The Frenzy

Things had already begun to happen the day before I joined up with the group of frenzied fisherman (and one just crazy). The day previous, it was the Poudre and drinks. I spent the day at work wondering the outcome of the days events and putting myself in those waders. Now that I think about it, I’m glad I didn’t have to meet my archnemesis in front of other fisherman. Sanders and the group did well and probably had fun doing it. Despite the jokes Sanders and I have about his guiding skills, he is a trustworthy asset to have on his home water. The night of the first day of the frenzy was topped off with drinks while I was still at work.

I rolled into Rocky Mountain Anglers before anyone had arrived, knowing that I had to tie up a few flies before hitting the water. After the second fly was tied, an unfamiliar person invited me inside. Jay. When he said, “I know who you are” I automatically knew. There aren’t many people vicariously involved in my blog, but he is one of them. We talked for a few and as much as I tried not to talk about fishing, it still happened. People from the frenzy began to trickle in and I began to meet people. This was the group.

Let us take note to exactly out of place I was. Every guy there was wearing a hat. Not me. (Thanks for helping me to blend in Larry!) I am the only person in the group wearing jeans (for good reason too). My personal space is also very large and if you are into psychology feel free to point out what you see.  Lastly, please note the facial expression. I didn’t do it on purpose, but it seems to be the picture everyone has used so far.  

I teamed up with Sanders and Jen to fish boulder creek. Yeah, we caught a few fish, blah blah blah yadda yadda. Onward to the Big Thompson, Caught some more fish… blah blah blah. In reality, Sanders and I were having a blast picking up and finding (and also missing) a lot of fish. I didn’t do much of meeting a lot of people. Then again, I was the black sheep of the group. How dare I forget the hat! To be completely honest here, I think this is where the party ended. I guess these other people have lives or something. When Sanders left, I was alone with the Big T. Truly a winning hand. The best 30 minutes of fishing for the day, doubling the amount of fish that I caught during the day.

This is the part where I wanted to jump into Day 2, but my day and my little slice of the frenzy pie didn’t end there. Nope, I had a hotel room in Estes Park during “ELKFEST”. I ordered a BBQ chicken pizza from Cheesy Lee’s and watched the moving picture on the television screen. What? I don’t have cable at my place (by choice). I laid there bored and remembered my roomie John had Sunday off. My room was 2 beds so the invite was sent out. When he arrived, the plan was to go to a dive bar with live music and have a beer. This is not what happened. Let me tell you, Estes Park knows how to party! 

We were supposed to meet Stephanie and Dustin on day 3 at 8:00 am at the visitors center. This is when I realized it was 7:50 and I was just waking up as I rushed to meet them. Day 3 was Emily, Sanders, Dustin and Stephanie, Jen, and John. I brought crullers and I know sanders brought more. My day would be just fine. I don’t really remember the details of the day, where we were or what exactly went down. I remember a wedgie conversation though. Strangely enough, not one that I started. I also remember getting frustrated catching an 8″ fish every 45 minutes, when I could go ANYWHERE ELSE IN THE PARK and catch these fish every couple minutes. I wanted to stick with the group and leave at the same time. Then I caught a cutthroat and I remember hearing that it was just a hybrid fish and probably not a cut at all.

Looks like a cut to me...

Note the "roller" in lip.

A chain of events would force us (John and I) to leave the group. This chain was: Looking for Sanders and Jen-Not finding them-going back to the car-seeing everyone drive down the road. John and I decided to hit the Big T. I had great luck the night before. When we made our way out of traffic, we found the group gathered and fishing. I decided to stay in my spot for the rest of the evening and it paid off. John and I caught enough fish to not remember exactly how many and even doubled up once. The fish in the small section that we were fishing were in the thousands and flying out of the water. it was a sight to behold. The day ended well with a good conversation with Stephanie, Dustin, and Emily. and we parted ways. Maybe until next year, maybe not. I did have a lot of fun though and I hope everyone else did too.Mentioning all of the great people involved in this is a task that I am not ready to tackle on my day off. I have fish to catch here and it’s getting late! However, Snaders, Jay, and Jen have good lists up.

