Paul Adams – A Seasons End

Another fishing year is winding down at Tarryall Creek. The last dry, dull leaves cling high in the aspens, the vibrancy of their peak yellows and orange are now two or three weeks past. It is late October and although the first significant snow hit Colorado at the end of September, the past two weeks have been spectacular. Clear skies meant overnight temperatures below freezingbut followed by warm, blue days, highs mostly in the 60s Fahrenheit; a blessing, as there is much to be done before winter arrives in earnest.

A log cabin built in the 1890s is a perennial challenge, with the current priorities being to keep the wood-fired heat in and the mice out. In the meadows, cattle will return shortly from summer grazing at higher elevations, so permanent fences need repair and temporary fencingreinstalled. Irrigation ditches require regular attention. Although the meadows won’t be watered again until April, ditch cleaning and repairs must happen now as the ground will barely have thawed when the irrigation restarts. The weather forecast calls for much cooler andunsettled weather starting in a couple of days, so there is an urgency to both work and play.

This late in the year, the flows in Tarryall Creek are always low, snow-melt being months away in either thepast or future. Fortunately for the trout, stream temperatures are cooling with the lengthening nights. I have a trip away starting in a few days and by my return the stream edges and slower pools will be frozen, so I fished yesterday afternoon expecting this to be my lastouting of the year.

Expectations were modest. Hatches are now sparse at best, the smallest of olives. The brown trout – the vast majority of our fish – are spawning. Their redds are identified as light patches of clean gravel surrounded by darker silt and weed. Favouring well oxygenated water to nurture the eggs, the trout choose faster water which is inevitably shallow. In some cases, the backs of the trout stand proud of the water and their occasional bursts of speed – chasing or being chased – generate a wake and spray.

Out of habit and preference, I start with a small dry fly, more in hope than expectation. It goes undisturbed through the first couple of bends and I soon swap to a similarly small, #18 nymph, the bead-head being sufficient weight to hug the shallow bottom. Fishable water is limited; the slow water is clear and lifeless, with only stray boulders being worth probing. Spawning redds are avoided, watched rather than fished.

After half an hour, the indicator checks abruptly where faster water slows to enter a deeper hole. I strike into a firm resistance, and a decent fish runs twice in the narrow confines of the pool. Unusually for a brown trout it jumps clear of the water to show itself as thirteen or fourteen inches. And then the line goes slack and reeling in confirms that the fine tippet, necessary in this low water, is broken. The disappointment of leaving a hook in the trout, even one small and barbless, hurts more than losing the fish.

Soon after, running the fly through a fast riffle only inches deep, a check that could easily have been the bottom turns out to be a feisty little brown, six or seven inches at most. I steer it quickly into the slack edge where, in a final defiant flick, the barbless nymph is thrown and the fish darts free. Typically I will allow small trout some slack line, hoping for just this outcome but at the prospect of my final trout for the year, I had intended to free the hook myself. Perhaps it still counts!

A barren thirty or forty minutes follow, as I move quickly between short, fishable stretches to a deeper run where the stream is channelled by boulders. Holding the rod high and line clear of the water I get a nice drift and another decent brown rises quickly and strikes aggressively. Unfortunately it strikes the fluorescent yellow strike indicator, the nymph is ignored! A case of ‘matching the mood’, not ‘matching the hatch’… An ornery trout for sure, showing in that brief moment ayellow/orange belly of breeding colours.

Age may not beget wisdom but it does impart perspective and realism. Ninety minutes; three strikes but none unhooked. When the trout are biting your fluorescent indicator, it’s time to admit defeat. I could fish another twenty minutes before the sun dips behind the ridge but why? What would one fish prove? A blank session to close the session is ironic rather than shameful, a fitting dose of humility to carry into the winter months. Instead, Willow and I walk back to the cabin enjoying that last sun. We detour to wade through flooded ground where the expanding web of beaver dams has raised the water more than four feet and spilled it fifty yards into the adjoining meadow.

A snipe flushes from a willow clump, the boundary of land and water. Within a minute, five more make their explosive escape, waiting until I am just feet away, a single, sharp cry signalling their displeasure. Although never stationary or in proper focus, it is still a rare thrill to see this elusive bird at such close range. Snipe in ones or twos are familiar but never common in the irrigated meadows, so a larger group like this is a welcome treat, among the many benefits of the beaver’s industry.

Original artwork by Rob Ijbema

As it happened, I could have fished for an hour today but I didn’t. I checked several of the spawning redds during a morning walk – surprisingly, they were occupied and active before the sun had hit the river. What would another hour of fishing have proven? Instead, the old Triumph motorcycle got an outing; an hour in the warmth of the day, a relaxing 40-50 mph pace on quietroads. Likely, also its last for the year.

Writing & Images Paul Adams – Colorado, Winter 2023