Chapter 6: The Blue

The Blue River in Summit County, Colorado is one of my favorite places to fish. I haven’t fished much of it, just the same old place that everybody does… under the Interstate.

Some fishermen are very sketchy when it comes to revealing their spots. Most of the places I go seem to be the popular spots that are easily reached, mostly because I’m a bit lazy.

I-70 west out of Denver takes you over the Continental Divide through the Eisenhower Tunnel down in to Silverthorne where the Blue runs through town. The Blue runs down from the Divide near Keystone and empties in Lake Dillon. I’ve fished that stretch as well, but my luck has not been as good there.

The Blue, above Lake Dillon, is a pretty stream. I’ve never wondered south of Swan Mountain Road, but it looks tempting. Once, after having put in about 60 hours of work, I told my boss I was going to take off a half-day on Friday to sneak up there before the stream got busy for the weekend. Of course, they found me anyhow. Sometimes I curse cell phones.

Usually I start at the inlet to Lake Dillon and work my way back up to the car. I’ve hooked a few, but landing them is another thing.

Below Lake Dillon Dam, the Blue is a great little tail water that winds down through Silverthorne, and then empties into the Colorado River further north near Kremmling. My favorite, crowded little piece of the river is between the dam and the town square. The I-70 overpass also comes in handy when a hard rain comes in, as well as some shade on hot days. It’s not scenic, but it’s good water. The rumble of the cars on the Interstate doesn’t seem to bother the fish much.

The favorite, recommended fly is the Mysis shrimp. These little aquatic creatures spill over the dam and provide great feeding for the trout. I have a bunch of the Mysis in my box, but I’ve never caught a fish with one. The way I fish, I usually catch fish on something that no one else is. I call it “mismatch the hatch.” Don’t ask me why it works for me. It makes no sense at all.

The Blue has been kinder to me than most streams. I actually manage to catch fish almost every time I go there. I usually do best when there’s no one with me, or watching me. That’s not a fish story either. And, there is usually an audience of some kind. Just under the I-70 overpass, the footpath between the north and south sides of the outlet mall provides many onlookers. Farther north, where the river actually winds through the town square, there are tons of people. They seem particularly fond of pointing to the hapless guy who spends most of his time untangling his line and just missing each fish he tries to drift his cast by. On most trips to any stream, I manage to slip on the rocks at least once. I’ve gone down, face first more than a few times. I’ve thought several times about trading my fishing boots for clown shoes. That way, there would be a pay off for my audience when I climbed back out.

The trout in the Blue run between 8” and 18.” I’ve seen a lot of the big guys, but I seem to have specialized in the 8” to 12” range.

Up in town, there are some real monsters. It seams like the big Rainbows like it there best. Generally, there’s an overabundance of anglers up that way. I’ve seen some big ones hauled out, but it seems like the fish there have become pretty wary. North of the foot bridge there are a few tunnels that the stream runs through on the way out of town. On more than one occasion, I’ve seen large pods of Rainbows stacked up, feeding on bugs drifting through the tunnels. The water’s a bit deep, and I, being clumsy, am not the quietest person stalking to spots where the fish are. Add to that, trying to cast up far enough into a tunnel to get a good drift back to the fish, and its pretty much a disaster. A couple of casts, and the fish just move farther up the tunnel.

I have my spots, though. I’ve discovered a few holes and eddies where there always seem to be fish. One that I like, in particular, is a spot where I actually see trout holding and darting around after their meals. Using my mismatch the hatch approach begins with the Mysis shrimp, and on through the other flies that should work. I usually get to the more generic caddis flies and land a couple of fish. Of course, this usually occurs after roughly a half-hour to hour of drifting five or six other patterns past the same damn fish. My theory is that, with all the anglers up there, the fish have gotten smart enough to recognize a fake bug and, when they see something that just doesn’t look familiar, they hit it. Hey, if it works, right?

I’ve talked to some guys on the river and some back in the fly shops about my theory. They usually laugh, but agree that if it catches fish, it must be right.

Chapter 5: Waterton Canyon

The South Platte River flows into Chatfield Lake nearby. Above the lake, the South Platte winds through Waterton Canyon and upstream to Strontia Springs Reservoir. The stretch between the two is easily accessible along a dirt road that you can hike or bike. The road was once open to cars, but it’s closed to all but ranger vehicles to maintain a better environment for the wild life. It’s common to have deer and big horn sheep share the stream with you. The stretch of the river between the two reservoirs is about 9 miles, so it can be a long walk or peddle if you want to get to the top, where I hear the fishing is best. Me… I’ve always been too lazy to get that far up.

Because it’s close to town, I’ve spent a bunch of time on the lower stretch. Being close to town, it also gets its fair share of anglers.

