‘Changing leaves are the emblem of autumn but nothing in nature is oblivious to the approach of winter. Regardless of whether you plan to spend the winter locally or distant, preparations are necessary and urgent. Migratory birds gather into bigger flocks and I will wake soon to the realisation that the bluebirds have departed’
Autumn is “Fall” here in America, though confusingly there is no misunderstanding about ‘autumnal’ colours. After living here for thirty years, much of my speech has been Americanised, but I still insist on “autumn”.
By lowland standards, winter in the Colorado mountains extends for five months at least, so spring, summer and autumn are necessarily compressed. Aspen trees now starting to yellow in mid-September broke buds into pale green leaves only four months ago. There will be many more warm, blue days to enjoy this autumn but there is no avoiding that the days are getting shorter and cooler. When the barometer has fallen overnight, day breaks to clouds sitting at roof level, the surrounding ridge lines and peaks obscured, and our small town cocooned in white. In contrast, when high pressure and a clear sky have let more of yesterday’s warmth escape, I wake to a very different sight, the illusion of viewing the same photograph as positive and negative images. My typical morning walk follows a path varying from oneto two hundred feet above the stream and beaver ponds in the valley bottom. On these cold mornings, with the water much warmer than the overnight air, this temperature gradient produces a ground fog that delineates the waterways. Now it is the peaks tothe north and west that radiate in the first sun, the valley bottom obscured. The demarcation is sharp and as my path rises and falls, I move between warm, bright sun and the chill, clammy fog below. From the fog come the sounds of unseen animals, grazing cattle and wildlife – usually elk, and perhaps coyotes or ducks.
For me and many other locals, our valley and mountains are at their best in autumn. The summer crowds have gone, and on a typical morning I will meet only one or two people during a couple of hours on the trails. Spring has obvious attractions after a long winter but these are constrained by the melting snow and resulting mud, whereas in autumn the trails remain clear well into November. Knowing what the coming months have in store, autumn always carries with me a sense of urgency. Any day now I will wake to a dusting of snow on the surrounding peaks, and though this will quickly melt, the clock is ticking on all I hope to accomplish in the coming six or eight weeks.
Changing leaves are the emblem of autumn but nothing in nature is oblivious to the approach of winter. Regardless of whether you plan to spend the winter locally or distant, preparations are necessary and urgent. Migratory birds gather into bigger flocks and I will wake soon to the realisation that the bluebirds have departed. Geese and ducks also congregate before joining the familiar and noisy formations overhead.
The battle to keep mice out of my cabin on Tarryall Creek is waged year-round but the assault is especially relentless in autumn as rodents are chased from the meadows by the hay mower. A heated cabin is a tempting winter haven and I resign myself to the company.
Now is the best time to watch elk. Mothers calved in solitude in April, spent summer in small groups at high altitudes, but are now gathering into bigger herds. In general they are migrating down from the high terrain, but these patterns are very localized. Somewill stay high until driven down by heavy snow accumulations. Others follow a daily routine, coming down to the valley bottoms for the water and grazing at night before retreating in daytime to the protection of higher, forested terrain. Depending on local snow conditions, some will follow this pattern throughout the winter while others migrate much longer distances to find forage. The classic elk call is the ‘bugling’ of the mature bulls, asserting or reinforcing their dominance, but listen carefully and a mixed herd has a very varied repertoire. From this year’s calves, now well grown and fully mobile, the voice is best described as a whistle. The mothers have a variety of calls, ranging from a modest cough to a bellow familiar from domestic cattle.
At Tarryall I have been enjoying this spectacle in recent days, a herd of about forty returning to the meadow after dark and leaving during the first hour of daylight. They vary their path along the valley so I recognise the same herd only every second or thirdmorning. This herd is very typical, composed of mothers and calves and guided and guarded by an imposing, single bull. Following at a respectful distance of two to four hundred yards are several other bulls. Each carries an impressive rack of antlers, butnot matching the stature of that of the dominant bull. These aspirants are sparring amongst themselves, the clash of antlers becoming more aggressive as mating season approaches and they vie for the opportunity to challenge the dominant bull, or at least attract a straggler from his harem.
