LAKE GEORGE — Early on a gloomy Sunday afternoon, the question from a sensible observer may have been reasonable enough:
“Fishing? Today? . . . You must be nuts.”
Well, maybe. But then again, hard-core fly- fishermen seldom are said to be fully rational.
So what if gray clouds had rolled in along the Front Range? No matter that winter storm warnings had been posted for the high country. The calendar, after all, said May. Spring was here. The temperature really wasn’t all that cold, and the steady overcast appeared perfect for a bit of blue-wing olive activity.
Though rain mixed with snow already was sprinkling the windshield, a quick look into Elevenmile Canyon seemed in order. The bugs might be coming off, and maybe the fish wouldn’t have sense enough to get in out of the rain, either.
Blue-wing olives, a variety of Baetis mayflies, provide the first notable springtime hatches on many rivers, signaling a transition from the midges of winter to the more-reliable surface activity of spring and early summer. The South Platte River through Elevenmile Canyon is an exceptionally fertile tailwater, and the little Baetis, a mainstay of the season, already had been evident for a couple of weeks. The best activity had been on relatively warm, cloudy days.
Flows from Elevenmile Dam had been gradually coming down, and unless the latest in a series of cold snaps had put a damper on things, at least a few rising trout seemed reasonable.
Rain turned to snow flurries, then to graupel, poking mini-dimples into the surface of an otherwise quiet pool. The flurries stopped, the cloud cover remained. A quick glance showed no feeding trout, but a departing fisherman offered welcome encouragement.
“It’s been pretty active today,” he reported, noting he’d caught a couple of brown trout in addition to the usual rainbows. “And some of the best rises have actually been while it was snowing.”
Midafternoon . . . the river was all but deserted now. Through the on-and-off snow showers, trout started rising intermittently. A closer look revealed just enough mayflies on the water to make things interesting.
Fly boxes were stuffed into vest pockets. Leader tippets tied with already cold and clumsy hands. Waders were pulled on and a wind-cutting shell slipped over a bulky sweater. Maybe the water wouldn’t be all that cold.
Rises for the moment had disappeared, but the trout obviously were tuned in to the mayflies. Most likely, they still were taking nymphs or emergers. An RS-II as tied by Rim Chung, as effective an emergent-mayfly imitator as any, dead-drifted through the faster water at the head of a pool and soon produced a spirited, pot-bellied rainbow, brought to net and promptly released.
“Catching a fish is a mixed blessing,” the departing fisherman had accurately observed. “After you do, your hands get really cold.”
No matter. Fish had started rising again. Here and there, the nose of a trout broke through the surface, indicating they were plucking adult mayflies from the surface.
Switching to a dry fly was in order. A small Parachute Adams quickly produced a pair of takes before the rises again disappeared. A dorsal fin slicing through the water indicated the fish again were onto the emergers, just below the surface. Back to the RS-II.
Emergers, dries, then back again. . . . Though the activity was tapering off, the trout still were feeding as snow continued lightly falling. Patches of white had appeared on the ground. It was time to head back.
“Well, how was it?” the sensible one might have asked, dripping just a bit of sarcasm.
“It was great! You couldn’t ask for a better day.”
