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Then, winter came . . .

By Steven J. Meyers

Found in: | Outside | Fishing | Fly Fishing |

Winter fell with a terrible suddenness . . .

Yes. A clich�. I know it. Please forgive me for clearing my throat in public like this. It's rude; evidence, too, of an utter lack of originality. I had planned to put down those words, move on and write the piece, and in the final rewrite take them out. But damn it, winter did drop on us this year like a ton of bricks. In retrospect, I've come to realize that winter's arrival after one of the shortest but prettiest autumns I've seen in my 34 years in the San Juans didn't end anything. It simply ushered in another fishing season I adore. My problem is that I always hold onto autumn tenaciously, it always takes awhile for me to remember that the transition from autumn to winter really isn't the end of anything. For trout fishermen in other parts of the country, the coming of winter might mean hanging up the waders for a few months, but not here, not in the valleys beneath the San Juans.

This past fall the colors were beyond stunning. I spent my childhood autumns in the hardwood forests of the east. The variety of deciduous trees there is legendary. So too, their brilliant fall colors. Here, the variety of species at any one elevation is more limited. Up really high, the tundra sometimes puts on a show. A bit lower down aspen turn gold, cottonwood change colors in the riparian paths that wind through broad panels of evergreen. In the valleys, species that turn in the fall some years show their colors only in subtle variations. Reddish browns in the gambel oak. Yellows in the valley cottonwoods and willows.

This year it was different. Every year it occurs-an autumn of brilliant colors-I hear a different explanation. It was the wet spring. It was the dry summer. It was hot. It was cold. The moon was in the seventh house, and Jupiter aligned with mars. Or not. But holy cow, the colors were astounding this year. On the north slope of Animas Mountain behind our home, the ponderosa remained green while the dense gambel oak flamed brilliantly in every shade of orange and red. Red. Real red. Red like the best I'd ever seen in the maples of Vermont. Yellows and oranges in the valley cottonwoods shimmered during long brilliant days against a sky so blue it seemed painted that way. The days were soft and warm. The nights cool. The fishing in the valley rivers was red hot and pictures of 5- and 6-pound brown trout taken on flies graced the pages of the local newspapers.

Then, winter came.

A winter storm rolled in blowing the leaves off the trees and onto the ground. During the last week of October, eight inches of snow piled up at our place while reports of two-feet and more came in from the high country. When the storm moved out and the skies cleared an arctic blast followed. The first night after the storm it was record cold. Eleven degrees. The next, near record cold. Fourteen. In the wake of winter's arrival, the high country streams were numbed into slumber, and I put to rest any dreams of fishing them in November, of walking the stream banks and the woods between favorite places accompanied by the crunch of fallen leaves underfoot. The leaves had fallen, alright, but they were immediately buried in snow.

An ending.

And a beginning.

The expectations of a winter angler are different from those of a summer fisherman spoiled by long days or an autumn fisherman giddy with the presence of fall color and the hope of a huge autumn trout. Gone are the magical outings when it seemed the presence of trout food continued from dawn until dark, and the only time it was unreasonable to expect to catch a fish was when you were not fishing. Winter fishing often becomes good only after the one hatch of the day appears. Sometimes, that hatch lasts for an hour. Sometimes less. Sometimes, it fails to appear at all. But during the short days of winter, unlike the gaudy days of fall, an hour of trout snouts breaking the surface to nab little olive bugs can add a measure of color undimmed by competition. The riverside trees have become black scribbles of limbs against the sky. The banks, devoid of green leaves and colorful berries, becomes smears of monochromatic growth. A bright trout or two, speckled and shiny, fought for a minute or so, held and revived only long enough to ensure its wellbeing, brings a bit of brilliance into a wintry world that sometimes badly needs it. I can think of no better way to find it. No better time to appreciate it.

Winter came suddenly this year. Some years fall lingers longer. But whenever winter arrives, it brings with it a special time for an angler lucky enough to call southwest Colorado home.