Did you ever forget your fishing rod...twice?

South Platte River, Cheesman Canyon, Colorado
Arrived at the river at 0800 this morning.  19 degrees on its way to the upper thirties.  Clear.

Since I was first in the parking lot and I knew it would take some time for the water to warm up, I drove down the canyon a bit to get my bearings to this new area.  Then, I geared up and began walking the snow packed Gill Trail toward the river for about 10 minutes.  The hike up the south side of the mountain got slippy in my wading boots, so I returned to the truck to put on my hiking boots.  In the parking lot now was another guy and we traded small talk.  After gearing up again, wading boots in hand, I started out once more and glanced over my shoulder at the other guy and noticed he was stringing his rod.  Then the thought occurred to me...I had better take my rod, as well!  Who knows how far I would have gotten if I had not turned around for my hiking boots.

After hiking through a pine forest up the side of Cheesman Mountain, 15 minutes later I was at the top looking down at the canyon, where I could hear the river.  Over the next mile I crept along the side of the canyon, hearing the roar of the river below and catching sight of it in bits and pieces as I moved on.  The dirt path took me past boulders, sage grass, and pine trees for a bit more and then I saw a nice spot from 300 feet above.  Nice vantage point from which to plan the hunt.

Down over the hill, walking stream side now, I saw a nice fish in a foot of smooth water.  I changed boots, sneaked in the water, and proceeded to put the fish down quite quickly after a few casts.

Around 1100, after messing around the run for a bit, getting used to the river, and straining to see my small indicator I decided to put on a larger indicator to get a better sense of my drifts.  I cast into a slot that fed a deep hole and immediately hooked and landed a nice 14" brown on a #22/24 black bead head thread nymph.  He fought nicely with a jump or two thrown in for special effect.  He was a nice colored fish, with a bright, butter-yellow belly, sharp white fin edges, and pointed red spots on his side.

I caught a bird, too, who somehow got tangled in my leader as it fell on the rock on which he sat.  After pulling him from the air I untangled and released him.  A bald eagle flew over me on his way down stream.  Boulders the size of large houses in the stream.   

A few midges popped at 1:00 but no risers.  No one seemed to be catching anything.  It was as advertised...crowded.   Guys we in nearly every nice looking spot and when I got back to the parking lot there were about 30 vehicles there.  This is a Monday, MLK holiday....I likely will not visit it on a weekend.  Clear water with flow at around 200cfs.

Pics below.

South Platte River in Cheesman Canyon

Path to Cheesman/South Platte

Cowboys Along the Freeway

Not really a fishing post, but kind of outdoors related and something to ponder over a bourbon.  A little Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance for my friend Steve. 

So I was driving home from work today and saw some cowboys.  Real ones, not dude ranch cowboys or those from Dallas.  Only for a few seconds did I see them as I zipped by at 60 mph.  They were herding some Black Angus that I had been seeing in the fields for a few days now.  Maybe five cowboys with black brimmed hats, leather gloves, exhaling steam with every breath, mounted proudly on beautiful chestnut brown horses.

I saw them and a few things struck me.

First, the contrast.   Looking one direction, they looked perfectly in place, with the front range of the Rocky Mountains behind them in the distance, the expansive fields underneath them, forging through the elements, carrying forth at a slow but steady pace.  All that romantic stuff.  Looking the other way, I saw them 20 feet from a major freeway carrying the hustle and bustle of those of us commuting from our offices to suburban homes, insulated in our cars, quickly trying to accomplish one more thing before the day ended.  Nightmarish stuff.  Quite interesting how two different creatures are living beside one another. 

So who is better off - One? the other? both? neither?  How are the unique things each contribute to our society similar or different?  Maybe its all in the frame of reference in which you chose to participate.

Oh yeah, the other thing that struck me?  Cowboys!  I really am in the west now, aren't I?

