For anglers, climbers, and mountaineers alike; after we spend enough time in an area - experiencing that area, learning that area, feeling that area - we develop a sense for that specific place and its personality. We develop a love and a unique passion for it and with it.
Growing up in Texas, fly fishing the hill country rivers, I developed a sense for San Antonio’s surrounding country. I could look at the water on a given day and know whether the fish would be acting a certain way. I could look at the skies above and determine what fly to pull out of my box; I could weave seamlessly between the rugged shrubs of the hill country, on game trails I’ve been following for years; back cast in spots I know there isn’t an obstacle behind, without even looking.
When I picked up for college to attend the University of Wyoming, I left behind the land I know for opportunity. For the mountains and the high plains. For exposure to something foreign, but within reach. The eagerness to explore, however, overshadowed the reality of what foreign really meant: struggle and lack of knowledge.
The reality of foreign took a while to set in. Most of us know that fly fishing isn’t about catching fish, rather; it’s about feeling a connection and developing a relationship with the area. What I forgot before moving for college is that nature is unforgiving. She’s shy. She makes you earn her beauty. And reminds you that relationships mean more only with time.
The first trip I took on my own was to a section of river I found on a map. This section was submersed in plots of private farmland, a range of the Rockies could be seen in the distance - the Snowy Mountain Range. Capped in white snow, the mountains cast their vast shadows on the bleached plains. Wildgrass as tall as me that spanned as far as the eye could see, and a steady flow of a sandy river that had spent the summer months wedging the clay cutbanks layered below my feet.
Cattle made their presence known, of course, following close behind as I explored this unfamiliar water. I had to peer over my shoulder to make sure that my fly didn’t graze angus before I whipped it past my ear and into the riffles of the river. I tried everything. The smallest dry flies, the most aggravating streamers, even nymphs. Not a fish in sight.
It’s all good. I’ll figure it out. I reminded myself after every excursion.
My first Western winter approached. Not a single fish landed in months. Still, I was optimistic though. As the lakes froze and the rivers slowed to a trickle, my time I’d usually spend fly fishing was replaced with pond hockey or playing my stand up bass, Bessy’s her name. February rolled around, and my angst to fly fish again was creeping back in. Days I should’ve spent studying for exams or completing homework turned into days of examining topography maps and calling fly shops. My goal was to find areas that were unpressured - havens for fish and for thoughts.
Now it was March, and I was ready. I had an endless list of pull-offs, trails, and ridges that would hopefully lead me to a newly discovered trout haven. The problem is that the water wasn’t. Still, the temperatures dropped into single digits. The third week of March boasted a high of 57 degrees, with a low of 9 degrees and wind chills in the negatives. Windows of good road conditions prompted me to at least give it a shot. I drove an hour South into Colorado to explore a new river and camp in my car for the night. My intention was to fish this spot thoroughly, to give it a chance. Or maybe for it to give me a chance.
Beige canyons and the sound of rushing runoff greeted me, as I slammed my car door shut with a single purpose for the first time in months. The canyons hid me from the sun’s warmth, and the light gusts bit my fingertips instantly. I slipped my waders on, trekked down a small trail and across a twenty foot bridge. Under the bridge were boulders getting pounded by rushing water. It was fascinating to me how just an hour South, the environment was completely different. Spring had started its move-in process here.
Realizing that the water before me was actually fishable, a spark of motivation tickled its way down my spine, fueling every step. I walked up and down the banks looking for fish activity. I searched behind every boulder in the water, under every tree trunk on the bank, within every riffle and run. Nothing. I finally decided to get in, submerging waist deep in the nippy water. I rolled my fly line ahead of me, and swept it across a few holes and riffles. I’d waded down to the next boulder. Nothing. The next cut bank. Nothing but snags and grass.