 

Dear Loyal Readers

Dear fish nerd follower,

I write this letter to you because I haven’t yet had the spare time to write a full post as of late. Fishing has been great everywhere, wish you were here. Over the past few weeks I have been chasing browns around the front range with a friend and coworker, up into some wild land hunting lost fish, and chasing big brook trout up high country streams. Tomorrow I will be meeting up with the fishing frenzy attendees to frantically fish turf that I am not at all used to, but really excited for with some other bloggers. I’m not sure exactly how it will work out, but I figure if you throw a bunch of us into the same water, great results should come from it. I can’t wait for the morning to come. See you all there.

Sincerely,

-Dave- backcountryfishnerd

P.S. Here are some spoilers from last week.

The Unseen

“Not a soul in sight.” These were the first words to spew so eloquently from my lips for the day. Maybe it was the rain that chased everyone away. The river and I sat in silent communion for a few moments as I scanned the structure along the bottom for fish. Nothing, not a cruiser, not any fish. No people hiked the trail nearby that ran high into the country and up a few 14er’s It was only me, some water and no fish. The hours of driving to this destination were lost in excitement, but not for this kind of emptiness, Not for this kind of solitude.

I had hiked in this far, why not farther? Maybe it is just a fluke. I hiked. During this hike, I couldn’t help but to feel hunted by a local bear. The solitude only harbored the fear and cultivated it into the overwhelming feeling. In the midst of this also came the feeling to give it a try. A nice big hole presented itself around a bend and I tied on the most faithful bug and began to fish. My indicator dropped below the surface. Rock. Another cast, the indicator violently dropped. Fish. Where did it come from? Just a 3″ fish, but there were fish. The river was alive! Higher up the fish became bigger and bigger and in more numbers. 

I stopped and sat down on a rock close by. I knew that no one fished here. The trail is even close by. The fish were taking anything. How could someone overlook this place? If this is the case, what haven’t we found yet lurking in these mountains? Is there a lost trout that could call a place just like this home? Heck, is there a tribe of people out there somewhere that we haven’t found? This world is so big that one could slip by. That a few trout could be thought to be dead, but are only hiding. Was there a bear? Who knows, but I do know that this was one of the most fun trips I have had in a long time.

Lesson #15: Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t really there.

Hurry Up and Wait

Anticipation is a powerful thing. It has the ability to make you forget, no matter how prepared you are. This was a day that anticipation would lead to a forgotten camera, but even after that moment, it became the word of the day. 

Erin of Mysteries Internal decided to finally break down and go fishing with me. She is one incredible writer, and I’m sure that every reader of mine has also read her blog. If not, I would suggest that you do so. She is quite talented and the read will not let you down. We decided on a place in the Rocky Mountain National Park after debating a few more lengthy hikes. This was not so long of a hike and I really wanted to do some fishing in new water and do it fast. Prior to meeting Erin, I was kind of nervous. One particular reason was due to the fact that I would more than likely be out fished by a girl. Sometimes girls can be malicious about it. Upon meeting her, all of the thoughts I had, dissolved. I knew I would get along with her just fine. …but there were no crullers. Luckily I had scored a cheese danish and pumpkin spice coffee at the gas station on the way up. 

