exercise in moderation

is what the cardiologist suggested. Usually in summer I like to do trail runs up to high mountain lakes and streams, fish a bit, then run back. She advised that climbing 2-3000ft up a mountain, with heart rate near max for several hours, does not qualify as moderate. Who knew ?

The last time I did that, figured I had probably another nine years. Turns out to be zero. Indulging myself in strenuous exercise has always been my drug of choice, never realized until now that it was an overindulgence like any other.

Ran a couple of times since the doctor advice, easy 3 miler around the park, which went fine except the bum left knee woke up from its slumbers and started paining again. Back on the bicycle it is, then.

Instead of the trail runs, decided on a backpack in to the high country. Theoretically this was mostly to scout an area for elk hunting. All my elk hunting is theoretical as they are hard to find come hunting season.  Packed in a Fenwick 75-5 with a nice lightweight Battenkill III reel, by way of solace in the moments when not failing to find elk sign. By concentrating and throwing things out, I was able to keep the pack under 30lbs, food water and all, which is a personal record of sorts.

Not quite at the trailhead, did not trust my 2wd on that road, instead parked in this pretty meadow/dispersed camping spot and walked the half mile.

This is me resisting temptation and not fishing the stream yet. I had miles to go and spots to scout. There was more water than expected, always happy to see the streams running well, though it does make crossings slower.

About six miles in after walking in from behind that far ridge. These burn areas are basically feedlots for the elk, growing full of elk chow. The fire was in 2002. Oddly there has been no new tree growth - no new pine or aspen yet.

The heart rate stayed down but the legs quit on me.. after about 8 miles the bum knee was complaining, heel bursitis had flared up, and the muscles didn't want to lift anything anymore, never mind me plus a 30lb backpack.

It's a sign ! at last, a sign !
Not sure what it means though.. 

The trail (on L of picture) was so faint I kept mistaking game trails for the route, winding up puzzled in the middle of deadfall and blowdowns. Since the fire the trees have been falling steadily producing these lush meadows crisscrossed with logs. I've watched elk delicately stepping through the pick-up-sticks but my legs are not long enough for that dance. 

By this time there were more elk hoofprints on the trail than bootprints or horse hoofs. Can you spot the elk in this picture ? 

Me either, but they are somewhere.  None of the spots up this trail panned out. There was a fine little campsite with evidence of someone's hunt success.

Back down to the stream, which has a nice meadow section here. There were rises going on among the weedbeds. It's very unusual to see this kind of weedy meadow section in the high country.

I waited until the trail went down to another crossing, where there were more rises. Oddly these fish were selective to the microcaddis hatch going on. They're supposed to be easy up here.. got a couple little brookies to about 9", fat and healthy, no pictures as they flopped off while I was trying to pose them.  I have some #18 Henryville caddis that usually work well for this, back home in the everything bag. #14 Goddard was the smallest in the bag today which was not good enough.

The plan was 13 miles and 2400ft ascent to camp on a trout lake at about 6pm, with time for a few casts. Camped instead on a fishless lake about 2 miles and 400ft of climbing short of goal. It was still a good camp.  And there was evening,

and there was morning,

Legs felt oddly good to knock off the two miles over to trout in 45min. The fish were rising..

and the views couldn't be beat.

Caught that handsome 13" in the picture on a beetle. Spent some time on a nice 16" that was ranging around fast and rising sporadically, further down the bank. First attempt left the beetle out there for several minutes, then as I moved it he was coming up and sheered off. Several other flies got refusals - he'd race up toward them then turn down with a dismissive flick of the tail. Still I had my entertainment. 

Quit and went looking for elk spots again. One of these looked really good. Not co-incidentally there was a big outfitter camp a mile away.

On the way down there was a tiny brook through a meadow. At the stream crossing there were half a dozen brookies in this little pool. Let them be, wondered about the lower reaches.

Another six miles out and dragging again, took a long slow time. A good walk though. Here the fireweed blooms in the old burn. That's also elk chow.

My  favorite thing to do in the truck is to sit on the tailgate and drink a cold beer, after a hike/canoe/backpack/fish. Did that.

Stopped by a roadside stream for a bit. Brawling little creek, tough going along the banks and the weedy rocks. There were fish everywhere. This 11" brookie,

a 10" rainbow, 

and a number smaller. This was the simple fishing I'd expected after the long walks, but here it was on the road. Oh well at least it was there, somewhere.

on not catching cutthroat trout 2014

This started life as a post on fiberglassflyrodders.com. The images vanished with time.
2014 is history now, so I remember the past in the hope of repeating it. As Max Beerbohm said, history doesn't repeat itself, historians repeat each other.

If not catching fish, might as well do it somewhere high and handsome..

