Restless Waters: Touch the Rockies

Corkscrew Mountain fades in the rear view mirror as we shoot down the potholed Forestry Road. According to the scribbles on a napkin that the proprietor of the general store drafted for us, the Ram should be minutes away. As we cross Elk Creek, I can almost touch the Rockies. An early snow has dusted them like the powdered donuts rolling around on the dashboard.

The man said to use a Miller’s Moth. It was the only compartment in his fly selection that was nearly full. We wondered if he just wanted to clear them out. Perhaps he saw the California license plates as we pulled up to the curb – call it irony. Feeling suspicious, we bought a half dozen of the gaudy looking white flies. There’s one born every minute, right?

The Ram runs right out of glaciers and slides over cobblestones as its arms reach for the falls. An easy glide, partially bathed in mid-afternoon sunlight looks inviting. While I twist on that conspicuous looking white Miller, a fish swirls under the shadows of the spruce leaning out over the far bank. As it disappears in the shadows, the fly is smashed by a rising trout. I set the hook but the bend in my rod is only brief. I recall the man’s advice, “Get on ‘em quick, they really head for the big rocks when hooked.”

I retie and set the fly down close to the bank, hoping there is another fish as willing as the first. I hear the screech of a reel and look down the run in time to see my companion holding rod high, the bright yellow line slicing downstream! She survives this initial combat and we eventually land the fish in the shallow sparkling water behind us. Her first cutthroat is quite large, with a smattering of black ovals along the top half of its olive sides. Along its jaw is the telltale tequila sunrise slash. The fish glides effortlessly back into the deeper water.

I can’t wait to cast again. There are three risers along the shade of the tall trees. The white fluffy fly lands softly on the crystalline water and then is taken almost as an afterthought. I pressure the fish recklessly, foolishly telling myself they are “only cutthroats” and break off again! Cursing, I fumble with my last Miller, while she lands another lovely olive and gold trout. “You keep that up and I won’t give you any of my flies,” she chides me. As I lay out another cast, I wonder how long it will take me to make it back over Corkscrew Mountain, and if that store will still be open when I get there!