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3. Daydreaming of the past.

Another cold, windy, snowy March day, standing streamside a mile and a half high, patiently waiting and watching. No small physical feat, considering the environmental conditions I force myself to endure, often wondering, why for art thou so tortuously inclined? And, it is on days like this that the answer often evades me, but only momentarily, for the desire to fish for the Trout always trumps warm and cozy. So I stand staunchly, only as a true fool or avid fly fisherman would, enduring Mother Nature’s fury, and hoping for Mother Nature’s blessing.


The midge hatch has been coming off daily as usual, the only question being, when, for how long, and how prolific. And then it begins, revealed in the form of a subtle flash of reflected light, from which only a second ago was a bottomless pit of dark emerald green, and then another, and another. Soon the lovely Trout, ascending from the light-choked depths of the pool before me, feeding on the tiny dipterans before their escape to a world as yet unknown, become visible. Having been given one more opportunity to partake in this most cherished event, I now shift into my selective mode. Yes, I too have become selective; as the Trout select their pray so shall I select mine, and my selection at this moment is the biggest prismatic display attached to the flanks of Oncorhynchus mykiss which shall reveal itself. That too, will require time spent patiently waiting and watching. But I also experience another one of Mother Nature’s wonders; the chill has left me as quickly as the Trout have appeared, as if the Trout themselves contain the life sustaining warmth necessary for my existence. Then, through the grace of God, the heat is turned up; over there, can’t you see it? On the opposite side....tight to the shear rock cliff....at the limit of my casting ability....countless conflicting currents away....raises the epiphany. Immediately I begin to strip and ply line in a perfectly orchestrated series of false casts, finally settling short to test distance and current, but I find myself on the threshold of impossibility. However, I am granted, or is it blessed, with a window of opportunity; a measly two foot drift, before the dastardly drag sets in whisking my #24 black midge pupa imitation from the jaws of success, faster then you can blink an eye. So quick in fact as to produce a figment of imagination, in the pea brained pisces psyche, I’m sure. This, only after a perfectly executed upstream reach cast with a trailing hook, coupled with a serpentine line inducing action of the wrist, all following the final shot of line from the double haul. The cast was perfected to one in ten, all the time being ignored, but I did not put the fish down; which to me was success in itself. I didn’t check my watch but I think it safe to say that I spent the better part of an hour working on that fish. Twice, that fish was drawn to my presentation, close enough in my opinion that I swear my tiny black midge pupa was resting on the tip of his nose. Not that I could see my fly, only the fish, but through my many years of nymph fishing I have acquired a sixth-sense which told me so. With nerves of steel I resisted the temptation to strike; learning long ago to allow the fish to take and turn, and then simply tighten the line. No, this was one fish that I didn’t want to put down.

It was the last cast of the day, still early, but I had packing to do for my predawn departure. The climb to Vail Summit, the descent into Dillon, and the final climb up to and through the Eisenhower Tunnel would set up my thousand mile descent home to Wisconsin. Yes, it was the last cast of the day, when the denizen from the light choked depths of the pool before me, in the most nonchalant way, approached my fly and winked; that most beautiful wink of winks, the white flash of an open mouth that signifies the take, the white flash that an avid nymph fisher learns to recognize. He turned, the line tightened, and the fine #24 barbless point was sent home. And just as quickly, although it seemed an eternity, he was gone.

As I was stowing my equipment in the car another vehicle pulled up. It was one of the guides I recognized from the Rainbow Bar and Grill down in Basalt. He asked, “Are you leaving?” I assumed he was interested in the spot, and so I answered with a resounding, “Yes.” He said, “Why? The fishing is just getting started.”

Beautiful.

-Shawn

My first fly fishing of this year began in March as well, but for crappie on a local lake. Not nearly quite so romantic, but boy did it ever warm my soul after the coldest Michigan winter in 8 years. Beautiful fish, too - bright silver sides with crisp black spots and an iridescent purple wash. And they liked my favorite warm-water fly, ye olde chartreuse woolly bugger w/ grizzly hackle, size 10.

Yes, there's nothing quite like the first fish of spring, trout or otherwise.

Jonathon

Amen. For me it was some wild browns in a local spring creek who feed on olives like clockwork every day from March through mid April. The best days are a bit snowy and overcast, and every fish is a gift.