and so it begins

Yep, it's now official: spring has sprung!



HT: those good folks at the Taos Fly Shop

Guess that answers that age old question: if the Rio Grande Caddis hatch kicks into gear and yours truly is not out giving chase....yep, all the makings of a 10-year hatch, just you watch.

Sigh.

schooled

red sky in morning, angler take warning

Yep, schooled on the Red. 

Again.

Last year was heartbreaking, a singular Defeat snatched from the very jaws of Victory.  

winter's grip

Sunday proved similarly brutal in that regard.  Not so much in the sting of a solitary loss.  No, Sunday's pain was multiplied threefold to ensure the lesson was ingrained all the more in the repetition.

This year I found my adversaries a stone's throw from La Junta.  

yeoman

Act One

Shadows flitting in and out of the darkest recesses of the sapphire pool.   Stage is set, our intrepid hero diligently checks the knots securing flies to tippet, unlimbering the net at his hip.  Warily gauging depth + current, he weighs rig heft in his free hand.  Cagily he adds just one more split shot, nodding in satisfaction. Eyes narrowing in grim determination, line is fed thru the guides, the first false cast lines out the distance.  The second, money. 

Game on.

The alpha is pricked immediately.  A brief bulldog into the depths of the pool, then thrashing, tail smashing at the water's surface- ping!  Our hero ducks as the cranefly doppelganger is spit back in contempt.

Well played sir, well played.

battleground

Act Two

The alpha sulking in the depths, another submarine takes up station on the far side of the pool.  A few casts to work out the drift, suddenly the Quarry leaves station, turning.  On the hunt.  Fish on!  A quicksilver bolt of raw, undistilled Rio Grande Cuttbow hurtles down river, leader ripping the water's surface in a fine spray.  The next pool is achieved in a wink, leaving our hero stumbling in his wake.  Crashing over boulders, rod high, desperately freeing line from streamside brambles, for a moment the battle teeters on the brink.  But wait!  The Quarry has gone to ground, tucked securely under a streamside boulder, out of sight, out of mind.  Only a steady thrumming of line tells the tale this battle is not yet lost.  Nor won!  

The five weight and 4x prove no match for the new revetment.  Carefully our angler tucks rod, handlines the leader to it's breaking point.  The thrumming steadily intensifies as inch by inch, our hero slowly gains ground.  The Adversary, sensing the balance of the fight shifting out of favor, craftily bolts before our hero leverages the rod once more.  Another pool gained in an instant, angler in hot pursuit, yet another boulder revetment.  Stealthy approach, thrumming line, the stark duel continues in the unseen depths.  Then suddenly...nothingness.  

The battle is lost.

liquid snow

Act Three

The Pool has reconstituted in the hero's absence.  Yet another stalwart cuttbow has taken up station in the prime lie, a twin to his victorious brother.  Fresh tippet is tied, a new rig fashioned.  Copper John, #18, set on point to lead the charge.  In an instant, the fight is on!  Like the brother, the twin immediately bolts downstream to freedom.  But where the brother employed Craft to defeat his opponent, the twin employs Speed.  And Power.  The second pool is achieved in a blur, and blown through without hesitation.  However, the third pool gives pause, its downstream lip crowded with deadfall and snags.  

For a brief moment, hope shines, our hero gains quick line while the twin hesitates- pool or plunge?    Sensing balance tipping in his favor, the angler scales the upstream lip of the third pool, rod bowed, line tight.  Though body battered, bruised from the downstream scramble, he still remains in this fight. 

But for just a moment.  

quicksilver

With one more harried circle to gauge his pending entrapment, the Quarry bolts once more downstream,  to home and safety.  For our hero, what hope had risen is rudely extinguished with the sight of leader and line dragged irresistibly under and through the pool deadfall,  around the boulder, down into the fourth pool.  Just as quickly, the revelation of Defeat dawns, the slack line merely confirming the finality of the Moment.  Knees buckling with the surge of adrenaline, hands trembling with newfound palsy, our hero can only shake his head in rueful acknowledgement of battles lost to a superior foe.  

Yep, schooled on the Red.

