RANCHO DEL RIO — In fishing vernacular, it’s known as skinny water. And in all my years of fishing the Upper Colorado River, I’d never seen the water so skinny.
We set out on a whim, changing plans from a self-guided float down the Eagle River near Gypsum after hearing reports of a 40-fish day by an elderly woman in my father’s church group. With the benefit of a guide from Cutthroat Anglers, Norma claimed it was the greatest day she’d ever had with a fishing rod, punctuated by a beautiful 19-inch brown trout fooled by a CDC pheasant tail. Divine intervention, perhaps, but worthy of examination just the same.
Neither of us knew what to expect of the float through the Red Canyon. With a current of less than 400 cfs flowing through a channel capable of 30 times that much, the rubber boat was bound to bounce off more than a few rocks, hopefully without any major hangups. After all, Norma had managed to survive.
As for the fishing, that too remained a mystery. The wide eddies and deep pools we’d come to know as reliable holding areas had withered to gaunt vestiges, wet gravel braced by driftwood skeletons. Skinny water.
Theoretically, the low flows offered big fish fewer places to hide. We knew they were there from experience, and even after the big flush of 2011, it was unlikely they’d gone far. The fish were likely to be concentrated, stacked in the small eddies and lined up by size in obvious feeding lanes. Casting and presentation would demand precision on par with the subtleties of the currents. On a cool, overcast afternoon with equally cloudy water, the mystery was fly selection.
“I definitely saw some salmonflies upstream,” an old friend and fishing guide told us as we serendipitously crossed paths. “And a little bit of surface activity.”
That was all the incentive needed to tie on my favored dry-and-dropper rig with a big, foam stonefly trailed by a soft-hackle pheasant tail. As the weather took a turn for the worse, a strike on the gaudy dry fly was unlikely, but no sense denying a fish the option. And 18 inches or so was deep enough to sink the wet fly behind.
As the more experienced oarsman, however, it would be some time before my strategy was tested appropriately. The narrow braids of river called for keen attention and uninterrupted oar strokes to shimmy between boulders and stay on line. Meanwhile, my partner’s double-trouble nymph rig found the fish right where they were supposed to be. It also found the shallow river bottom more times than could be counted, occasionally stripping the flies from his 4X leader. I landed the raft just below the most technical rapids and set out on foot as he re-rigged, aiming for a stretch of unmistakable trout water just upstream.
I suppose it’s fair to say that trout are creatures of habit, although their predictable tendencies are likely better described as patterns, perhaps natural cycles. Among the attractions of fly-fishing is the ability to hone in on those cycles.
Once you’ve learned the tendencies, it’s a matter of timing. On this occasion, I was about a half-step behind, watching the foam bug drift lazily on the current when my sluggish brain registered the broad, gold flash against the dark shadow of a rock on the riverbed. The upper fly never so much as twitched in the amount of time it took for the voice inside my head to state, “Dude, if you don’t set the hook right now, you’re an idiot.” Words harsh enough to jerk my arm upward.
The familiar tug of a brown trout on light tackle was magnified when the fish bulled its way to the center of the river and started upstream. Big fish behave differently from the others, for reasons I’ve yet to discern. Perhaps it’s instinct that tells them upstream is an escape route where few can follow.
Before long, he circled back, peeling line off the reel as he turned broadside in the current. With the rod held high overhead to keep leverage on the barbless hook, the fight continued for several minutes before a fish as long as my arm came to land at my feet. With no camera in tow, no tape to measure, I slid the hook from its jaw and made mental note of its hardy girth before returning him to the river.
The water may be skinny, but the fish are plenty fat.
Scott Willoughby: 303-954-1993 or swilloughby@denverpost.com