Our arrival to the lake was swift and efficient. After I almost died from all of the fluid in my lungs from being sick the previous week. Looking upon the lake was nearly startling. Everything about it just looked fishy and everyday at a new place it always starts with a layer of ice. That ice is only broken by catching the first fish. Erin quickly laid out 50′ of line on the water flawlessly as I fumbled around in my box thinking, “I hope my casting looks that good”. I’m still not sure that it did. At times, we spotted big cruisers and putting our flies on the nose of these fish only startled an already spooked fish. I blame the clarity of the water and the underestimated fish brain. Two hours went by. Not a nibble or tug. Just eerie silence and wind. We moved to the outlet side of the lake… Life…

We hooked into a few fish, but not long enough to bring them to shore and the previous fishing had been disappointing to say the least. There was only anticipation. It was Erin that broke the ice. Erin would catch that first fish. The rest of the day, it was on. A fish every handful of casts and bigger and better fish to be had.

The fish we were catching were supposed to be Greenbacks, but they are obviously tainted Colorado River Cutthroats.

The cold blew in and the rain began and we decided to leave, and in the end I had more than just a great fishing trip, I made a new friend. …again.

Thanks for the amazing trip and the wonderful photos Erin!

Up To The Knees In Cutts

Ah yes… Back up in the hills, back up in altitude, back to fresh air and fresh water, back up to snow and alpine peaks, and most importantly, back up to the Cutthroat that reside in that pristine world. All is right and perfect until that moment you realize it is a couple more miles to your destination. Those miles more filled than the previous miles with steeper climbs and other obstacles that tax the already burning muscles. Some might say a trip for the more rugged man, but it is a trip for the focused. One would never make it hiking alongside a river loaded to the brim with fish. Not that anyone in the party knew at the time, but you could tell the pools held fish and scores of them had never been caught. Keep moving past the perfect glacier water, past the porcupine munching on leafy greens, past the rock that curved around into the valley that held the lake.

Both the inlet and outlet to the lake seemed perfect. I’m sure every fisherman that continued this way knew the same. The Cutthroat knew and denied scores of flies. Partially because they were aware and partially because the meals were readily available. This combo always results in poor fishing. Not for John, the one in the group newest to fly fishing. This was truly his day. For Sanders and I, it was punishing. The fish were so quick to attack and quick to let go that it seemed as though we were doing everything wrong. Bumps on the indicator resulted in a fly with no fish attached and the dries seemed to just drift through the mouths of the fish.

Sanders, John, and I dined on bagel sandwiches for lunch and decided that it would be better for us to fish the inlet. Another walk past fishy water. The inlet showed us mercy and it wasn’t long before we were all into fish. The water was skinny and loaded with hungry cruising and rising fish. It seemed like the fish were still strangely attracted to John, who threw everything from giant hoppers to san juan worms. While Sanders and I were stuck with tiny midges and dries.

I was happy that Sanders made his way into the Greenback club. The first one is always the hardest, but on the way down he scored a few more. Even after his back injury, I’m glad he was able to join us on our mission of Cutthroats and maybe he will find himself on a few more back country adventures before the year is through. 

A Weekend With the Boss Pt:2 Tailwater Madness

In the hotel, we had access to a coffee machine. John’s plans had nothing to do with one. They did have to do with a french press and some freshly ground Hawaiian coffee beans. Nothing shy of brilliant if you ask me.  What, no access to heat either? Covered, thanks to a pack stove. To be honest it could have been the microwave, but the stove was used for dinner the night before. John likes his coffee strong, this was a matter of observation more than a stated question. The coffee did it’s thing in the bloodstream and the truck was packed before I even realized that I was awake. Where to now?

Destination 11 Mile: 

A couple of stops were made at certain secret locations to get our waders wet and fish some interesting water. As odd as it may sound, catching fish was not as high of a priority as fishing. To me, this does make sense in the way that John fishes. See, John doesn’t fish. He catches. Because of his catching ability, he reminded me of some things that I had forgotten over the past couple years and maybe taught me a few things as well. After going for a swim early in the day, Steven was repaid 2 fish for his karmic balance and a proud father stood close by cheering his son on. The kid is persistent and takes after his father. He out fished me during the morning session at 11 mile and I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t happy about it.

