Winter Rorschach
There are two things I like to ignore when I go to the river: fishing reports and weather reports.
Fishing reports tell me what kind of day I’m going to have before I have it. They’re always wrong.
Weather reports tell me what kind of day I’m going to have before I have it. They’re not always wrong.
As it goes, it was a tough day fishing in early winter, just after Christmas 2019…
The gauge in my truck shows negative eight Fahrenheit as I arrive. The canyon is empty despite being one of Colorado’s most popular tailwaters. The other fisherfolk must not have ignored the weather report. Just a few casts into the morning my guides are freezing up. I try to pull some more line off the reel, but it’s frozen solid. Ten minutes in I land a rainbow, my only trout in hand that day.
I last another seven hours on the river. At two points I nearly scream out in pain. I’m forgetting to cycle my hands in and out of my pockets where I keep my hand warmers. My fingers have gone completely numb. As I revive my digits the needles start to manifest, then itching and searing pain. I can’t tell whether my fingers are in boiling water or about to drop off from frostbite. This is a cold hell.
A while later I’m by a dreamy pool; one with a dark trench formed by the hydraulic pressures of the boulder above it. Easing into position, I take a step forward and become unstuck. For a moment I am floating, but gravity takes back over. My feet are wheeling in the air as my left shoulder comes down hard on the ice. That carpet of white I saw is a wintery façade. The blue ice beneath is now exposed and I’m laying there in the middle of a streamside rorschach pattern, arms and legs splayed like a crash test dummy. Thankfully my rod isn’t broken. I’m sure the fishing hole is ruined, but I’m already here.
A few casts can’t hurt.
I sling the rig, make a drift, and catch my point fly on a sheet of ice at the edge of the bank. The water is too deep for a wade retrieve. Making it to the edge of the slippery slab is questionable. I'm reluctant to risk the blue ice again. It’s only about six feet away from me, but I decide to break off my fly. My arm still hurts.
This is winter fly fishing.
It’s an experiment in chance, tenacity, and skill. Those who venture into a river with sub-freezing temperatures have the tenacity. It’s an innate drive. I won’t make blanket statements about our motivations or our psyche.
For a new angler winter is fly fishing purgatory. Chance and skill are the respective angels and demons that determine the day's fate. Are the fish feeding? Am I doing this right? Cover more water, or wait on one of these fish to get hungry? When the rod bending tactics from fall yield nothing more than a frozen line and numb toes, self doubt becomes your cold companion.
Why do we fish on days like this? There is no answer. We can only say what happened.
Earlier that morning I stood roughly twelve feet below my first target for the day. Two runs converge in front of a small boulder, then roll around the sides and form a holding pool with a strong back current. It’s about four feet wide and two feet deep, perfectly clear with moderate structure. It’s the local tailwater trout lounge. I can see at least ten rainbows. They’re holding in what looks like a defensive formation. Each fish is angled so the troupe has all views covered. They’re facing downstream, looking straight at me.
Great. No chance at catching these.
I’m telling myself I was careless. I should have known better. The hole looked great from the bank. I should have started another fifteen feet downriver, gotten low, and made an angled upstream cast into the small seam that runs to the left of the boulder. My rig would have caught the inward sweeping current and drifted in front of them, I’d be undetected.
Now I’m noticing even the shallow water next to me has fish in it. How did I not see them on the way in? To my right, not six feet away, a silvery-blue shape is holding mid-column and perpendicular to the river flow, in a pocket behind a submerged boulder. It’s another fish looking straight at me.
A few casts can’t hurt.
I might as well get some practice swings in knowing there are fish around. The rig plops into the current just to the left of the boulder. It swings through the pool and across the cone of vision for the whole gang. Not one trout is buying it. Come back when you’ve had more practice, sucka.
I’m annoyed at myself and these fish. The rig rolls through the water like the holy man at a conference for blind atheists. No looks. No interest.
The indicator and trailing train of nymphs is nearly back to my position, swinging slightly out of seam. I’m about to pick up the line to recast when the silvery-blue shape to my right makes a courteous fin flip out of his lie and casually eats the nymph at the end of the line, three feet away and looking directly into my eyes. Well, maybe not right into my eyes. But he knew I was there. Fish in hand.
That’s the thing about winter fly fishing. It’s unpredictable. Trout behavior is sporadic and irregular. Sure, the eaters are most likely to be in deep slow water trying to conserve energy. Can you count on it? No.
Take an already frustrating hobby, remove any notion of simplicity, kick physical dexterity out of the window, and then question your own motivations.
Truth be told, only two simple self realizations keep me out there in these conditions:
There are more fish to catch
There is more to learn
Don’t get me wrong, I read fishing reports and weather reports before I go fishing. Actually, I read them everyday. On Mondays I do a thorough review of at least 15 rivers within a four hour drive of my house; as if I don’t have a Monday through Friday office job. Or maybe it’s just in case the guy at the gas station inquires as to the water levels on the Blue River. Be prepared.
I read the reports, but I ignore the implications they may have on where to fish and how to approach the day. There is nothing better than walking out into the water with the expectation that something amazing could happen. A fish may just swim up and shake your hand.