Again.

el rio grande del norte

I'll be back.

storm's comin

sage advice

The kids and I just finished watching the LOTR trilogy again last week.  There's one particular scene that stuck with me.  

You know the one- where Borormir counsels the Fellowship on the utter fallacy of attempting to scale the depths of The Gorge in pursuit of the Rio's legendary cuttbows?

 

I should have listened. 

tip of the hat to those hilarious college kids over at MGoBlog

Still, what a jerk, amirite?

droppin in

wish me luck~

last call

Found a way to make my way down into the Gorge to chase the caddis hatch one more time, before done.

Jumped down in that stretch between John Dunn and Wild Rivers Rec Area.

Found good numbers of caddis streamside, with caddis hatching out from 2.30 to dusk.

I swung a larva + pupa for a while, to no effect.  Kept getting distracted by the fish rising in the softer water against the bank.  

Ditched the pupa, tied on a dry, and that's all she wrote!  Caught every one of my fish on the dry this day, that is indeed a banner day on the Rio.

Nothing too large, still plenty of dinks, middlings.  But when the dry fly action is so hot on an otherwise stingy river, you somehow don't seem to mind.

Stalked fish along the bankside boulders during the golden hour.  Spooked 3 separate fish that pushed 18" to 20", actually had the opportunity to cast over a solid 18incher rising steadily in the pillow fronting a boulder.  Talk about buck fever!  Was not to be as my first cast was rebuffed, repeated casting just put him down, bummer.  The big ones are in there tho!

Fun day, especially given the (caddis) key to unlock the Rio's potential.  I'll be back.

droppin in!

heading back down into the gorge chasin the hatch.

spring caddis on the rio

Taos Box

With all signs pointing to a major caddis emergence this week on the Rio Grande, I borrowed some time Tuesday to head on back out there.

Traffic jam on I25 had me arriving at Embudo Station later than wanted.  Hate that!
 

ne'erdowells looking for some action

Thankfully I found a fair amount of bugs hanging around in the willows and junipers along the bank, in the lee of streamside boulders.  Water temp measured 48 at 11am, too cold for caddis, brrr, it better warm up!

I stopped a coupla more times on the way up to Pilar- @ the county line, and swinging bridge.  Each time I noted a fair amount of caddis representing, turns out the hatch has already spread out from Velarde to Taos Junction Bridge- whoa that was quick!

In an attempt to get ahead of the hatch a bit, I elected to hike into the lower part of the Taos box, into an area offering equal parts new water and adventure alike.

ansel adams landscape

typical 'beach'

Viewed from above, it takes a bit of commitment to begin that mad scramble down, as there is absolutely no-one around to haul your ashes out in case of accident or emergency.

Mid descent, I wonder again if I shouldn't just invest in one of those skater/climbing helmets as insurance against the foolhardiness of the whole affair.  If not for vanity, I just might do it.  Ever see an angler sporting a hard lid? Me neither, not sure I'm to be the first either!

Once safely grounded at the bottom, I breathe a sigh of relief, for the safe landing and streamside caddis both.  Whew, sure would be a bummer to have made that scramble to find a gorge devoid of life, huh?

I begin to rig up for the day.  Hopper-dropper combination jumps immediately to mind: one of Ben's mini-hoppers trailing golden stone (thx for the tip BCFN!) + pulsating caddis.  Almost immediately I begin to get some looks on the hopper, am soon hooked up, noice!

mini-hopper par-tay

No interest in the droppers, so I remove the hopper and go deep.  But man I couldn't buy a strike!  The indicator itself received enuf follows and flashes (oh for godssakes, it's a fluorescent pink ball you guys!) that I transitioned back to the mini-hopper, flying solo for a while.  Which worked well enuf, for an Arizona fly in New Mexico. ;-)

AZ fly rolls another NM victim

Most all the fish proved of middling size, making up for it with the unbridled enthusiasm of youth.  I eventually migrated to my favorite catch-all, the Root Beer Float, in an attempt to lure something bigger to the surface.  Not gonna happen, and I would be remiss if I did not report I landed more fish on the mini than the RBF.   So thx Ben!  As for quality over quantity, I'll let you all be the judge ;-)






Early afternoon, under the constant assault of middlings and dinks, I began to worry I had over-run 'the action' better found back downstream with the bulk of the hatch.  I guess the perception the grass is always greener applies to fly fishing as well, huh?

on the swing!