This water is my nemesis! Over the course of several years, I’ve been there a half dozen times or more. It has never been productive.

I do have my favorite spots. I know there are fish there because I’ve seen them sipping bugs off the water and a fair share of fisherman land some. I’ve had guys share the flies they used successfully, only for me to throw them in for a half-hour and not get a nibble.

Each time I leave the river, I swear that I will never go back. So, being insane, I do it again every year, at least once or twice.

It’s easy to forget how close you are to the city when there’s no sign of development up in the canyon. There may be lots of people in there, but with your back to the dirt road and focused on the stream, it’s as good as being 100 miles up in the mountains. And, as I mentioned earlier, there’s plenty of wild life.

Once, while I was hiking back down the road to my car, an entire herd of Big Horn Sheep was grazing on the hillsides and blocking the road itself. I’ve run into situations where there were a few, and they usually will clear the way to avoid contact. But this time, there were maybe 10 to 20, adults and lambs. These are NOT small animals. The rams can easily top 200 lbs.

The problem was, as the lambs were grazing on the grassy hillsides on both sides of the road, the adults formed a barricade across the road itself. They simply stood their ground and stared me down, as well as an increasing flow of hikers, and brought traffic to a standstill. I’ve been in that situation before, but in a car. I was feeling a little bit exposed with the adults being only 10 feet away.

The adults have eyes that look to be about the size of tennis balls. With their eyes trained on you, it’s creepy. Ram horns pretty much seal the deal. They may not gore you, but you would probably be a bit sore if one of those rams knocked you down.

I tried climbing down the embankment to circumvent the herd. One step off the road, and the adults began moving toward me. This was their spot, for now. Their young were eating, and I was waiting until they finished. Snack time for young lambs is an important time of day. I finally just sat down, enjoyed their company, and managed to get back on my way after about a 20-minute wait. My guess is that when the bottleneck of pedestrians and bicyclists reached a critical mass outnumbering the Big Horn, they decided it was time to go, or felt that they were quickly becoming an exhibit in a zoo.

Waterton Canyon fishing has not been good to me at all. I once found a nice pod of trout feeding along a rock ledge on the far side of the stream. I cast from below and off to the side for 20 minutes, then waded into the stream behind them and cast up above them for at leas a half an hour. I changed out flies a dozen times, my tying skills improving, but they weren’t having whatever I threw at them. What’s up with that! Every fly drifted right by them, and then they surface to pick something else off the water. If only trout treated their food selection more like “cafeteria-style” and weren’t so darn picky.

Waterton Canyon is also the place where I managed to snap off my rod tip. My line got caught in a tree branch, pretty high up, during a back cast. This happens to me a lot. Normally I can work it down with a little time and effort, or break the line off at the leader. Maybe it was because of my level of frustration that day or because I was tired and ready to give up anyway, but I was definitely not being clearheaded. For some reason, my Bad Fisherman persona let me pull the line at an angle instead of keeping the rod straight… or simply cutting the line off (DUH!). Snap! Damn!

Fortunately, the good guys at Charlie’s Fly Box in Arvada put a new tip-top on my now, 3” shorter pole. I could have had the whole top section replaced under warranty (I think) for the small fee of $80 plus $40 shipping. Thanks to the guys at Charlie’s for saving me a bunch of cash.

I’m never going back to Waterton Canyon, ever again! At least until next month.

Chapter 4: Rocky Mountain National Park

Toward the end of that first summer of fly fishing, my son and I decided to take a trip up to Rocky Mountain National Park. Now the park is actually quite large and it can be intimidating just thinking about where to start. Typically, I would figure that most front range anglers would head up to the east entrance via the Big Thompson River, a great fishery in its own right, continue through Estes Park and fish the Moraine or the rest of the streams that feed the Atlantic drainage. We chose the west entrance near Grand Lake and up to the Colorado River. It’s several hours in the car to get there, so we had to set off early enough to get to the river at a reasonable hour. It was a longer drive than I remembered.

I had searched my maps and settled on reaching the Colorado where the turn-off for the Never Summer Ranch trailhead. The setting is spectacular!

Reaching our destination, the first thing you notice as you pull in to the parking area is the spaciousness of the Kawuneeche Valley backed by the steep mountains to the west. The Colorado River bisects the valley, running north to south.

We got lucky that day, I guess. Although there were a few cars in the parking lot, it appeared that the others were off hiking. We saw no one else fishing.

The second thing you notice, is that the Colorado River, the mighty river that rolls through the Grand Canyon in Arizona and provides water for the entire southwest, including Southern California, is a stream up there… in most places, two feet deep and 20 feet across. How cool is that. Forget the fish… I waded across the Mighty Colorado a hundred times that day! I’m easily amused.