Before first light, a bugle or the clash of antlers will signal where the herd is bedded down. Some mornings I climb the steep slope that overlooks the meadow and watch from there. Other days I will walk a half mile back up above the meadow and hope tointercept them as they retreat to their daytime cover. With patience and good fortune – and if Willow can retain her composure – the herd will pass within fifty yards without realizing my intrusion. There is no more thrilling start to a day.
This autumnal urgency extends to my fishing. Tarryall Creek has been my regular station since April, and there will be more visits before the freeze, but the flows are now low, the fish wary and easily spooked. My focus turns instead to the many other local streams that I haven’t visited all year, or at least not with a rod.
I have waited until the warmth of mid-morning to make the slow, fifteen minute drive along a rutted jeep road. I have written before about fishing the meadow section of this particular creek, but my destination today is a canyon immediately downstream. The grade and pace of the creek picks up through here, but more dramatic are the steep sides, rising at forty-five degrees or more, directly from the water. The trail that continues further upstream is several hundred feet above the water and out of sight for most of the way so the bottom of the canyon is my private sanctuary, the splash of water and occasional bird calls the only sounds.
Heading upstream, I enter the canyon where the trail fords the creek and, once I commit, it is a mile and a half before the valley sides flatten and part again into the familiar meadow. I have fished the meadow many times over the past twenty-odd years, but never before fished the canyon, only glimpsed parts of it from the path and followed its contours on a map. That curiosity was sated today. Ironically, at a time when levels in all the local streams are discouragingly low, this is the only time that the canyon can be fished safely. Earlier in the year, flows were pinched high and fast between the unyielding sides. Flood debris in the bankside trees hangs as much as ten feet above the present water level. Even now, progress upstream demands careful and deliberate foot placements. Most of my passage is along the creek bed, constrained on one side by the steep pitch and on the shaded north-facing bank by dense, fallen and tangled vegetation. This bank is passable for a nimble border terrier but not an angler carrying an eight-foot fly rod.
The vegetation here is a marked departure from our typical firs, pines, aspens and willow bushes. In the damp and shade of the canyon floor, birch, maple and alder make a rare appearance and pleasant change. Fallen trees decay quickly and host prodigious ferns that hasten this return to the earth.
The creek is a mix of shallow riffles, isolated pockets and occasional deeper pools where fallen rocks present an immovable dam. The fishing is straight forward, demanding no sophistication in fly selection or presentation. I use a one-weight rod, carbon rather than my usual cane. The risk of a slip and breakage is not insignificant and a carbon rod would be a more tolerable loss. A 6X leader and #16 or #18 quill-bodied fly complete the tackle. My main challenge is to avoid the surrounding vegetation and get the fly safely onto the water. This day proves more costly than most in terms of lost flies.
In the slower pools, there is the luxury of a drift lasting several seconds, while in pockets and riffles I can do little more than suspend the fly on a tight leader for a second or two. There is no careful inspection of the fly; there comes either a fast, confident strike, or it passes unmolested. Of those strikes, I miss more than I hit; many more, if I am honest. Fish come steadily, though unpredictably. A promising riffle or pool offers nothing, whileseemingly identical water a few yards ahead produces two or three enthusiastic rises. All are brown trout and cutthroats, and not the rainbows that I had also expected. The typical fish is only six or seven inches – lean, hardy and hungry. They are not a prize to excite most anglers but in these challenging conditions it is a pleasant surprise when a ten-inch fish puts a satisfying bend into the feather-weight rod. I unhook the fish quickly and on their return to the water there is an instant of stunned immobility before they dart back to shelter.
Conditions in the canyon vary between bright sun and cool, clammy shade with the passage of hours and changing aspects along the sinuous course. A handful of times I pause on a suitable rock to warm in the sun, a break from the challenge of boulders and vegetation. Willow is resourceful and self-sufficient but several times her passage along the bank is blocked by large boulders or the steep canyon side reaching the water.
Then she waits patiently to be carried to the opposite bank to continue her progress. I had given no thought to how long it would take to fish this canyon. Ultimately, it was nearly five hours, although the passage of time went unnoticed. Only later did I consider how many fish had been caught and, here again, the distractions of peace and isolation cloud the answer: twenty five at least, but perhaps nearly double that. It took the urgency of autumn, the approaching end to another fishing season, to do it but the mystery of the canyon has finally been answered and the magic confirmed…
Writing & Images – Paul Adams, Rocky Mountains, Autumn 2025
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