So mid afternoon finds me eyeballing some of that schweet water downstream of the racecourse below Pilar, smack-dab in the middle of the hatch.  I'm munching a late lunch, monitoring water temps and caddis, slowly realize the sporadic hatch activity is heating up.  No risers though.  Huh.  No action on the dry, I get back to swinging the pupa.  Just a coupla grabs, one landed (middling!) for the better part of an hour.  In the middle of the hatch!  Darnit!

Dejected, I sit the bank and stew a bit, mulling my options in the face of such obstinacy.  Too late, tired to head back into the Box, guess I can wait it out til sundown and the golden hour.   For those in the know, the Rio's fishing almost always turns on when the sun leaves the water, the fish moving towards the shallows to prey upon the more clumsy caddis swarming the bank.

Determined to stick it out, if not to fish blindly, I settle in for a little daydreaming.  Am awakened by a friendly local prowling the bank- he reports no better luck, mostly dinks too.  A lifelong Rio angler, 'Fisher' offers his opinion the water wolves in the Rio are beginning to crash the trout population.  Quite possible as I was just as disappointed by the average size of my victims as dejected by the lack of cooperation.  Man, I'm old enuf to reference the good ole days myself, sure hate to think they remain in the past where the Rio's concerned.

Fisher proved a bit curious as to this fancy-pants fly flinging angler's intent lolling bankside in the midst of the famous caddis hatch.  I fill him in on my planned intent to stalk the bank towards dusk, figuring the last light of day just might turn my luck.  A bit skeptical, Fisher wishes me luck nonetheless, and we part ways, my confidence left sounding a bit hollow in his wake.

Conflicted, I prowl the bank myself for a bit, desperately seeking for signs of rising fish.  None, nada, zip.  I stroll downstream to where the shadows are finally creeping across the canyon, settle in on nice perch to watch for the beginnings of the evening rise.  Nope, not a thing, upstream or down.  Huh. 

golden hour on the Rio

Eventually, I'm bathed in the encroaching shadow, realizing it's now or never.  Dusting my spent caddis adult one more time for luck, I begin casting into the gathering gloom.  Alpenglow from the surrounding rock walls continues to light the canyon, lighting my way.   I make my way slowly upstream, and begin to flick out to likely slicks and eddies around the bankside boulders.

Second cast has another dink nipping at the heels of my fly, sixth cast has me tight to biggest fish of the day- a bonafide 13incher.  Coupla casts later I prick a nice bow and send him rocketing up to spit the fly, schweet!  Later as the light fades, I miss a slurp and bubble, send the caddis back in there to seal the deal. Fish on! and he's tail-tumbling his way out of the pocket, stripping line as he goes.  A bit of bull-dogging, head shaking, the Rio Grande born-and-bred wild brown eventually bows to the inevitability of the moment. 

Sixteen inches of early season snakiness

Thinking patience remains a virtue when chasing fins, huh?  A lesson that never gets old~

Epilogue: Taos Fly Shop is rating the fishing Epic on the Epic-fishometer,  even if not so much for this particular angler, this day.  The caddis will be working their way up the Gorge, there might be as much as a coupla weeks left to fish it.  So get on out there before it's gone for another year! Or seven! 

she's gonna blow!

Well, my Plan A dint go off as intended: caddis still baking with a bit more time still on the clock, it would appear.  

calm before the storm

Stopped back by the Rio's Embudo Station on the way home from Sunday's Plan B.

stellar flows and aquamarine clarity

Found a smattering of caddis on the rocks, looks like the bulk of the hatch is ready to erupt any day now. Like tomorrow I'm guessing, certainly going gangbusters by Tuesday.

females are a solid #16, black body, green egg sack

Water temp: 53d @ 6pm, better look out, they're gonna blow!

creeping toward the magic 54d

Yep, Plan B worked out well enuf, thx for askin.  More on that later this week!

