State Bridge – Whatever grabbed the egg fly that drifted near the bottom made a streaking run toward midstream, then flung itself into the air.
It must have been a rainbow trout. Whitefish can’t jump.
But they can speed away on scintillating runs that often confuse anglers about what salmonid species actually might be on the line. More than anything else, whitefish provide a surefire hedge against the angling doldrums about to beset us, a way to roll back the calendar, if only for a few days.
In these deep pools where they gather for their annual mating ritual, they become a sort of late-season solace for the wintry ills about to befall us. At the same time, they also offer themselves as living tutorials for learning anglers eager to hone their nymph-fishing skills. Got a kid you want to hook on the sport? Find a pool full of whiteys and enjoy.
So what more could you ask from a fish, anyway?
Whitefish, a native species, often get a bad rap because they are presumed to compete for space and food with the more acrobatic introduced trout species, such as rainbows and browns. Such complaints prompted the Colorado Wildlife Commission to discontinue the creel limit, in effect targeting them for removal.
A whitefish never dances on its toes, a la Baryshnikov. Rarely will it rise to feed on the surface, a characteristic it shares with walleye, catfish and a few other bottom-huggers. A small mouth effectively eliminates lures, streamers and other large flies. Further, its flesh is not prized, generally deemed suitable only for smoking.
So why had three fly-fishing veterans come last Friday to this deep, seductive pool on the Colorado River, dodging through snowflakes and oddly configured vehicles bound for big-game camp?
The answer was simple enough. We planned to catch enough fish, even if most were whiteys, to make a memory that would last through all those dismal cabin-fever days when rivers and dreams lie frozen together. We wanted to keep that visual image of an indicator diving beneath the current, of wild, pulsing life at the end of the line, as long as humanly possible.
We wanted to catch enough fish to wake up sore-armed the next morning. In short, we needed whitefish. If a few trout happened to weigh in as collateral damage, then all the better.
This autumn thing with whitefish always has been an object of benign neglect. At a time when sportsmen are preoccupied with big game and birds and it’s cold, the opportunity passes.
On days when weather permits, the chance remains on Western Slope rivers such as the Colorado, Roaring Fork, Crystal and White. Just find a deep pool below a rapid, drift a standard nymph or egg pattern near bottom and hang on.
Bryant brothers Dave and Dan favor that reach of the Colorado between Radium and Bond for just such a sequence of habitat, as well as ample public access. They planned to hunt deer the next day at a place not far away. Mostly, they just wanted to catch lots of fish.
How the Bryants, who grew up in Chicago, evolved into the ultimate Colorado outdoorsmen is a story of odd circumstance.
On a vacation in the mid-1970s, school administrator Richard Bryant paused with his family for lunch at a restaurant near Vail. At an adjacent table, the superintendent of schools discussed his pressing need to hire a principal.
“My father introduced himself, the two hit it off and we were in Colorado a couple months later,” said Dave, who later moved to the Denver area, where he works for a securities firm and represents Bass Pro Shops. Dan is in Avon as manager of the Fly Fishing Outfitters fly shop.
For the Bryant brothers, the tactic for catching whitefish is straight from the basic text: small nymphs such as a Hare’s Ear, Pheasant Tail, Copper John or Prince, dead drifted on bottom, the slower the better. In colder water, add a bigger indicator and more weight.
Dave Bryant favors a small egg pattern made from hot glue molded over a hook adorned with colored thread or a bead.
Anglers who prefer spinning tackle can achieve the same results using small flies behind split shot, with or without a bobber.
On a day when a bashful sun played hide-and-seek among snow clouds, a pea-sized egg of chartreuse yarn played to rave reviews to scores of whitefish and about a dozen trout.
Often, whitefish raced off on such powerful runs that anglers erroneously said they had hooked trout. The whiteys darted and surged and performed the desired arm-stretching exercises.
But they never jumped.
Charlie Meyers can be reached at 303-954-1609 or cmeyers@denverpost.com.