The day wore on with some of the most angry fish I had ever been up against. Wading in stiff current, you find yourself playing goal tender to incoming freight trains and if you are slow with a net, say goodbye to your fly and fish. 

As the evening settled in, John showed his skill with the big fish of the day.

We fished until we couldn’t see and the evening turned into night. A cigar, beer and recent memories played in our heads on the somewhat silent trip home and I had forgotten that all of this time I had been out fishing with my boss. It has been a long time since I had a weekend like that, maybe even a lifetime.

Lesson #14: Ants are harder to remove from waders than they are from pants. Be careful where you sit.

A Weekend With The Boss. Pt: 1 No shortage of Bad Days

The morning smelled of fish. Maybe it was from the rain the night before. Maybe it was the prophetic fishy senses that kick in upon the morning of fishing. It was too early to tell. 4:00am isn’t exactly the time for epiphanies, or prophecies for that matter. Heck, the sun wasn’t even ready to kick off the day yet. Thoughts of the day to come circled through my head and it wasn’t long before I began to think about the situation that I had gotten myself into. Fishing with the boss. Not technically my boss, but the boss above my boss. I packed to prepare for the day thinking that one fishes to get away from the stresses of work and everyday life. The reset button if you will. Many nights at work have been spent talking to “The Boss” (John) until well after my 10:00pm bedtime. I was worried that the conversation around riverside would revolve around work.

Destination: South Platte 

With John’s 13 year old son Steven in tow, the 3 of us traveled to more “Dreamy” locations of Colorado’s renowned South Platte River. The 2.5 hour drive felt much shorter than it was while sharing stories of the past. John is one of those people that has a bottomless pit of stories. He has been fishing for around 20 years and it isn’t difficult to gather those stories over that amount of time. A die hard fly fisherman to the core, and that same intensity rubbed off on his son. 

We arrived at some of John’s more well known water, where he knew all three of us could pick up some fish. Maybe it was also to feel me out as a fisherman or just a boatload of B.S. I assure you that I’m not a liar, but when it comes to the size of a fish, I might add an inch or two. Never 3. It took a little time to get on the water after setting up a lunch site complete with a table and chairs, and unheard of luxury in my world. We even had plastic utensils! When we did make it to the water, John was the first to quickly pick up a fish while I struggled with a hole that I knew held a monster. I missed a lot of strikes due to excitement. When I peered around the bend, Steven had caught his first one of the day as well. I still struggled. John picked off more fish from water that didn’t look like it even held fish and I was curious to know what I was doing so wrong. In my defense, I’m not used to fishing these medowy type rivers. I’m used to dense cascading water that races down the mountain. The fish that I brought to hand was a surprise and it didn’t take long for me to find a groove.

Lunch at riverside was amazing. John and I split a bottle of wine and munched on sandwiches and fresh fruit. Lunch couldn’t have been more complete unless we had cigars. Well, I guess we did that too. We relaxed for a while there and people began to peel off of the river, leaving only the three of us at 2:00pm. For the rest of the day we had the river to ourselves. Until the storm came uninvited.

John sent Steven to the car while we weathered the rain for a short time. This is where the story comes to a crashing halt. Hiking in the rain is not a problem, the cold isn’t even an issue when you have a dry destination before you. A dry destination we had indeed. While waiting for the storm to pass, we had a beer or two and laughed about times past while music gently played in the background. The music plays a significant role in the events to come, shortly. The storm wasn’t passing and the enjoyment that came from watching it was relaxing. After a couple hours, it was getting darker and time to go. The key went into the ignition and the starter turned the engine over. Once. Dead battery. It was getting dark and cold and no one was there to lend a helping hand. On top of that, we were in the middle of nothing on a nameless stretch of the South Platte. We were cold and wet, but we did have enough cell phone service to call AAA. It only took them an hour to get there, in any other condition I may have died, but they made it and jumped us. The hotel ahead was a luxury I have never experienced. As John cooked a pasta dinner I was already in and out of sleep. Shortly after eating, I was sawing logs and “Dreaming” of the day to come…