In the meantime, time to get some pulsating caddis pupae off the vise, head on out there everyone, it's gonna be a great week!

no caddis this day

Checked streamside from Embudo Station to Orilla Verde- no sign of caddis this AM. Flows are simply awesome right now- low and aquamarine clear.

addiction

Got a bit distracted there, appreciate your patience everyone!

Been kicking this post around for a bit, wondering how to best convey heart-thumping elation and crushing disappointment both.

Time to get on with it- I think I'll shoot to dwell more on the experience as a Whole, less on the fact I got schooled yet again this year down in the depths of the Gorge. 

Less painful that way, I'm sure you'll sympathize.

happiness is an empty lot

I've been fishing each year in the Rio Grande Gorge for some time now, most often in the Fall, other years in February-March.  Fall offers predatory browns ambushing big streamers, late winter: big cuttbows making their way into the Red for their annual spawn.

opportunity dawns

hella climb

In my experience, fishing the Red in Winter offers the more challenging fishing- limited water, your quarry fewer in number, less avaricious than those hook-jawed browns of Fall.  Up from La Junta, there's a scant 3/4 fishable miles on the Red before you find yourself squeezed by basalt boulders the size of Winnebegos, forming glory pools dark and deep.  And swift!  Setting up a drag-free drift thru the depths requires a metric ton of weight, only to get hung-up, broken off on unseen boulders lurking below.  Again.

Wading in the Red's box is next to impossible thru the deep runs.  Instead, you're scrambling over basalt boulders slick as snot, fighting your way through streamside brambles and thickets.  And just when you've exhausted yourself from the day's fishing do you remember you still have that killer scramble back to trailhead before you even attempt the 800' climb out of the Gorge.

black canyon

So what's the attraction?  While the Red offers a good mix of homegrown browns and 'bows, resident thirteen-inch fish can be found elsewhere at lesser cost.  No, it's those Cuttbows, many of considerable size, that keep this angler coming back despite the abuse. Paired with the absolute Wildness of the Gorge, the experience proves an unshakable Addiction.



Year after year.






So that explains the sentiment last year as I turned away from the Red, having been schooled by no less than two bruisers for the day.  One, a leaper, thumbing his nose before parting my tippet.  The other, more torpedo than fish, unseen but for the line ripping thru the water, on around that last boulder and on down to the Rio in a blink of an eye.  Defeated, I trudged that long climb out of the Gorge, and mentally refought every mistake on the long drive home.

victimized by crane fly larva, #14

resident bow

Fast-forward to just last week, and I'm brawling toe-to-toe with this year's Adversary.   Gorgeous cuttbow, vivid crimson flanks, 18 inches if he's an inch.  Luck is in my favor as he continues to bulldog upstream into the  heart of the plunge pool, sapping his strength, where a more crafty fish would bolt downstream to safety.







Finally I have his head up, my moment of Victory is nigh!  He's now broadside to the current, I'm reaching across body to net him with my left hand.  Just one thing- we're at the bottom of the slick, where the current squeezes out of the pool and down into the next.  My quarry, broadside still, begins to gather steam as the current quickens.  In slow motion, I realize I'm about to blow it, I have now just one moment of opportunity before our roles are reversed.  My heart beating in my throat, I strike out with the net, execute the scoop, I have you now.  No wait! Balancing momentarily on the net rim, in a wink he's out and gone, leaving me staring at net, sans fish, and opportunity, lost.

Sonofa....!

The black canyon walls echo my pain on down the canyon, themselves silent and unmoved, impartial witness to the failings of Man As Angler.

la junta

Later that afternoon, on the long hike out, I take a moment to catch my breath on a switchback far above the canyon floor.  Looking back down into the Gorge, still in the black funk of Fail, I wonder why it is that I keep coming back to this Place.  Turning away, the slow, steep climb offers plenty of opportunity to re-fight every mistake, which I do sure enuf, again and again. Before achieving the rim, breathless, bruised, ego battered, I'm vowing to never return.

