‘These are the first casts of a new fishing year for me in Colorado, coincidently on the day when my English friends are enjoying their final outing before the close season. It is a welcome return after five months spent walking on, not in, the stream’
A pale green indicator hurries along the surface of the narrow channel. Just a few fibres of synthetic wool, it serves to visually locate my tippet but not support the small nymph that trails eighteen inches behind. Unlike the typical American ‘indicator’ – a small, plastic ‘float’ that suspends the nymph at a set depth in the stream – my traditional approach is to match the weight of the nymph with the speed and depth of the water. One of those judgements or standards that impart a unique style and ethic on every fisherman.
In these low, early spring flows, with ice still covering parts of the stream, the small bead-head nymph bounces on or close to bottom in six to eighteen inches of water. This constant buffeting of nymph and tippet by the stream bed, debris and current means that bite detection is more intuition than observation, more art than science.
These are the first casts of a new fishing year for me in Colorado, coincidently on the day when my English friends are enjoying their final outing before the close season. It is a welcome return after five months spent walking on, not in, the stream. On a date determined by nature, not legal edict, my opening day is a quiet affair, lacking the rituals and anticipation of June 16th.
I have waited until early afternoon, now warm enough to avoid the rod-rings closing with ice but not sufficient to stir any insect life.My companion, Willow, the Border terrier, is her usual inquisitive and restless self, scratching at rotten snow packed under the shaded banks and peering cautiously over the edge of the ice.
I ignore the broad, shallow, featureless stretches of Tarryall Creek and concentrate instead on the faster channels, particularly where these transition into deeper holes, often just the difference of a few inches.
A total stream length of three or four hundred yards fished in little more than an hour. The drifts are short and fast; rarely more than ten yards and a similar number of seconds. Every few casts elicits some indication that prompts me to strike. Often this is met with no resistance, at other times the dead weight of a sunken branch or stone.
On four occasions I feel the gentle but unmistakable shake of a fish. Twice the connection is only for an instant but the other two see brown trout of eight or nine inches come quickly to hand as I cautiously approach the edge of the ice to unhook them. These are lithe, hardy fish that have survived many months under the ice, now with more food and freedom to enjoy in the coming half year.
As usual, I take a meandering route back to the cabin, visiting the streamside wetlands and meadow. The first migratory birds have returned – Western Bluebirds bringing a welcome splash of colour to a largely drab landscape. The deep pool above the big dam still has a thin cover of ice but the beavers have found openings and stained the snow and matted the dead grasses where they’ve ventured for their first fresh vegetation since November. They will need to temper their appetite with caution as they are vulnerable to hungry coyotes and mountain lions when they stray from open water.
A red-tailed hawk circles overhead, brief beats of their wings, then a longer glide on the weak thermals. Feeding prospects are looking up for the raptors as well. That the start of my fishing year should coincide with the first signs of spring is no accident, and very fitting…
Writing & Images – Paul Adams, Spring 2025
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