To Be Continued…

Archnemesis Poudre

We meet very interesting people in our lives. Even something as simple as blogging can bring people together. Aside from having fishing in common, bloggers tend to have the same addiction to talking about fishing during times it may be inappropriate. You just never know when it will come out, but some things just happen to trigger a fishing story. A deep conversation can begin here, but we have to move things forward. Feel free to comment with an awkward time to bring up fishing. It is our passion that fuels the stories and the stories to come. So far, Mike from Dry Flies & Fat Tires has shown me how passionate about fishing he really is and his excitement about it fuels the ones who have the chance to fish with him. Go check out his blog! Next, and my second experience with another blogger was Sanders from Up The Poudre.

Sanders and I have a lot in common when it comes to fishing. He gets a bit over-excited to fish and forgets some simple things like… Lunch. Well, so did I. Maybe we should both read Lesson #2 again. We met at 6am to head up Poudre canyon to fish Sanders’ home water. Water that I have never seen below 2,600 cfs, let alone fished, or even thought about fishing. I had no idea what I was getting into. This day it was 400 cfs. Driving up the canyon my eyes were alight at every hole, knowing that it contained massive amounts of fish. I recall telling Sanders more than a few times, “look at that hole”. I’m sure he knew them all, we were in his home water. However, we headed into new water for him as well. Our destination was a little higher up river. Our excitement grew as did elevation.

Sanders found his target spot quickly and soon we were off fishing without a hitch. …or so I thought. While crossing the river, I looked back to see Sanders holding a bag in the air proclaiming, “It’s dry! It’s dry!” Confused, I remembered the hole in my waders and felt the cold water begin to drain to my foot. When we arrived at shore, I learned that he had lost his footing. If it is any consolation, I almost peed my pants crossing the river. Maybe I did, but I was wearing waders. Who would know?

The day wore on with no fish to hand. Not really a problem to me. I’ve worn the skunk shoes before. This river was different. From midges to caddis to beetle and everything in between, nearly everything in my box. Buggers to emergers, and nymphs of all sorts. Failed. Then, a glimmer of hope from Sanders with his brown that didn’t seem to fight like one.

My day was complete at that moment. A fish to hand between us, not my hand, but we beat the river. No need to catch anything for the remainder of the day, I was happy.  Afterward, he suggested we move up river. Good suggestion I thought. Just a couple holes showed up and one provided me a fish. I could’ve fainted. I know it was a dink in comparison to the brown Sanders caught, but it was a brookie! We shared more laughs at the fishes expense and I was refilled with anticipatory fuel, but it was time to head down the Poudre. 

I struggled fishing perfect drifts through the best seams as Sanders practiced “new techniques” and started hauling in fish. It was late in the day and I’m sure a lot of laughter bounced off of the canyon walls as he pulled in miracle fish but sometimes even the fun trips have to end and return to that daily grind. Besides, there were no more crullers left and we were both hungry.

Before I finished writing this, I stopped by Up The Poudre and saw the headline of “A New Friend”. I haven’t made many of those in my life, but Sanders is one of them. I’m very glad and somewhat humbled to have the chance to fish with the guy. If you still haven’t gone to read his blog, go now.

Lesson #13: Although addicting, crullers are not a substitute for lunch.

That Old Familiar Sting

As dangerous a sport as hang gliding is, somehow it is unlawful over wilderness areas. Maybe due to the danger involved, but I wouldn’t know. It works though, as I am also hang gliding over the next two weeks, metaphorically. This post is really just a post to float me to the next week.

I woke up this morning to a certain freeze-you-to-the-core type of cold, knowing that the frontal boundary sailed over the front range. It’s insult to me unwitting, but harsh. The memory of last winter was still fresh in my head as I looked to the west and received the daily morning input of nicotine. In that moment, I inhaled the bite in the air and realized that cold was soon to come. Even this summer was not really summer here in Colorado. The summer here was reminiscint of a drawn out spring, keeping fisherman indoors, away from their fix. Keeping me away from the adrenalin rush, the puzzle solving, and the release of tension after a full day out. Keeping me away from those big fish.