Yet, back at home, even as I write this, I find myself wondering if I can squeeze another trip down into the Gorge before snowmelt this Spring.  There's that small matter of a score to settle, yet more cuttbows to chase. 

Addiction can be a funny thing that way.

trail's end

 

La Junta

La Junta- confluence of the Red & Rio Grande.

Spent my day Wed chasing cutbows in the depths of the Gorge.  I'll post up in a day or two.

the great rift

Finally!

After way too many postponements, much gnashing of teeth, incomprehensible muttering and pacing about la casa de Roughrider over the past month, the entire familia was understandably relieved I was finally able to get it done Sunday.

Taos Box, The Gorge, Rio Grande Rift.  Many names, yet all evoke images of wilderness, of rugged isolation, of startling beauty from those that have ventured down into its depths.  Sunday marked a return to prospect for those infamous cuttbows that migrate up into the Lower Red during winter, holding over until spring runoff.  Schweet.

On the drive up, Taos offered a quick refueling stop in the form of my new favoritest java joint discovery, Altitude Coffee.  Or is it Elevation Coffee?  Anyone?  Whichever, name aside, they brew a damn fine cup o joe. They're situated about a mile shy of the turnoff to Arroyo Seco, look for them on the westside as you head north outta town.

Soon enuf, found myself negotiating the dirt road heading out to the rim of the Gorge,  dirt, I should mention, in name only.  The morning's frostiness had the mud frozen solid, the rather alarming ruts from yesterday's traffic frozen in time.  I took but a moment to shrug off any projections of what the road conditions might be like on the way out, the 'road' all thawed and gooey, fully resplendent in all its adobe glory.  What me, worry?  

Turn around?  Dude.  Seriously, the rim's right there, the nearest paved access is like another 40 min away, I'm sure it'll be fine.  Besides, whomever made those canyon ruts yesterday looks to have made it out allright, in so far as I don't see them hub deep, locked in the frozen crust overnight.  I just might have to lock in the 4WD, don't sweat it.  Wonder how those cutts are doing?

Such is the diminished thought process of an angler three months removed from his last quality time on the water, sound familiar out there?  Gonna catch me up one day, you'll read it here first (if not via your local paper!) ;-)

Geared up, eying the morning's descent, I breathed a sigh of relief, as it looks like I remembered to pack everything, thank goodness.  Can't be anything much worse than making the 800' descent, only to find you've left your reel or somesuch critical piece of gear on the passenger seat back topside.  Enuf to make a grown man cry.  Not that I know anything 'bout that first hand mind you, but I've heard things... ;-)

The drop down into the Rift always gets the blood racing a bit.  Anticipation of the day's fishing, the heart pumping beauty, and raw exhilaration that comes with the realization of today's (managed) risk all combine into the singular awareness you better be on your A Game today, bub.  800 feet down in its remote canyon, littered with basalt boulders, each slick as snot, nary a soul or cell tower for miles, the Gorge remains one of New Mexico's greatest and best wild places.  Absolutely not a place to get injured, if you catch my drift. 

The descent remained as sheer as I remembered, ice still sheeting much of the northern exposures.  In the softer spots I am able to make out tracks of those canyon denizens that preceded me- deer, coyote for the most part, some other clawed little dude of undetermined origin.  Coupla different boot tracks also, yesterday if I'm a judge, bummer that.  I noticed the boots appeared faint on the (frozen) downhill, all slickery on the return, hmmmm.  No worries, mate, wonder how those cutts are doin?

I lose sight of the Rio for a good bit as I hit the big bench, surrounded now by pinon, scrub oak, and ponderosas of all things.  Typically I'm humming along, soaking in the sights of the improbable forest in the middle of high desert country, when I first hear the Rio's growing roar, getting close!  Turn that same corner, time after time, and I'm once again staggered by the dazzling contrast:  black basalt boulder fields bracketing a shimmering green ribbon flecked with angry white swirls, all capped with a stunning cobalt sky.  Whoa!

Just a hop, skip, jump further down the trail, I've reached the juncture of the Lower Red and the Rio, the renowned La Junta, and I'm finally eyeballing today's venue.

next up, The Great Rift part II.