good decision to make this drive. Instead of feeling content with an evening beat down I was hungry for a full day going after these fish.

The fish did not disappoint. On Saturday the God of Fishing saw it fit to shine glory upon me and I relished in the moment. We were attacked by swarms of PMD’s throughout the late morning that allowed us to get in some nice topwater action. By 3 o’clock we decided to give the fish and ourselves a rest. Afterall, my stomach was a little upset after a breakfast of mac n’ cheese. Beer would help that…

The following morning, nursing a mild hangover, I again made my deluxe breakfast and headed out to the stream. It was another day that wouldn’t be soon forgotten. I was able to fish my PMD cripples and Gracie even got a number of fish to indulge themselves on his favorite pattern, “Beav’s Better Buckskin”. The slump is over, the world has righted itself and I am a new man. The only bad news is that I forgot to pick the girlfriend up from the airport. It happens…