5 miles hike into Rocky Mountain National Park, up from 8500ft to 10 000ft. On the way up we met an 83-year-old man turning around at the creek where the bridge had been washed out by last years' floods. He said he didn't want to take his old bones hopping across those rocks anymore, but he could still get up and down the trails, so he did. My role model for getting older.

Ken did get two cutts, here is one.

This is what we used to think was the native Colorado greenback cutthroat trout. Following DNA analysis, turns out to be just a subspecies of the Colorado River cutt, finely adapted to its life in the high country. See the article by Erin Block in the TU Trout magazine Fall 2014.

Ten years ago this lake and drainage was full of these beautiful cutts, 8-12" long on average, with the occasional 15" monster. We had not been up here in years and found the cutts have been outcompeted by the brook trout, which tend to overpopulate and get stunted in this environment. So we caught about 60 fish between us, 58 of them small brook trout 4-6", pretty little fish but not the outrageous beauty of the natives. I did not take any pictures of them, being haunted by the ghosts of the vanished cutthroat and too sad to photograph the meager brookies.

We spent a couple of hours bushwhacking down along the stream, in case the cutts were holding out in some remote pool or riffle. Here I am trying to look as inconspicuous as a tree.

Shortly after this I fell backwards into another tree and ripped my ancient Red Ball waders apart. That began a five year quest to find a pair of waders as good, detouring through a lot of cheap wet waders and damp feet, before culminating in $400 Simms. The Red Balls cost $20 and lasted over twenty years. I'm suspending judgement on the Simms until then, I should live so long. So far they've outperformed. That means staying dry - waders have one job. Apparently it's no longer possible to make dry waders at the sub-$400 price point.

All down the stream, nothing but shoals of desperate brook trout. 

Here's my Fibatube (Hardy) 3 1/2 weight, dragged off the dusty back shelf. This doesn't get much exercise in the mountain West, as I prefer a longer rod for the open streams and lakes and winds we usually encounter. However it's perfectly suited to the tree tunnels of the small high streams, had forgotten how it will happily cast nothing more than a tapered leader accurately and easily.

The original 6'1" was too short for me, so added a butt extension and built the handle over that, to make a 6'10" rod. The first time I took it out on a backpack trip in the Drakensberg, it ran into a big rainbow on one of the low lakes, a shock for all concerned. Next trip found a 19" brown in a tiny stream at dusk, after catching little rainbows all day - nearly fell flat on my back as the fish rushed off three pools upstream. The luck tapered off after that unfortunately. Still it catches fish to the full extent of its powers, hindered only by the fisherman.

Here's the brown, dead. Catch and kill in those days. Them's good eating. 

The reel is an Argus 56LT. At first thought it was a copy of the Orvis CFO, but after looking at the Abel in Ken's picture, maybe it's copying that ?  Either way it's a nice little reel, a good copy and well sized for a DT 4wt and some backing. It has a devilish small elbow spring in the retaining clip, which I lost twice and found once. Now it has an artisanal spring handmade from safety pin wire.

Five miles back out and down in the gloaming, to a fine burger and beer at Oskar Blues Brewery in Lyons - highly recommended.

Next day we tried a big Wyoming river. On the drive in a big old moose crossed the road, stopped in the middle to glare at us, and took his time shambling across. This was supposed to be an easier hike, into the canyon from the plains,

Unfortunately we got a mite confused (as Dan'l Boone used to call getting lost) and wound up going up and down the canyon sides a couple of times, without benefit of trails. It was real pretty though, and we walked up on another moose resting in the shade on top. He was a young fellow, a fine glossy black beast, who looked at us in horror and ran off, all elbows and knees. Here we are about to clamber down the 500ft back to the river again.

The fishing was awful slow, so we slogged out and hiked in to a different creek further down the drainage. This is the first time in 15 years of fishing together that Ken and I didn't have good catching. Ken was grumbling that his good-luck charm (me) had stopped working, I grumbled right back that my WY guide (him) wasn't up to snuff anymore.. 

One nice brown in the new creek as consolation, and a smattering of smaller ones. Pretty anyway.

On the drive out there was a family group of moose (meeses ? mice ?), papa, mama, and baby, browsing next to the road. These were quite unperturbed by us but the light was low, so no good pictures. Here's a fuzzy pic of papa.

high country 2019

The snows of yesteryear await the snows of September.

The last few years between family, work and etceteras, once a year in the high country is about the best I can do. Last year was October, this year I made it up early, in September. It took me some time to write it up, thinking slowly and moving even slower.

It was supposed to be a trail run on the way up. Between the rocks, steepness, and my getting old, there was much more walking than running. Expected 5 miles and a bit over an hour, turned out to be 6.5 miles (2500 ft climbing) and nearly two hours. Here's a brief runnable bit of trail.