Winter Midge Magic

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jZ76l7xTUik&feature=player_embedded

In the thick of things

Today I spent a few hours in Rocky Mountain Anglers fly shop chatting with John Gierach, noted flyfishing author.  He was there to help pull in customers for a 50%-off-everything sale, since unfortunately RMA is up for sale after 11 yrs.  I talked with Robin, the owner, and for a cool 200 one could have the business, less the building, which includes the trademark, guide service, fixtures, and permits to Rocky Mtn National Park.   Anyone wanna to go halve-sies? :)

Its unfortunate, because this shop is more of a casual, cozy place than others and does not feel like a store.  Its the kind of place where you could stop in for an hour, have a cup of coffee, and sit around tying flies while shooting the shoot with the shop keepers and locals, and unexpectedly walk out with an invite to have a burger and beer for lunch, a meeting set up for on the river the next day, or nothing at all, and feel good about the time spent.

So John was there today, and a few locals, and we sat around a fly tying desk drinking coffee and talking fishing.  Every one seemed to know one another, pulled together by this common element of flyfishing.  Folks were casually talking about where they are going fishing tomorrow (its mid December and it has been in the teens last week!).  A typical break in the weather like we have now provides an opportunity to get out on the water.  Incentive to get myself organized.

I asked John and the others where I could take Stefan this summer.  They mentioned some local ponds full of panfish where A.K. Best (noted fly tier, flyfisher, and author) happens takes his grandkids.

I bought a few books and got John to sign them, and plan on donating one to my old Trout Unlimited chapter back in Chicago for their fundraisers.

Its nice to be in the thick of things, even if it's not out on the water.

Leaving Black Earth Creek

Black Earth Creek, Wisconsin, September, 2009


I fished Black Earth Creek today for what is likely the last time. I had not visited it for over ten years but it was all so familiar, for this is where I began my exploration of the wonderful southwest Wisconsin spring creeks. Known as the Driftless area because the ancient glaciers stopped short this region as they slid over other parts of the land, southwest Wisconsin is a wonderful collection of rolling hills, farmland and beautiful streams.


My exploration of the Driftless area began when I moved to the mid-west after college. Starting on Black Earth Creek, the Driftless area slowly taught me its nuances as I myself gradually drifted west and south over countless Wisconsin county-roads with names as simple as County Road A, or County Road TT.

Today I pulled off of Highway 14 onto South Valley Road and parked at the bridge near the farm with the red barn like I had so many other times before.  The rod I chose to use was not one of my many newer-technology rods that I had collected over the years but, instead, I reached for the same basic rod I used when I first fished this stream, my 8-foot Cortland that I also used through my teenage years in Pennsylvania. This rod provided me with three 18 inch browns on this stream within 20 minutes of each other at dusk one summer evening.  It allowed me to enjoy my first 20-plus inch fish on a nearby stream, hex hatches at midnight, and to cast my reliable weighted black wooly-bugger quite well.

On the surface, today was like all of the other days I had fished this region, but this time I was more observant of my surroundings than I was when I first fished it over 15 years ago.  Autumn had just pushed its first cool fingers into summer’s heat leaving the air dry, the tall weeds crunchy, and the crickets chirping at a rate somewhat slower than they would have in warmer months. The sun cast its comforting amber color across the landscape.  As I fished, I felt the subtle, fleeting moment when the day's warm, dry air turned over to the chilly, moist evening and quietly slid itself around my body. When I left the river at dark, Jupiter was rising brightly in the ink-blue south-east sky.

I have always been drawn to rivers.  I recall as a boy looking into a small “crick” near the neighbor's farm, its banks piled with thick, fresh snow as it passed quietly through a grey crab-apple thicket.  At that time I mentally noted that, on the surface, a river seems to look the same every time you look at it, yet it quietly and slowly changes underneath as its water is moves away as it continues its journey to unknown parts.  A good friend of mine once remarked, at the end of a long day fishing when I wanted to continue, that there is always another bend in the river.  I have referred to both of these thoughts often as I contemplated life over the years.

Another friend recently remarked to me that the southwest Wisconsin rivers are “precious."  Indeed they are. They are precious streams containing jewels of trout and so much more, all of which should be cherished for what it is.  They are the rolling southwest Wisconsin hills, the approachability of the landscape and its people, the wild turkey gobble, and the calf being born stream side.  They are both solitude and friendships.  They are wonderful things that I would not have known at the same level had I not experienced other far off streams and come back to this precious one a last time.

