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May flies . . .

Exploring for newness in the familiar

By Steven J. Meyers

Found in: | Outside | Fishing | Fly Fishing |

A good friend wrote a few weeks ago to say he was coming to town this week and after a few gracious preliminaries (How ya doin'? How's the family? The dog?), we got down to serious business. How's the fishin'?

I've written about it a hundred times, and I suppose I'll write about it a hundred more. I never get tired of reminding myself so I can tell others - there's no really bad time to be a trout fisherman here. It's just the nature of the experience that changes.

That goes for the heart of winter when many elsewhere are huddled inside fleece Snuggies, curled up with a good book (a time when in many places that are considered trout country you wouldn't even think of trying to catch a fish). Even then, there are days when trout rise to hatching flies just long enough (an hour, maybe two) to make a little trip to the Animas way more than just worthwhile. Those mid-winter afternoons when trout snouts poke the film to snag a passing Baetis are a tremendous antidote to cabin fever. For me, the best possible antidote.

Even now, in late spring, when Rocky Mountain anglers elsewhere are lamenting the snowmelt, their swollen rivers, the difficulty - even danger - of teasing a trout from a furious stream, we in southwestern Colorado are blessed with a year ?round fishery close by. And best of all, that river is largely neglected by wading fishermen once the water level is increased to make room for the snowmelt that pours into Navajo Lake.

All rivers experience a change in habitat with changing flows. Few, in my experience, change as dramatically as the San Juan. Fish don't just move around in the main watercourse looking for new holding and feeding stations, many entirely new "rivers" (secondary and tertiary channels, places where there was hardly any flow before) seem to appear. As the water rises and high flows finally stabilize, trout move into and become comfortable in these formerly still backchannels, and this is where the wading fishermen of spring will find both safe water and feeding trout.

Best of all, at this time of year the San Juan is not crowded with wading fishermen. Visiting anglers unfamiliar with the river and concerned about the high flows will float the river. Many local fishermen will wait for the river to drop before braving the water. For the fisherman who is willing to spend some time exploring the backchannels, this can be a great time of year.

And that's what I told my friend.

I'm doin' fine. Life is good. The family's great. The dog has cabin fever - but he'll get over it once the snow melts. Thanks for askin'. C'mon out!

There are a lot of things I would love to be able wipe clean and do again as innocently and ignorantly, as clumsily, as marvelously empty and waiting-to-be-filled as before. Young love. My first trout. My first steelhead.

I'm guessing I'm not alone in this.

Perhaps that's why we seek out wild rivers, untamed rivers. They surprise us. They are so often new, even when we think we know them. They change as snow melts, rain falls, or doesn't. But even the dammed San Juan can surprise you. Rediscovering its swollen backchannels each spring is always an adventure for me.

After months of walking well-worn trails, I discover that familiar dry ground has become a watercourse. Exposed, sandy paths that only a few months ago had been shimmering with heat waves and buzzing with gnats, full of the dart and flash of scurrying blue-tailed lizards - have become rivers, absent desert glare, filled suddenly with the burble and roar of rushing water. The place that was a dry hike has become a waist-deep wade and I am offered a chance to relearn it.

Perhaps I'll end up in one of the larger backchannels, a spot where I'd recently cast a long, fine leader carrying an impossibly tiny midge out over thin water to a finning trout. Now, in this same place, I will struggle to maintain my balance against the push of the river, throwing a nymph into a place I hope to find a fish. My eyes will follow that dent in the film where my partially greased leader breaks the surface tension, and I'll watch for the hesitation, the stutter, the tug of a take.

In the summer, fall and winter I'd fished this place with science-informed reason. Now, my fishing is informed more by hope than knowledge.

Like young love. My first trout. My first steelhead.

Like spring.

Steven J. Meyers is the author of On Seeing Nature, Lime Creek Odyssey, Streamside Reflections, The Nature of Flyfishing, Notes from the San Juans and San Juan River Chronicle.