I was puzzled by the presence of a couple of hefty guys in waders setting up on Betty lake as I arrived, stringing up fish (illegally). They did not sound or look like backpackers, and certainly didn't hike in ahead of me unless they started in the deepest dark. Alpacas ? Llamas ? dudes dropped off by horsepackers ?  Later research shows there is a 4wd road from Winter Park side up to Rollins pass, from where there is an easy mile downhill walk to get to Betty. Oh well I enjoyed it more with the sweat crusting on my shirt. Also, in terms of elapsed time from home, it's just as quick to run up, as drive around the mountains to sneak in from the backside, and way pleasanter than dealing with traffic.



Numbers of pretty little cutts like this, fast action but I couldn't hook them for some reason. I'd try to tighten on 15-20yds of line blown by the wind, and get a heap of flyline at my feet with only a distant swirl for entertainment. The rod is built on a cheap Chinese 4wt fiberglass blank, somehow always seem to pick it for these excursions. It's slower than I prefer but once I can relax, it will lay out long casts with minimal false casting. The 9' 3wt graphite would be a much better wind rod in these high lakes but not as much fun on the smaller fish.



As much of paradise as I expect to see.



Went up to the little stream between the lakes. It was full of fish, no easier but I like sneaking the little pools. Dropped the flies in there and he sailed out from under the bank.



Crawled up to the end of the trail, leaving the (relatively) easy lake.



Bob is a deep rocky lake, with not much evidence of life. One good fish cruising the shallows.

 




As I was catching this fish, four guys skied down from the Divide on that dirty patch of snow. One of them is standing just at the edge of the lower patch of snow in the picture. Saw them later and said it seemed like a lot of walking for a little skiing. They probably thought the same thing about my fishing.





Thunder rolled in and it was time to beat feet. Usually September in CO is calm, mild and reliably sunny through the day. Now we broke the weather, anything can happen.



Down to the little stream to see what lives there.



It always amazes me, even after many such experiences, to find the size of cutt that can grow up in these tiny creeks. I looked at this run and thought, 'no cover there, can't be a fish' then saw a slim brown shape working in the current. The hardest part of casting in these streams, is keeping the flies from hanging up on the bankside vegetation.

The first brook trout of the day was also the last fish, as I ran out of time.

 

I'd hoped to fish one of the bigger creeks below for its mix of little brooks and bows. By the time I got there we'd had a couple inches of rain and hail. The stream was running high and colored brown.  Also I was cold and wet and old, no longer up for gnawing the last thirty minutes of fishing out of the day.

Another year redeemed by a day outside. As Dead Horses sing,

I just wanna go where the soft wind blows
And the mountains are covered in the cloud shadows

the triple luck GT

Way out in the Dampier islands, brother Charles knows a good place. Andrew and I peppered the shoreline surf with a variety of lures and caught a small Giant Trevally apiece. A small Giant ? it's a proper name for the fish best identified as Caranx Ignobilis, not ignoble but in Latin obscure or unknown. This tag was presumably given for its relative obscurity to the Swedish naturalist who first saw a specimen, in the fine frenzy of naming following Linnaeus.

We took a break to snorkel in a quiet bay. Andrew swam ashore with lures in his hat and a rod in one hand, to try luck from there. He's out of sight on the far shore, where the waves become silver as the big GTs flash in their turning hunts.

The waves surged around the point that is just out of view to the right of this picture.  It seemed to me the best use of my time would be to pound the eddies with repeated casts, hoping for a marauding stray. The GTs tend to prowl the reef edges. A few casts to an eddy for trout would either spook the fish or catch them, but here the hopeful repetition might even work. There is a sort of zen satisfaction to be had anyway, in putting the cast exactly where needed, over and over though nothing happens but the changing water.

The lure is a GT Ice Cream Needlenose, looks like not much, until retrieving at a good speed. Then it dances across the water much like an escaping lunch of tasty fishlet.

A heavy swirl missed the first strike, then made no mistake on the second attempt. By the time I'd recovered my wits the fish was a good hundred yards away and moving well.

This is my triple-luck GT -

luck 1, was using a rod borrowed from Andrew, with way more power than my little travel inshore reed;

luck 2, the fish ran straight out some 200 yards instead of out and around the corner into the coral;

luck 3, my good guide Charles got the boat moving to follow it out, not sure I'd have won back those 200yds without getting reefed on the way.

This shows how far off the island we went in pursuit.

The fish looks distinctly annoyed. I was perfectly happy. 

In a sense this fish was wasted on me. As Roderick Haig-Brown wrote about pike, 

To create a legend, time is needed. There must be time for stories to grow and men’s minds to work upon them and build them larger yet, time for eyes and minds made receptive by tales already told to collect and magnify new fragments of evidence, time for partisans of the growing myth to raise about its essential points a hedge of protecting dogma. These fish have every necessary quality - size, strength, ferocity, a cruel cold eye, a wicked head and a love of dark waters.