Black Earth Creek looked the same today as I stood peering into it from the bridge on South Valley Road, watching the emerald green weeds sway back and forth in the current wondering what was underneath.  I thought back about how things have changed since I first fished it. The exit off of Interstate 94 has grown, as predicted, with new building developments and road improvements.  Fifteen years ago, I had to travel nearly 30 minutes away to find a bank that would give me money charged to my credit card because there were no ATM machines.  Then, there were no cell phones interrupting the peace of mind, whereas today I always seem to be tethered to some distant place.  Then, the rivers were just a body of water on which to be challenged and I would fish from sun up to sun down, intent on catching as many fish as I could and often not stopping for lunch or drink.  Fifty fish days were at times the goal.  Some days I would drive over three hours from Chicago, fish until past dark and then drive back again all in the same day. Today I caught fish like I did then, but at the end of the day I had to really think about how many I caught, and now it really didn’t matter anyway.  Then, the river was not quite good enough and I wished I would find a better river.  Today, rather than rush into the river, I took my time stringing my rod and found walking to the stream as pleasant as fishing itself.  So much had changed in this river that looked the same.  

Today the river was a work of art that provided me with a meditative experience even though I was only on it for a few short hours.  As I stepped into the stream, slowly and cautiously, I felt 15 years of Driftless area stream teachings rushing at me at once.  The hatches today were almost constant with midges, blue-winged olives, and caddis fostering all types of rises - soft sipping trout, confident heads bobbing out of the water, and aggressive slashers.  This time I took the time to watch what was happening and patiently placed my casts.  At the end of the day I walked up the road to the red barn farm, put some money in the lock box on the table and took away 12 ears of corn. Self serve style. It was that simple.

Like the rivers, I have constantly been moving.  Over the years since those first, simple days on Black Earth Creek I have covered more water than others only dream of.  I found myself searching the  waters of New Zealand, Argentina, central Pennsylvania, western USA, England, Wales, Scotland, and Sweden.  Always casting, always looking, never really finding.   Now, coming back to where I once was, I finally felt I had found it.  It had been here in front of me all of the time and I never knew it.  It's that simple.

I leave to move to Colorado soon. The result of chasing after something else – career or personal yet to be determined.  I have the wonderful opportunity to learn about Western style flyfishing now, and indeed I am fortunate.  I am fortunate that I now know that I don’t need the latest equipment, to catch the most or largest trout, or to find the perfect river.  I know now that the experience is enough if you just let it be what it is.

It’s extremely difficult to say goodbye to a stream that's been part of your life for so long.  Its more difficult to say goodbye to the stream that taught you so much, sort of how to grow up, especially when what you learned was not realized until it was over.

October - Colorado

October 16, 2009
Big Thompson River, Rocky Mountain National Park, Colorado
I arrived to the Park today about 11:30 on a bluebird sky morning.
Temps reached into the low 70s. On the drive through the Park, I
passed by the moraine meadow, a vast valley, butterscotch yellow-brown
in color, cradled between giant ridges of dark green pines. Behind
those pines was another ridge of taller, snow capped mountains. In
the valley below were hundreds of elk grazing in the yellow morning light.

I parked at Cub Lake Trailhead and geared up my 4wt, walked
down the trial a hundred yards or so, crossed a footbridge, and cut upstream
into a rough trail that followed the river edge. About 40
yards up was a nice pool with some trout feeding on the surface near
an undercut bank of smooth water.

I eased into the gin clear water and cast a #18 parachute Adams dry
fly upstream. Within the hour I had landed about five browns and
brookies, including a nice 10-11 inch brookie and a few 12 inch browns
in bright spawning colors. Saw a handful of other fishers. Caught a
few more fish upstream and quit around 3:00.

On the way out, I pulled off the road at the meadow with all of the
tourists and watched the elk a few hundred yards away. One massive
6x7 bull loner was within 40 yards of the cars.

Stopped in at a friend's house on the way out and helped them set up for catching & banding some saw-whet owls. This entails putting lines of mist nets out, a recording of an owl, and then checking the nets every 15 minutes. Between warding off foxes we caught one owl after 8
o’clock. Brought him inside, took measurements and released him back into the night.


October 17, 2009
Boulder Creek, Colorado
Drove up Canyon road looking for a spot someone told me about. Missed
the spot and ended up driving more than 10 winding miles up the
mountain to Nederland which is elevated over 8000 feet. Turned around and
drove back down, found the spot and was in the water at 11:30.

