James McKew

A few weeks back I lost my Colorado fly fishing virginity.

I held out for three years, listening to tales of the enormous Colorado trout and the rapture that one feels with a monster tugging at your fishing rod. My curiosity piqued six weeks ago when a newspaper article touted the ecstasy of wading knee-deep in the gold-medal streams just outside of Aspen.

Something ticked in my gut …a longing really. It had been an unusually long winter and three years without my fingers wrapped around the spongy cork handle was driving me stir-crazy. The dream of me reeling in a green thigh muscle with dime-size eyes makes me salivate. The allure of willows and rushing water filled my senses like a cool damp siren song. My mind replaying scenes from A River Runs Through It. I couldn’t wait any longer, all my friends were casting their lines on the river and it was high time for me to take the plunge. At the computer, I surf fly-fishing websites, watching videos and looking for the right river to surrender to, struggling really, to find just the balance of clear water and lots of fish. Bingo …the Uncompahgre River, a small yet target-rich environment for me to cast my bread upon the water ….so to speak.

Then I talked Steve into joining me. He’s a local and has fished most of the streams on the Western Slope.

The morning sun over Pa-Co- Chu-Puk Campground was covered in wispy clouds and a light rain. We pull into the parking lot and a worried thought comes to mind. “Wonder if my waders are still going to fit?” Since moving to Colorado and getting married I’ve put on enough pounds to make this a justifiable concern. One leg at a time …they still fit …thank God.

We head downstream from the parking lot and drop down through the willows to the edge of a clear knee-deep stream.

“There,” Steve says pointing the tip of his rod to a bend in the river where a large blue pool slowly swirls. “I caught my biggest trout in that hole. You try it.”

“No …no you fish there.” I insist. Ever the gentleman, I relinquish my first-right-of-refusal when it comes to these sorts of things.

Steve shrugs and takes the lead, picking his way through the underwater boulders until he’s situated just above the rim of the pool. I fish the riffles upstream from him, casting up river and letting my line drift along in the shallow water.

After less than ten casts, Steve reels a shiny twelve incher and holds it up with a sheepish smile as if to say, “Told you it was a good hole!”

Good form is paramount in fly fishing; crude behavior and sloppy casting aren’t tolerated. The art is in landing the fly on the surface; it should float like goose-down on the breeze and land on the water surface with the lightest of touch. Today though, my fly plops into the water like a rock, it will be several weeks until I can perfect it. We fish until one o’clock as more clouds rolled in, dropping light rain for a few minutes, then push off. We’re alone on the river. Steve caught three trout and I two, using nymphs: a tiny hook decorated with small twists of black and grey material to resemble a bug swimming up from the river bottom. After fishing, we sat in lawn chairs in the parking lot and drank Coronas in the afternoon rain, satisfied at our early season start.

A couple weeks later, Steve sends me a text with a photo of a guy in a ball cap gripping a sixteen inch Cutthroat Trout; big juicy fish, flaming red jowls and underbelly.

I sat at my desk staring at the image, my face turning as red as the fishes jaw-line.

Fishing porn? At work no less?
My forehead broke out in tiny drops of frustration and longing.
“The Gunnison is fishing great” was the caption. The itch started. “Damn that Steve” I cursed under my breath.

I began plotting my little getaway.

1 – Ask Katie for permission to fish.
2 – Invite Steve
3 – Hit the road early.

Steve couldn’t come, but at the crack of 7am I pulled out of town with a full tank of gas, a large coffee between my legs and a foil covered chorizo and egg burrito from the convenience store. What is the connection between men and spicy premade burritos? It’s got to be a road-trip thing, right? The smell of cool morning air, eating spicy food that makes you gassy and a good long road that stretches out before you …a momentary slice of guy heaven. Out the windshield, Hwy 50 is a split four-lane, shrouded by the circular dome of blue Colorado sky. Beyond that, the jagged San Juan Mountains rise in the distance, snow filled shoots still covered in blue morning shadows. A slight breeze rustles the roadside sagebrush as I pull into Montrose and turn east, climbing into the rolling foothills of the Rockies.

My destination is Cimarron, not much more than a “Y” in the road with a post office, campground, and a gas station. From there I turn north off the highway onto a two lane that snakes down through a narrow canyon and opens to a parking lot at the base of Morrow Point Dam; 469 vertical feet of impressively thin concrete and rebar that separates me from millions of gallons of water. I feel a little tingling below my waist at the sight. This is the kind of place where you fish with the assurance that if the dam breaks, your ass will be dead in a few seconds …so why worry. The Gunnison River leaves the dam for a short stretch at the parking lot before diving into Black Canyon National Park. As I stand near my car and stare down at the disappearing river, I’m completely aware of three things: First, the river is freight train big. In my mind it’s like looking down on the Colombia River, a hundred feet across, much wider than the boulder strewn mountain creeks I’m accustomed to. Second, the water is very clear with probably ten feet of visibility underwater and a beautiful jade sparkle whenever the sun peaks out from behind the canyon walls to color it. The kind of clear that makes me want to scuba dive to the bottom and get a close-up look at the massive fish reported to live there. And third, the water is fast. If I lost my balance and fell in there’s a real possibility that they might pull me out of Lake Powell next year.