Andrew has been thinking about a good GT for years, investing time money and imagination into preparing: the right lure, rod, line, practicing the knots to hold in the terminal tackle. 
I had not put the dreaming time in to be ready. 


On the other hand - in 2003 I'd hooked a smaller GT of 10 pounds or so on a fly rod, which fish wrapped the line around two different coral bommies in short order. Charles swam out and freed the line from the first. The second was in twenty feet of water with a strong tide ripping over it and sharks circling. We broke the leader so the fish could escape. That fish I'll remember while memory remains. 

Thanks to niece Dr. Exceptional Jessica, for the pictures.. 

Rocky Mountain trout

We go hopefully down to a famous river. Usually I avoid famous rivers with their sophisticated fish and crowds. Today @_andy_man is here from Australia and keen on some famous Rocky Mountain trout, plus friend Greg is a habitue on this stream who can guide us.

Greg seined the top of the run above the pool, came up with expected midges, caddis, and also two stonefly nymphs, a golden and a black.

These are basically trout candy, like Snickers bars or cheeseburgers and fries. The golden was passive, the black crawled around vigorously, lifting its head to look around. I was reminded of Patrick O'Brian's line, "like an intelligent spaniel that thinks he just heard someone taking down a shotgun".

Cold morning and nothing seen in the clear green waters.

I fish sitting down, which does not deserve a response.

 Standing up didn't change the luck though.

Eventually a couple good ones showed up in the big lazy eddy at the head of the pool. They were mostly loafing though and swam oblivious past our offerings. This is what I'm used to from famous fish though, am mostly inured to being ignored.

Niece Dr. Exceptional Jessica was along for the excitement of watching us catch nothing. Luckily she had Trevor Noah's autobiography to read on the cold island.

After some time a couple of fish showed up deep, mouthing something. A nice frisky 15" brown took the pheasant-tail nymph about 3 feet down.

A few rises started to appear in a flurry of light snow, then saw the blue-winged olive mayflies coming off.. a veritable hatch of mayfly, never actually fished one of those before. Fortunately I had bought a number of BWO tiny flies based on the assumption that Greg would drag me out to one of these famous places. Thanks Greg.

A #22 parachute BWO (see pic below) worked beautifully as long as it got a drag-free drift, which seemed to need a leader terminating in four feet of a lighter line than I'd usually fish, 6x. The actual flies looked to be more an #18 to me but that size didn't work nearly as well. The fish would wise up after a couple of drifts and move over to the far side of the current, fall back, move up, etc, so it was necessary to change up occasionally or rest them. I lost count of fish landed, though it is true I can't count very high, deliberately forgetting numbers after a hand or so.

Andrew is a fine saltwater and bass fisherman (here with a queenfish) but had not attempted finicky tailwater trout before.

He hooked and lost one on a #22, then switched to a #6 beadhead green woolly bugger, and caught two good fish on that. So much for selective tailwater trout.

 Here's a #22 fly on a quarter, and a #6 woolly bugger to contrast.

My best fish was a brown trout about 18" in one of the snow flurries. He rocketed up from the green deeps, turned back down across the pool and ran up, into a sort of fold in space/time. The line arrowed into the water, extending clear to the other side, a white curve in the clear green: yet the fish was still running, apparently through rock.

Charmed and a little astonished to land it. A couple of fish later hooked a strong 18-19" rainbow which popped the knot on his second run. That was entirely my fault for not retying. Here's another picture of the brown, to salve the memory of the broken-off fish.

Interestingly I could see the #22 fly on the water often enough to keep track of it, even when the vitreous detachment blurries came sweeping over my vision. It was a pleasant surprise to find this and fish without any strike indicator. It's likely I could have caught more fish with a trailing pheasant-tail nymph, but was getting a good deal of fun out of the simplicity of a single dry and the challenge of getting it to drift free. The water was clear enough to be able to distinguish browns from rainbows as they hung in the feeding lanes.

The hatch tailed off in the later afternoon, but still had the odd riser rolling up in the slacker water. I tried a number of drifts downstream to what I thought was a big brown, taking flies all around mine but not it. Sneaked around to get a different drift and retied with a longer leader and smaller fly. By this time I was cold enough that thinking wasn't going too well and the fingers had turned into bunches of sausages. The retying took about 15min by which time I fully expected the trout to have stopped rising. On the fourth drift he sailed up and took the fly down with just the same rise form as all the others, how delightful. Ran strongly for the rapids out of the pool, surprised that the 6x held, landed him an 18” rainbow, and called it a day.

My apologies to Greg and Andrew as I think I got a little over-focused there. It's that fish lust problem again - fishing as if my dinner depended on it, emitting the occasional half-crazed monomaniacal cackle when a fish takes.