I hopped back onto the bank and decided to headman up-river, inspecting the water along the way. The river came to a bend where the canyon met it. A massive wall of rock adjacent to me, cutting into the river’s bottom. The gray and beige rocks were painted with patches of bright moss, clinging for life on the face of the canyon. The water spilled into the depths of a dark hole, shifting color from transparent to a deep blue. I lobbed my fly to the canyon’s face, practically smacking it before my fly plopped cone-first into the depths.
A long ten seconds passed, as I waited for it to sink. Strip. Strip. Str- my line clenched between my numb fingertips and the tip of my rod doubled over.
“Oh!” I let out with might. For a split second the agony of frigid toes and frozen snot was absent, and my breath sucked in all at once. Yes!
And then the rod loosened with a shake. I lifted my line out of the water. My fly was gone. That was the first tug I’d felt on a fly rod in six months. The plethora of emotions within a three second span left me with my first feeling of discouragement. My first fish in months, and the knot I tied sucked. Of course.
Spring conditions hadn’t made its appearance in Wyoming until late April. School ramped up, and time for exploring was sparse. Setting my sights on Summer, I prepped for my three month home on a fish hatchery grounds in the Green River valley. Surrounded by three mountain ranges, I knew this would be a perfect opportunity to dedicate my time to learning the land.
Driving across Wyoming’s plains, I caught sight of river bends and creeks. Every bridge I crossed, I peered over to see waves and currents of chocolate-milk stained water crashing against boulders and trees. After I arrived and settled, my first excursions into the alpine country were cut short by walls of packed snow. I couldn’t access the lakes I was looking for, nor could I possibly fish the blown out rivers.
A month later, my mom’s five year battle with terminal cancer came to an abrupt end. My life halted. My passion and motivation faded. I spent a month in Texas, handling its heat and the necessities that came with losing the most important person in my life. Within my mind was a miserable cell of cascading misery.
Once I returned to Wyoming, I went through with the motions of a working day. I explored close, but the drive wasn’t in me. I felt lost. I felt unfamiliar with myself - alone, in an unfamiliar scape, with unfamiliar thoughts. I couldn’t feel the excitement of getting lost in the backcountry. I couldn’t stand the pressures and despair that came with the seclusion I’d normally seek and enjoy. I couldn’t find my love for life. In fact, I found the complete opposite.
I continued, though, to venture. I looked for answers in the high, vibrant meadows of the Wind River Range. I coped through the burning sensation in my thighs, as I ascended above reality - above life - where the trees could no longer grow. I listened as I tried to get closer to her. As the wind carried her whispers through the glittering aspen leaves. And I saw her gaze in the eyes of magpies that monitored while I fled through the forests.
Her presence was with me more than ever. I found her. And me again.
The alpine wind blew through my hair, carrying the smell of sage into my nostrils. Shirtless, I stood knee-deep in crystal clear water. The bottom of the lake was lined with sand. It wedged its way between my feet and my sandals with every drag of my foot. The sun graced my cheeks and shoulders, intense at high elevation, but comforting like a warm shower.
Look, Ma. This is where we are.
A crack sounded across the surface of the lake, as a massive brick of blue ice split from its banks. A couple hundred yards behind me were foothills of the Wind River Range, and the headwaters of the Green River. Pines stood atop the big bowl of water in which I stood, and the sound of the faint pour of water in the distance from the creek that spilled into the glassy lake tickled my ear drums. A shadow cast over my shoulder, as an osprey soared between me and the sun. It circled overhead.
Oh, there’s definitely fish here.
My wet hair dangled against the lenses of my sunglasses. Through my strands of hair, I made out a ripple on the surface. I gasped internally, and locked my gaze on that section of still water. The lake reflected the sun into my eyes. Another ripple a few feet to the right. With no hesitation my left hand lifted to my reel, yanking line out as I whipped my fly above my head. The fly folded out onto the water before a small twitch of my rod, allowing some slack for a natural presentation.
