The Ritual of Summer Trout
a High Country Habit
“You have to pee on his tire. It’s tradition,” my friend Jack said to me with a chuckling grin. I laughed it off, not able to tell if he was completely serious. I’d only met the truck owner an hour earlier and I wasn’t looking to sour the relationship so quickly.
I walked a few yards to stretch my legs, returned to grab my gear out of the truck, and saw a fresh puddle under the tire. “Damn, they’re serious about this” I thought. After all, it was opening day in the backcountry.
“Terrestrials work well here. Dicks work too. We caught a ton of fish on dicks last year”. I glanced at Sean’s hat. There was a small, foam set of genitals hooked into the crown of his cap. Not something I’ve ever seen in a fly shop before… but if these two recommend it out here, it’s as good as gospel… and no one knows trout gospel like homegrown anglers. I quickly learned these two fished here every year, religiously.
Despite the jest of phallic fly patterns, both the seriousness and excitement for the season’s first outing were palpable. We woke early to secure the first spot at the gate… even joked that the car would keep rolling if someone had to get out and show our backcountry pass to the ranger at the visitor’s center. 30 minutes down dirt roads and I didn’t even suspect water, let alone sizable trout, in these parts. There were no signs, and fewer distinguishable landmarks for a first timer like myself. I gazed out the window as the two in the front regaled fishing and hunting stories at each bend in the road. A few brief intermissions to set my expectations. “The water’s really skinny… this grass is a nightmare to cast in by the end of summer… this stretch is hit or miss… we caught a nice cutthroat last year in that section”. All the while, Sean’s foot staying heavy on the gas to secure prime real estate.
We reached the furthest pull off, broke out the rods, and eyed the stream. I watched hopefully as I tied on a foam beetle — looking for a nose breaking the surface, the wake of a dorsal fin in soft water, or an aerobatic ambush. We talked tactics for a minute, then Jack peered over the truck bed to say, “this is probably the last time we’ll talk today”. Apart from a few 50 yard exchanges about fish sightings, missed hooksets, and photo ops, he was right. We divvied up the stream – leapfrogging, backtracking, and trading places – each finding trout that eluded the others.
I don’t typically classify alpine meadow fishing as highly technical. The fish are bold and consistently looking up. The water crystal clear. Casting hazards are basically non-existent. Most alpine streams, the only things you’re really fighting are wind and afternoon thunderheads. This was a surprising challenge, though. The water was barely a foot across in some sections… Stout grasses and undercut banks essentially making a trout fortress, penetrable only by way of a pinpoint cast. Factor in extremely wary behavior, and we approached every run with two tactics: blind cast over the bank from your knees and wait to hear a splash, or find a straight section that allows you to cast far enough upstream. One, maybe two, chances to present your fly before you blow up the run and have to find redemption in the next one.
Fortunately, six hours of fishing and a lot of walking graced us with more wild browns than one can count. Cast after cast… flashes of gold erupted from ankle deep water. We didn’t even have to resort to the penis fly. I was happily fished-out by 3 o’clock. I dipped my hands in the water. It felt so crisp. I splashed it on my face and let it bead off my chin. I took my boots off. I even took my damn socks off. I fell back into a bed of sun-baked grass, motionless for the first time since 5:30am. I closed my eyes to recount everything prior:
Wake up early. Find good company. Down some green chile bacon burritos. Swap a few laughs. Catch a lot of fish. Lose a few more. Admire an elk shed on the bank. Entertain a couple of curious coyotes. Watch a tiger butterfly flap across the meadow. Shake hands with a garter snake. Eat a raspberry uncrustable. Wash it down with Glacier Freeze Gatorade. Don a mild sunburn.
This is the ritual of summer trout. Sublime.
Photos:
I hope everyone gets the chance to observe the ritual of summer trout this season. With a lackluster winter out west, temps are likely to be high and water low in a lot of popular rivers. Higher altitudes and harder to reach places are a good bet, so get out early and often.
Alpine stream tips:
leader / tippet / fly selection — these aren’t your heavily pressured tailwaters, so you can leave the 6x at home. A standard 7 to 9 foot leader will work fine and be comfortable to cast accurately. Add an arm’s length of 4-5x if you need a little more stealth. This is your chance to throw all the flies that normally sit in your box. Beetles, chubbies, ants. I usually fish a small parachute adams or mosquito off the back if they don’t want to smoke the big flies.
Rod — really just use whatever you’ve got, but if you have the chance to go lighter it’ll be more fun. I use a 10ft 3wt, which is long, but helps when you’re reaching over the bank to drop a fly.
Presentation — it doesn’t have to be perfect, especially if you’re fishing a terrestrial or something that’s mistakenly ended up in the water. The hardest fish to entice are the ones tucked under the banks. They often won’t move for a bug drifting straight down the middle of a run, so you need to be tight (a couple inches) to the bank. I like to cast into the edge of the grass and gently strip line in until my fly plops in the water. Really fun way to fool a fish.
Listen:
Lastly, I leave you with my song of the moment: Danny O’Keefe’s “Good Time Charlie’s Got the Blues”.
I really don’t know if it gets closer to perfection than this. I’ve been cruising around NM county roads, windows down, with this whistling through the speakers. Something about it pairs perfectly with crickets chirping, a dusk sunset, and tires humming on pavement. Summer symphony.
Thanks for reading.