We spent several hours exploring the rifles and pockets. I spent an equal amount of time tying on flies that returned no fish. Still struggling with that, my son wound up helping me a number of times. He’s much better than me in that department. Unfortunately, that cut into his time in the water a bit, too.

There’s this thing they tell you when you start fly fishing… wear polarized sunglasses. They cut down the reflection on the water so that you can see the fish. After several outings and now, on an awesome river that’s (supposedly) loaded with fish, I realized that I had never seen a fish. Not on this day or any other. The other thing about fly fishing is that it’s not a “throw your line in and see if you get a bite” kind of fishing you do with worms. It’s more like hunting or stalking for fish. You walk around, look for the spots where the fish are supposed to be, SEE them, and then figure out the best way to catch them.

So, after several hours of not seeing any fish, in the water or on our lines, we sauntered back to the car figuring we would look elsewhere or, that we were going to have another day of successfully being unsuccessful.

When we reached the parking lot, a friendly ranger (Mr. Ranger, sir), was checking in on some campers. When he was through, I asked him where I might find fish. I told him that my poor son had never caught a fish (but not that I had only caught one several weeks earlier). The ranger told me where I could find some beaver ponds down the road. I’d heard that beaver ponds were good places because fish sit at the bottom of beaver dams waiting for bugs to wash over.

We found the turnout, hiked up the stream and found the beaver pond. As soon as we got there, I looked down. THERE WERE FISH! Not just one or two… but a dozen or more. I actually saw the fish. We backed down the stream a bit to stay out of sight and got ready to cast into the pool at the base of the dam. I threw my line in first, a good cast that plopped down just short of the sticks, and… boom, my line went tight.

Having landed my big 8” fish earlier in the year, I knew more about the size of fish this might be. I had seen them, too. I landed a nice 6-incher. As I went to remove the hook, I discovered that the hook was on the outside of the fish’s mouth, not in the mouth. What the hell… I caught a fish in Rocky Mountain National Park, by God!

My son took his shot at the pool. BAM! He had one on, too. This was going to be good. However, upon further review, his fish was hooked by the tail fin.

So, that day, we learned about “foul hooking.” It seems the turbulence of the water spilling over the dam was just forcing our flies to rush past the fish and hook them as they blasted through the pod.

Still, we kept at it. We got a little smarter about placing our casts where they would sit more calmly and drift more slowly toward the feeding fish. We both caught a few that day. The fish would have made good fish sticks at that size, but we are strictly catch and release.

Chapter 1: The Journey Begins

Our yard was mostly concrete. A creek ran through our neighborhood.

At one time it was listed by the EPA as the most polluted stream in the country. I remember wading in it once with skinned knee. A couple of days later it was a puss-filled abscess. I don’t remember ever seeing a fish, not even a belly-up one.

Mom and Dad both grew up in the inner city. Only my maternal grandfather had any country in him. He moved in from the farm in Indiana when he went to find work. He kept some of that country in him, though. He did the gardening along a cinderblock-raised garden he built in front of the house. Occasionally he’d go fishing.

A couple of times, when I was pretty young, Grandpa tried to convince me to go fishing with him. I think I did it twice. The worms were yucky. Waiting for a fish to bite doesn’t work for a kid with ADD. And when you caught them, you were supposed to touch them! Sorry Grandpa, I’d rather play at a construction site.

I didn’t fish again until I was in my thirties. Some friends invited me to fish Lake Erie. The deal was to go out on a boat, the captain would find large schools, you’d fish and the crew would take your fish off and clean them for you when you made shore. I did have to learn to deal with putting my own worms on the hook, but the rest was kind of like catching fish on autopilot.

Why my son decided he wanted to fish I’ll never know. The little imp got me to go twice. For some reason, he thought that I could teach him. So we went bait fishing a couple of times where I would, luckily, hook a fish, then proceed to make a fool of myself trying to land and unhook the fish. I felt sorry for those two fish.

Quite a few years later, after we moved to Colorado, my son got the idea that I should take him fly-fishing. I think it was after he had watched A River Runs Though It about 16 times. What he didn’t seem to understand was that “Dry Land Runs Though Dad.”

I was looking for something to share with my son, though. Something we could do together then, and for the rest of our lives. Or, at least until he gets fed up with me.

So, I spent some time figuring out what fly-fishing was. There were no worms! In fact, no live bait! I became intrigued. You needed a special pole and other gear that costs HOW MUCH? Son, wouldn’t you rather do something else?

Eventually, I found a fly shop that had instruction (mucho dollars x 2) and discounted gear for students (still even more mucho dollars x 2). I took the leap of faith and the drain from the bank account and committed my passion to being, sometimes, miserable and frustrated. On the other hand, standing in the middle of a cold Colorado mountain stream has its benefits.

I fish a lot, as often as I can get out. Sometimes I catch a fish.