Sip. The ripples appeared again - I yanked the tip of my rod toward the clear, blue sky - my rod doubled over with tension. I stripped again, maintaining tension at all cost. A tug at the end of my line, causing the tip to bounce around above my head. The battle I’d been waiting for for almost a year. The end of my line shot upward - a chrome colored rainbow trout flailed above the calm lake then splashed its way back beneath the surface. Drops of water peppered the water’s surface as my hand reached for line again. I stripped in the little rainbow despite its best efforts, and nestled it headfirst into my net.
About 20 more feisty rainbows made their way into my net that day. The next stream I fished resulted in big brown trout resting in my net, and the next - a few cutthroats landed. An array of gorgeous red rocks, prairie sage canyons, groves of teeming aspens, or snow capped Tetons surrounded me on every cast. Summer came to a close with a few fish under my belt, finally. Still, there were unfamiliar emotions that made their way into my head, but I knew that every answer lie behind the wonders of nature. Over every incline, within every current, a new lesson was to be learned. A new experience or memory to be made. And she was with me through all of it.
I made my way back to my college town to settle into a new house and begin a new school year. The two weeks of leisure before the first semester, I spent cleaning the new house my roommates and I were moving into. My free time was spent venturing into the surrounding alpine lakes and trails. I had days full of brook trout on dry flies, golden trout in pristine lakes. The school year began, slowly, and weekends were filled with some more cutthroat trout and even some grayling.
Fall started to settle in, as the plains grass began to bleach again and mornings in the mountains were accompanied by flurries. Brown trout in the rivers began their transition into spawn. Their black spots turned bright red, while their gill plates flushed with dark gray with an accent of teel. The bellies on them were bright gold and their tiny teeth protruded, ever sharper. A weekend of fishing with my friend and brother, Michael Montes, made its way into my calendar. I parked my SUV next to his for the first time in over a year, before I met him and his parents for dinner that night. For some reason, it provided me with a comforting sense of nostalgia.
The next morning, we set out to unfamiliar water. We were going to learn this one together. The river, low yet mighty, flowed before us. Gravel crunched under our boots as we crept toward a clearing between trees, where the bank was accessible. I followed the flow of the river with my eyes. Looking downriver, a bright red wall painted across the sky. The banks lined with elms, a vibrant shade of yellow, with maroon shrubs taking refuge beneath them. The pines had thin layers of powder resting on their needles, as the remnants slowly dripped away.
The morning was slow, but beautiful. The air cold enough to nip the nose, but the sun mighty enough to warm our backs. I’d find a gravel bank to sit, watching Michael hurl a fly to the opposite bank. Then we’d switch. He’d sit in the shade of a pine while I swung mine through a pool at the bottom of a riffle. Morning turned to noon, and layers were shed off our backs. The river trickled to an opening, where it spread out - the bed of the river became deeper. The open banks allowed for the presence of the red canyon to be more felt, as the sun illuminated off the red rocks and colored leaves.
Between a boulder, before where the water spilled into deepness, I let my fly drift, slowly pulling it in with long strokes. Not a thought scathed my mind other than the overwhelming beauty of the landscape before me. Quickly that changed. The fly line yanked through my fingertips - my reaction to set the hook by yanking back - it felt like I set the fly directly into a rock. But that was debunked in a second by the slack in my line disappearing into the reel on my rod, and the spinning of the handle.
“Whooooo! I’m on!” I yelled to Michael up river. “It’s a pig!”
It was. After a hard fought battle, Michael was able to net an 18 inch cutthroat-rainbow trout hybrid. Its yellow belly folded over my wet fingers. The sun glared off its rosy cheek and dark green back.
“Nice, dude! It’s a freakin’ hog!” Michael said, as I reached my fist out for some knuckles. From then on, the day flew by with whooping and hollering from a couple anglers who knew what fly fishing was all about. Bonds.
There’s an indescribable feeling that comes from being successful in a new area, whether by yourself or in a shared attempt. I spent most of my first year in this new area with nothing less than struggle and stress. In it, I continued to search for something I didn’t know I wanted, and ended up finding more along the way. I found success, in a sense. I found despair and resent. I found my mom, again and again. I found my way back to a friend, family. I found a home, wherever I went.
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