4 minute read
POOLS AND RAPIDS: A FISH STORY
Next Article
The wind blew steadily downriver, biting at any flesh not appropriately cocooned—in my case, six layers of thermals—fleece and Gore Tex, topped off with a sturdy lifejacket. Arcing low in a clear sky, the sun offered scant warmth. My fingertips felt rough and clumsy as I rebuilt Pete’s leader and tied on a fresh rig—an attractor with a small soft-hackle nymph behind. I silently hoped he’d manage to keep these on for longer than the ten minutes he’d been averaging so far. Pete’s buddy sat in the front of the boat, hands tucked deep between his chest and lifejacket, staring off into the distance. I turned and handed the rod to Pete, then pointed across the river.
“See that patch of foam over there, in the back eddy between those rocks?”
Pete nodded. “There’s a fish working the underside of the foam. Every now and then you’ll see its tail or fin break through the surface.”
The foam patch—the color and consistency of a head of freshpoured Guinness—was about three feet in diameter, nestled in the lee of a small bluff jutting into the river. Dark flecks marred its surface—blue-winged olive mayflies, blown to the fringes of the river by the wind, and trapped in the foam like ants in treacle. The fish worked the foam leisurely, confident in the knowledge its prey was not going anywhere, itself safe from predation concerns of its own. As if on cue, a dorsal fin split the foam as it rose to take one of the blue wings. Pete nodded again.
“I’ll row us over there and hold the boat out from the eddy while you chuck it in there. We’ll only get a few seconds drift before the current pulls the line out, but that
WIN A TRIP TO FLOAT AND FISH THE FAMED "GUNNY GORGE”
PRIZE RETAIL VALUE: $3,400
Prize includes a 2-day float trip for 2 on Gold Medal Waters to fish the legendary Gunnison Gorge as well as lodging and dinner the night prior to launch. On the float all meals are taken care of, and if rental equipment is needed, it will be provided. Raffle drawing will be held Saturday, April 25, 2020 at 8pm. Winner need not be present to win.
Raffle Tickets are 1 for $10 or 3 for $25
may be enough.”
I shoved the boat off the sand bar, jumped in and took up the oars, working against wind and water, ferrying us toward the bluff. Pete’s first two casts were blown several feet downstream before he adjusted and landed the flies on the edge of the foam. The current pulled at the line, slowly drawing the attractor downstream. Right when it was about to be dragged under, the attractor took a sharp dive down and back towards the center of the foam. Pete lifted, and immediately his rod tip bent to the weight of the fish, which made straight for the depths of the pool, pulling line from the reel.
I dug the oars deeper against the elements, grateful for the hook up. It had been an hour since we’d last seen sign of a fish. The wind was making a mockery of cast and mend in equal measure, while the occasional good drift they had managed went unrewarded. Suddenly, the line cut the water downstream as the fish charged for the other end of the pool, and then leaped, visible to us for the first time. The brown, all of sixteen inches, was now riding the pillow at the tail of the pool where the water transitioned from flowing upstream into the eddy to downstream into the next rapid. I hoped that it would be as reluctant to leave the sanctuary of the pool as I was.
“Holy heck! That’s the biggest fish I’ve ever seen.” Pete’s buddy sat up straight in his seat, daydream over. Pete played out line, allowing the fish back upstream behind us.
I groaned and hauled harder on the oars, shoulders protesting. “Don’t let it back up there. I can’t go back, you’re gonna have to turn it.” We hovered for a few seconds longer in the transition water, before the wind, picking up again, pushed us downstream into the next rapid.
“I’m trying. I don’t want to horse it and lose this one.” Pete put the breaks on his reel and the fish turned and followed us downstream. Just then, there was a curse, and there sat Pete—staring at his line now slack in the water, flies gone.
“Dang it, I really wanted that one.”
His buddy looked back upriver wistfully. “We can’t row back up there, can we?”
“Nope.” I eased the boat to shore once more, warming my fingertips to tie yet another rig. “Not unless you want to be the one to row us.”
Hayden Mellsop Fly fishing guide. Real Estate guide.
About The Author
Hayden Mellsop is an expat New Zealander living in the mountain town of Salida, Colorado, on the banks of the Arkansas River. As well as being a semiretired fly fishing guide, he juggles helping his wife raise two teenage daughters, along with a career in real estate.
5IFEJõFSFODFCFUXFFOMPPLJOHGPSZPVSTQFDJBMQMBDFBOEmOEJOHJU Recreation, residential, retirement, investment.
1JOPO3FBM&TUBUF(SPVQ4BMJEB 0öDF]$FMM XXX)PNF8BUFSTDPN INFMMTPQ!QJOPOSFBMFTUBUFDPN