Driving south on 225 on my way to work, my muscles began to itch with that familiar pull. The itch to manage tension between myself and a fish capable to accelerating to 20mph in one second, as fast a a Lamborghini. Muscles quick to release when hooking into a freight train. I pulled against the steering wheel to calm the nerves and relieve the itch to no avail. The accelerator pedal was on the floor to drive away the thoughts, nothing.

Arriving at work, my feet began to beg for uneven terrain, bored from slapping against flat ground. They needed to grip and pull dirt from an untrodden trail. My ankles wished to ascend. Even stairs did no justice, nor did running. As the work day progressed, the itch began to work it’s way to my knees that prayed for the resistance of flowing water against them, for the rush of cold waders pressing against them. My shoulders wanted to cast, and no amount of lifting subdued them. Oh, and that smell of fish on the hands… Need I say more?

Finally toward the end of the day, the itch was in my core. Pleading with me to balance all of these things, to wear out the itch in all places. Almost like making a deal with the devil, I replied with one word. “Sunday”

A Prolonged Goodbye

Lately, I have been fishing almost too much. Every second spent not working has been spent fishing. There are a few times that I have been out that I still have yet to write about. One of my favorites was a day on South Boulder Creek below Gross Reservoir. In that same area and the headwaters of Boulder Creek are the places I have been exploring lately. I’ve been spending a lot of time in the high mountains, in the still water butted against high alpine peaks and the most recent place was teeming with feeding fish.

The weekend started when Joe came to visit from New Mexico. After settling into Denver, we decided that a high country camping trip was in order. As far as my knowledge of Joe’s fishing adventures go, I can not remember a time that he has been to the high country to fish. At least not this high. We hovered around 11,000′ in one of the most spectacular mountain valleys I have seen to date. It was almost otherworldly. The flow out of the lake spilled down a cliff and the story was the same for the inlets to the lake. Like strings held by mountain peaks to hold up the lake.

The trek began the day previous, with Joe, Jace, Jacob, and I fishing some beaver ponds about 1,000′ below the lake. We fished while we waited for John to head up the mountain from work. It didn’t take long for “Dave’s roller” to start pulling fish from the river. Still small, but very feisty critters. The roller seemed to be the ticket for the whole trip. When John arrived we mentally prepared for the “2 mile” hike to come with sandwiches and other assorted tortilla holding material. Not to mention the unbelievable Cool Ranch Doritos and bean dip. If you have yet to try it, do it.

I woke up early to tie some extra Rollers and a quick breakdown of camp and we were off. Wait…

Ok, we’re off!

After hiking the 4.25 mile trail we couldn’t wait to get catching fish. Even at the entrance, they rose to the surface in numbers I barely fathomed. Early on in the day the fish were ultimately aggressive, but as the heat of the day wore on, the bite slowed to deeper water. We saw that water from a distance and there “Chewie” and the soon to be famous (not really) “R2D2″ shined in glory. 2 deepwater bugs found fish hovering around the bottom. Looking into 20′ of absolutely clear water is a sight to behold and watching a fish cruise through what looks like the air is even more spectacular. One of those things that you long for when your eyes close. Joe, John, and I had no trouble getting into the fish, but the kids seemed pretty intent on taking in the world around them. More than anything, the snow.

As each second of the day ticked by, it was one more cast, then we will go, one more fish and we are gone. So far from the truth. After quitting with the excuses of staying, we descended. Then ascended. Then descended again. Strange trail. The four of us were exhausted when we made it back to the truck. About a minute into the drive to John’s car, the kids were out like wet noodles in the bed of the truck while we relived the amazing day that we had.