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3. Spanish Fly

Circa 1973: Just outside Buena Vista we took the left hand turn taking us up and over Cottonwood Pass; four city slickers intent on a weekend of camping and trout fishing Taylor Reservoir. Only one fly rod accompanied our group, mine. Oh, I had my ultra light along just in case, I was new to the “Rock Mountain High” and the ultra light was more often than not the difference between fish and squat. But I was steadfast in my determination to conquer the Great Divide with all things “fly”. Each fish outing started with fly rod in hand with the best of intentions, but as the fishless clock ticked in monotony that overwhelming desire to catch succumbed to the old standby. And I was damned if it didn’t produce in the vast majority of times. But it wasn’t until several years after this Taylor Reservoir story that I figured out how to get rid of that crutch. It was really simple actually, I just left it home.

The four of us parked at the north end of the reservoir, and all but I took ground along the bank casting despicably weighted treble hooks flashing whirling blades of silver. I, of course, took the “high ground” and headed up Taylor Creek to fish the magical wand of wonder. Damn, what could possibly be more frustrating than to see fish lining the banks of a creek and flogging the water with nine feet of fiberglass only to chase them further up stream? And that is exactly what I did, until the urge to catch caught me and the old standby beckoned. Dejected, were the walk back to the pick-up and the switch to the lowly heaver of hardware. Well, by now my fishless friends were huddled together swilling from aluminum cans of Coors, as I made my approach. Not one to pass up on one of the Golden Colorado contributions to unpasteurized foam, I popped a top. The consensus was, and I concurred, that the fishing sucked. But with the help of Adolph Coors’ brainstorm, attitudes quickly adjusted, and the heavy metal was once again cast from the shore of Taylor Reservoir and I had joined the ranks of the kerplunk.

The cloud cover rolled over and the wind kicked in from the south, filling the northern bay with flotsam and turbid water the color of chocolate milk. Fishless as we were, things would soon change, but what makes this trip most memorable is the coincidence on which it happened. Once again huddled together in a mid afternoon break, of malted barley and hops, we took on yet another crash course in attitude correction. Ron, who had become a very good friend of mine, even admitting that he and his wife had named their second son after me, piped in that he had an idea.

Let me preface the absurd silliness of what was to transpire by adding that Ron, bless his heart, was born and raised in New York City. If ever there was a man outside his realm, in the out of doors, Ron was the quintessential, or at least he was at this particular point in time. Ron was a computer programmer for United Airlines and I had never seen him wear anything other than creased dress pants, pressed dress shirt, and dress shoes, only the color changed. And today was no exception; the man looked like he was just teleported from the office. I don’t believe that Ron had ever been fishing before in his life, and today’s struggle with rod and reel was proof of the fact. You’ll know what I’m talking about if you’ve ever seen a person holding a spinning rod upside down and reeling backwards. But Ron was determined, beaming with pride as he gathered us around to showoff his new spinning rod, reel, and tackle box.

Anyway, Ron departed on the short walk to his tackle box, opened it, and produced a small glass bottle. The remaining three of us skirted any curiosity, as if Ron had a clue on how to catch fish. Returning with his bottle Ron said: “Lets try this.” Well I immediately shrugged of any false hope of some magical elixir but courteously asked what it was. “Spanish Fly” Ron quipped. He added that the person were he bought his fishing equipment suggested it. Not wanting to ridicule Ron’s naivety I asked to see the bottle and promptly examined the worded content on the label. Yep, “Spanish Fly” guaranteed to catch fish. I began to lecture Ron on the ways of traveling salesmen and ended my slandering speech with a hardy laugh. Undaunted, Ron placed a small drop on his Panther Martin, walked down to the water, made a cast, and promptly hook and landed a respectable rainbow. Now both Jack and Daryl were passing the bottle around and I’ll be damned if all three of them weren’t catching fish. And so it was with the “Spanish Fly” for about thirty minutes.

Hmmm... Isn't that concoction supposed to incite a different behavior, Al? I would think it's use would result in disinterested fish... And distracted anglers! :)LOL