Photo by Sam Larson
I’ve decided that this is the year I finally crack the whole carp thing. I’ve done the reading, I’ve looked at the maps, and I am ready to go all in. At least until runoff is over and all of the trout water opens up. But until then, it’s carp for me.
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Photo by Sam Larson
Above me, in stair-stepping pools of tea-colored water the river continues climbing towards the Continental Divide, a minor riverine extravagance below the greater extravagances of the mountains that chivvy and shove the shoreline back and forth between their feet.
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Photo by Sam Larson
My summers are littered with the trips that I don’t take, all the adventures that never came off or made it out of the planning stages.
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Photo by Sam Larson
Things even out over time. When you lose something in a river (barring a fly rod, of course. You’re going in after the fly rod.) it’s simply left your hands to wind up in another’s.
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Photo by Jeff Stutsman
The trail to Zimmerman Lake was rough. Late-melting snow was piled thigh deep across the trail, and we were stuck post-holeing through long sections of water-logged slush.
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Photo by Sam Larson
The rainbow trout wouldn’t start swimming again.
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That last sip of gas station coffee goes down smooth. It’s almost entirely hazelnut flavored creamer at this point, and little more than lukewarm, but I am loving it.
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Fishing along the Boulder Creek Path
Photo by Sam Larson
There’s no real gray area about fishing in town. You tend to either love it (well, maybe be ok with it. Love is a strong term), or you hate it. It’s a difficult position to find yourself in, knowing that you may have great fishing in town but that the surroundings definitely won’t be the pristine river environment that you prefer on the weekends.
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Photo by Jeff Stutsman
The honest truth about this fly is that I stole the pattern from Jeff, who either invented it or modified it, I can’t remember. I contributed almost nothing to the development of this pattern, except for the name, the erroneous pedigree, and the verbal abuse I offered up to Jeff whenever he was catching fish on it and I wasn’t.
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Photo by Jeff Stutsman
When I picked up a Western rod again I told myself that I’d be willing to settle for bare competence.
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Walker Ranch Trailhead
Photo by Sam Larson
When I was a kid I used to put on my raincoat and matching yellow plastic pants and go sit on the front porch when it rained. Every thunderstorm would find me sitting on the milkbox looking out at the falling rain. It made me feel alone, tough and self-reliant, to know that I was out of doors while everyone else stayed inside and watched the rain stream down their windows.
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It’s the kind of place where, if you start early enough—bringing well-bagged peanut butter sandwiches and full water bottles—you won’t have to leave the water until it’s almost too dark to find the cabin again. On days like this, a small group of anglers can catch so many trout between them that good-natured competition quickly gives way to gleeful confusion.
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