It was a typical canyon stream - fast, rapid drops, choppy water, and
boulders. I tied on a #16 red Humpy dry fly and immediately caught a
small brown. As I worked my way up, a big mule deer ran across the
river and up the side of the mountain. She looked like a billy goat
scrambling up a nearly vertical mountain of stone. I caught about five
fish total, all but one on dries (the other was on the #18 bead head
pheasant tail dropper) and was out of the water at 12:45.

One of the amazing things about the day was that after fishing I was able to drive to my (temporary) home, eat lunch, pack, shower and be at the airport gate by 3:15pm. Two and a half
hours water to gate! Try that in Chicago.

July 3 2009 - Vermillion River - Matthieson State Park IL

Today started out by meeting Nigel, my boss from when I worked in Europe, and Steve, a friend I have known from Evanston since moving here over 15 yrs ago, on my street in Evanston at 5:30 a.m., instructing them to park on the west side to avoid parking tickets due to street cleaning, stopping at Starbuck's, and driving through the center of the third largest city in the US.

Two hours later we were entering the fringes of the America's Heartland as we drove past farms with corn and soybean fields spread far across the flat landscape. It seemed appropriate to see on this day, the eve of America's birthday, and I mentioned the fact that when driving through these midwestern lands, whether Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin, Iowa or Minnesota, that I am always touched by the idea of how much of our food is sourced from these crops. But I digress and Nigel, being an Englishman, probably wasn't feeling as nostalgic about the holiday as Steve and I were.

So we continued on, soon turned off the highway and drove slowly through Oglesby, a typical quiet midwestern small-town with its straight main street lined with American flags, to Matthieson State Park. Parking in the Dell's Area, I noted the solitude, large Burr Oak trees, and songbirds as we geared up and started our trek down into the valley. It was muggy already (and the skeeters were after the Englishman!), and we walked for 10 minutes or so to a beautiful gorge and then realized we would have a hard time accessing the river.

So we drove to the next parking area south and resumed our trek. Stopping first to pick wild raspberries at the trail head we walked down a steep hill through heavily canopied trees. This time, we found the river.

It reminded me of those times when I was a boy as I got closer to the river and the excitement built with each step. You hear it, faintly at first, and then for sure as you get closer. And then you see bits and pieces of it reflecting through the openings in the trees. And then you burst through the forest onto the banks of this wide open space of beautiful flowing water. And this river was beautiful. Protected on each side by hillsides of mature trees, it was a wide river with heavy riffles rolling over cobblestone and boulders, and had tall cliffs of stone in the downstream bend a half mile away. At mid stream I pointed out a Hexagenia fly dropping eggs on the surface, and a picked up a size 12 yellow stonefly off the rocks.

We got Nigel's rod ready and, since this was his first time out, I took his rod to show him how to fish the first run. I cast the line out, did a quick upstream mend, and stripped the fly in. Second cast was a repeat and then I had a fish on. "Like that!", I said calmly. Steve's jaw may have dropped open. I handed the rod to Nigel to reel in the fish and then we admired at the 10 inch smallmouth, noting its green color, red eye, and jaw line, and then released it. All of us thought that this meant we were on to a good day, but that was a wrong assumption.

We fished for 5 more hours with little success as far as fish count was concerned. I saw a smallmouth that would have been at least 4 lbs but could not hook him. I did catch a large Sheephead fish on a purple rabbit strip leech fly. It was cool in that I saw him come from three feet from the fly, open his mouth, flare his gills as he sucked it in, and then turn away. I set the hook as he turned away and shouted out a happy exclamation. Nigel did well on his first outing in laying out nice casts, especially the roll casts, onto a complex system of river currents. Steve caught a 10" smallmouth.

We saw a small snake, we think a water moccasin, a bunch of stonefly husks on the rocks, a really big slug on the underside of a leaf, and quite a few people enjoying the river either by swimming, tubing or just skipping stones.

It is amazing that this wild area was two hours outside of Chicago.

And at the end of this session, we slowly climbed the very steep hillside back out of the valley, took a few wrong turns along the way, and returned to the truck very much aware of the muggy oppression around us. Now we were ready to return to Chicago.

But not before a nice picnic lunch in the park to savor nature a bit more.