Paul Adams – Opening Day Colorado Style

‘Always intended to be a short session, I fish a half mile stretch that mixes a wide, slow bend with faster, rock-littered channels. In many respects it is a session unrepresentative of anything else in my fishing year. Water that I fish very rarely, and bigger than my familiar streams.’

In the next edition of TPR&F the opening of the UK river season will be covered extensively, so I’ve decided to beat the rush now and write about the start of my trout season in Colorado.

Here I must warn that mine lacks the ritual and drama of June the Sixteenth. Firstly, there is no magic date to focus on during the preceding months. With no legal closed season, mine is self- imposed and dictated by a shortage of open water and tolerance for cold. And trout fishing for me is usually a solitary experience, so there is no shared anticipation and planning, the hours of scheming and dreaming down the pub. When the chosen day arrives it is because the conditions are tolerable, but far from ideal. Not that I don’t enjoy the experience, but my season starts with a gentle, metaphorical, toe in the water, not a wholehearted plunge.

Choosing to live in the mountains, I expect no sympathy on the subject of snow. This has been a heavy year. In late March at home we passed 25 feet of snow for the winter, and more has followed. Never one to miss an advertising opportunity, the local ski resort reports this as 300 inches. As daunting as that total sounds to a British reader, places further west in Utah and California have exceeded 70 feet. My nearby streams will be inaccessible or unfishable for another couple of months. Fortunately, the snow is very localized. Two hours away, at my regular haunt in South Park, Colorado, this year has seen a typical three or four feet of snow. Open ground is already clear, snow covering only the shaded slopes. A foot of ice on the stream will melt much sooner than 25 feet of snow.

25 foot of snow

Bigger rivers remain ice-free all winter. Ice will encroach from both banks, but never close the whole channel. It is a section like this of the South Platte River that I visited in late March. A bright day, the afternoon temperature topping 40 degrees (5° Celsius), and in the canyon, sheltered from the wind, positively spring-like. This was strictly reconnaissance, no rod to tempt me. A quiet, midweek day, safe distance from the only dirt road, so the dogs enjoyed their freedom. As I expected, much of the ice had already gone, though it hung on in the slacker edges and shaded bends tighter against the canyon. Ice tumbled in the current, everything from the smallest slither to table-sized slabs which detached regularly from the bank with an audible crack. The water was clear, but in the low sun it reflected a darkness that still speaks of winter, not spring. Although I can never resist looking, there was no expectation of seeing fish which will still be holding tight to the bottom.

South Platte River

Our most notable company was the water fowl, concentrated on the only open water for miles around. A pair of Canada geese, newly arrived, hissed with their customary belligerence at our intrusion. Mallards, in groups of 8 to 10, seemingly carefree, but already posturing for mating priority in the weeks to come. And too cautious and distant to make a confident identification, a pair of Northern Shoveler ducks I believe; similar to mallards, but named for their extravagant bill. Keeping all the birds alert, a lone osprey flew down river in lazy, overlapping circles.

Along the bank, flocks of familiar, small birds – juncos and chickadees – busy themselves. Surely too late for seeds and too early for insects, something is sustaining their enthusiasm. The first green shoots brighten otherwise brown grass, and buds of green and yellow are swelling on the willow bushes. Winter has not yet surrendered, but spring is beginning to assert.

Twenty miles away, Tarryall Creek is still frozen bank-to-bank save for a couple of shortchannels narrow enough to step across. Fishing here is still a couple of weeks away, so three days after the reconnaissance I return to the South Platte, this time with a rod and no dogs. Always intended to be a short session, I fish a half mile stretch that mixes a wide, slow bend with faster, rock-littered channels. In many respects it is a session unrepresentative of anything else in my fishing year. Water that I fish very rarely, and bigger than my familiar streams.

Heavy, insulated waders prevent any fluency to movement. Remaining ice along the bank hinders my approach and casting angles, and the tripping hazard is real and consequential. The intuitive feel of a fly rod has abandoned me after five months, and anyway the rig today is far removed from the small, unweighted flies of summer. For deeper and faster water, with lethargic fish holding on the bottom, a weighted #12 nymph is paired on a dropper with a smaller nymph that should be a more fitting enticement. My delivery is more sling-shot than fly-cast. Passage of the fly and leader are buffeted by suspended ice, leaves and twigs. The small, fluorescent bite indicator checks on almost every drift, and debris is repeatedly cleaned from the hooks. Quickly, I lapse into the instinctive assumption that any check to the indicator is the bottom or debris. Reading the water is futile; I have none of the confidence of familiar conditions as to where the fish will be holding. Failure is the default assumption.

Tarryall Creek

After less than an hour I have satisfied myself that the season has officially started, with only upside from here. On the very modest plus-side, I have refamiliarized myself with the contents of the many pockets in my fishing vest, and my waders have not sprung their customary leak after months of neglect. The last couple of drifts are through a narrow, faster channel. The indicator checks; reflexively I strike, really just a lift. Something; the lightest resistance. The twigs often pull harder, but this time there is a brief, unmistakable shake. Perhaps for a second, no more than two, then the fly surrenders and is hurried back to the surface. A fish for sure, probably small. Likely it held the fly and was never hooked, but the connection was real, however brief. A talisman.

Coming Soon Opening Day, 2023

Writing & Images Paul Adams – Colorado, March 2023