A breeze drops down from the dam rim like a waterfall and pushes straight down stream. The temperature is sweatshirt cool as I pull on my waders. I’ve already given myself explicit instructions about wading into the water; the current flow rate is close to the high end. I’m the only person here which makes me think that the fishing is not good. Part of me wants to ditch this plan and go somewhere else but I can’t turn back, not after driving nearly an hour and a half. I take my time prepping, hoping someone else would join me. Over the railing is the Cimarron River, a creek really, currently an adobe red runoff that gushes through a steep “V” notch canyon, turning boulders into mini waterfalls until draining into the Gunnison below the parking lot and causing a muddy streak that clouds the otherwise clear waters.

A short trail leads to the rim of the river bank where a foot bridge stretches over the river. There’s a warning sign indicating that the river height can change at any moment due to water being released from the dam.

Fair enough. At least the power company has covered their ass if I’m swept downstream.

I tie on a small black and silver bead-head nymph. Above the fly I add a tiny oval lead weight to help the fly get down underwater to where the hungry fish are supposedly swimming. And finally, I attach a little foam strike indicator that floats like a bobber on the surface. I cast out into the river and watch as my line is instantly washed downstream and brushed back in towards shore. I’m not accustomed to fishing from the sidelines, and certainly not used to the rough treatment of my delicate fly being swept back like the hands of a clock. The wind picks up and complicates my casting backstroke. Every time I swing my line through the air, trying to cast further into the middle of the river, it stops in mid-flight and snarls into a complex mess of spaghetti. My temperature gauge starts to boil; I’m spending more time untangling the microscopic invisible line than actually fishing. After battling for over an hour, I sit down and take a deep breath, laugh at the madness of it all. Fishing wasn’t always this complicated.

My earliest memory is of Happy Jack’s Fish Farm, outside of Azusa, California. Happy Jack’s was a roadside business with grass huts and bamboo fishing poles. Fish were separated into swimming pool-like ponds based on size and variety. Trout in the main pool, Catfish and Bass had their own pools, segregation was still quite popular in the 1970’s in southern California and nobody would stand for Trout and Catfish swimming in the same water.

First time I felt the electric current run through my pole was at Happy Jack’s, my Grandmother Louise Goddard and Great-Grandmother, Pearl Rhodes were there with me. The three of us stood on the edge of the dark water. Our bamboo rods dangling a gob of secret-sauce cornmeal batter in front of the passing fish. The dark trout circled below us like not-so-hungry sharks as we waited patiently in the noonday sun.

My grandma’s mouth would get a little jaded at the anticipation of catching a fish and she would say things like, “Now Jimmy, don’t catch any of the big ones, I can’t afford them.”

Fish were sold by the pound at Happy Jack’s. I’m seven years old and dressed like a 1970’s Huck Finn; broken down cowboy boots, plaid shorts and a Budweiser t-shirt, what the hell do I know about buying fish by the pound? I can see the lunkers swimming in slow patterns in the deeper end of the pool, and I’m as blood-thirsty as anyone else, hoping to land one of those twenty dollar monsters.

I’m daydreaming about launching my bike over an Evil Knievel jump when suddenly my line goes taught and I scramble to hoist out a wiggly twelve incher while the other patrons look on. My chest swells at the sight and I imagine fish all over the world gasping at the knowledge of another trout killer being born. With two hands gripping the pole, I land the wiggly beast on the shore and watch in horror as my glossy green trophy flops around, covering its shiny scales in dirt. With its eyes completely covered in fine grit, the appearance has transformed from a sleek beautiful fish into something more resembling an animated sand sculpture. I freeze, not able to deal with the ugly situation. An older black kid comes along, gets the hook out and drops the fish in a steel bucket for me. The deed is done; I caught my limit at Happy Jack’s. That’s how it’s done, bamboo rod, cornmeal, steel pale, pay by the pound.

A couple years later we said goodbye to Happy Jack’s and moved to Northern Nevada. The wild rivers that flowed down the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada Mountains became our playground; the Carson River, the Walker River and the Truckee River. Brian and I were outfitted with fiberglass rods and spinning reels.

Some artists work in oil paint and brushes, my grandpa worked in red salmon eggs and earthworms. Casting into the roughest and most unlikely waters he would methodically work a stretch of the river until finding and landing whatever fish swam there. He was a master of consistency. Had he lived through a zombie apocalypse or a down turn in the economy, he would have easily fed all of us on fresh trout for years. He taught Brian and me how to tie on hooks, how to read the water surface, where to cast our lines and over time, the three of us caught buckets full of hatchery raised trout.

My fear of wiggly fish disappeared and I became the chief fish cleaner. A rough count of how many fish I cleaned over the years you ask? 500 give or take a few …that seems a fair guess.

Today though, the Gunnison River didn’t pan out, there are still secrets I need to learn about fishing on such big waters but fortunately for me, this is only the beginning of the season.