Amazing underwater trout pics from ksbioteacher, taken in a "small stream in the Colorado Wilderness..."

As I posted a few times ago, my eldest son just went to college. He’s studying Biology, and in his current Zoology class he is tasked with finding and collecting five different phyla. When he told me that, I immediately started thinking about the entomology aspect of fishing . . . → Read More: My experience, or lack thereof, with entomology]]>

Adult salmonfly cocktail, no olive.

As I posted a few times ago, my eldest son just went to college. He’s studying Biology, and in his current Zoology class he is tasked with finding and collecting five different phyla. When he told me that, I immediately started thinking about the entomology aspect of fishing the fly. I’ve always loved insects, and collected them in one form or another it seems. When I was about 12, that “hobby” was known enough that my great uncle used to send me interesting packages, including live praying mantis eggs in the mail.

Small stonefly nymphs, pickled.

When I started fly fishing, I was enthralled with “matching the hatch” and the art and science of that endeavor. I bought the typical books – the “Orvis Streamside Guide to Trout Stream Insects” and the like. I learned what a mayfly, stonefly and caddis larva looked like, and started counting tails on mayflies I saw while out on the water… and realized I’d completely gone off of the deep end. I was (am) ok with that.

I realized that I could never really “match the hatch,” and that the best I could do was approximate the estimated diet of my quarry. Sure, I could get a close size shape and color in my meager offerings, but I could never match it.

So my tactics changed. Sure, I still had an overstuffed dry fly box with approximations of the local edible flying insect collection in it, but I realized that the fish I was after only really fed on the surface offerings when the floating buffet seemed to offer an abundance. I decided that while dries were the epitome of fly angling and the pretensiveness often associated with it, I wanted to see what was up under the surface where the fish were usually collecting their meals… I broke through the meniscus, went under and became a nympher.

October Caddis on the rocks...

I’d never collected aquatic bugs prior to that little revelation. Luckily, near that time in my fly fishing obsession progression, I had been participating at Westfly.com and had gotten a BUG Bagz kit from Brad at Tyt-Lynz.

I’ll digress for a minute and mention the Bug Bagz Aquatic Entomology Kit. It’s really a nifty piece of kit. Small, portable, and fun. Brad designed it with input from the old guard at Westfly to be a minimalist piece of useful gear and it is just that. Vials, logs, tweezers and a magnifier in a compact kit, and a seine that you supply dowels for that all fits in a vest or pack. If you have even a remote interest in subsurface aquatic entomology, it’s worth a look.

A basic BugBagz kit... Click to visit Brad's site.

With the Bug Bagz kit, I had a whole new hobby. My kids who were too young to cast a rod never turned down a trip to collect bugs in the local stream or river, and my collection of ispopropyl alcohol filled specimen vials steadily rotated and increased. I love that collection. My wife, not so much. (grin…)

I also started the sometimes gruesome task of pumping a few fishy tummies. What I realized is that as one may suspect, unless there is some massive hatch happening on the surface, the fish we most often target seem to feed mostly on stuff that is passing them by in the water column. Often that includes immature stages of the insects on the top.

As my collection grew, I realized the lack of diversity in my home waters. That was the true revelation. In my nymph box, I found that if if I had green rockworms (Caddis larva, genus Rhyacophila) in a few sizes, some various Plecoptera nymphs (just call ‘em stone flies) in a few sizes from tiny up to “huge,” a few generic mayfly nymphs like Pheasant Tails and the typical “attractor” nymphs (Princes are my favorite) I was good to go about 95% of the time.

The infamous (now faded) Green Rockworm/Rhyacophila Caddis Larva.

I had found that my fly selection shrunk as my bug collection grew… which was really the revelation. With the “bug thing” I have learned a lot, have had some fun, involved my family in my passion for fly fishing, and become a better fisher.

For the record, my wife still doesn’t like the vials of dead things, even after all these years… but she’s learned to tolerate my little pickled pets.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jyc0QQ0cup4

(I’ve no relation to trufflepigfilms… but do think this is potentially an incredible video…)

Feeling a little nostalgic today, so here is a post I made on a personal web log almost eight years ago, before there were “blogs.”

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17 September 2002, Rogue River at Touvelle State Park

I went out to the little side channel of the Rogue at Touvelle yesterday morning. You know, the . . . → Read More: Embrace the journey]]>

Feeling a little nostalgic today, so here is a post I made on a personal web log almost eight years ago, before there were “blogs.”

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17 September 2002, Rogue River at Touvelle State Park

I went out to the little side channel of the Rogue at Touvelle yesterday morning. You know, the one many of us just trudge through to get to the “real” river and the nice riffle on the other side. It’s maybe 25 feet wide or so, one to two feet deep.

At 7am, the weather was brisk -  the sky doppled with high wispy ice crystals forming the cirrus couds. There had been sprinkles the evening before, but the water was still flowing mostly clear as it had been lately. With the steelhead running like they have been on the Rogue, you might ask yourself what I was doing wasting my time in that small side creek. Well, here’s the report.

Eleven years ago, on September 17th, 1991, I became a mushball. No, really. Dad’s know what I learned and became that day. Ever since then I’ve tried to be a good Dad, and not force my own desires (aside from good character, manners, integrity and the like) on my son. I love to fish, but have never forced it on my kids, and he being the eldest was first in line if anyone ever was. Sure, I’ve gotten him a nice little five weight and supported any interest he’s had, but I’ve never not given him some other option when it came to fishing. It’s always been that we could ride bikes, or skateboard, etc. instead, as it was just spending the time that was important.

Back to the trip report. He’s expressed interest lately. Lots of it. Even if it’s just to get my approval, it’s there. So Monday night I asked him if he’d like to “go fly fishing for real”, and was prepared for a “naaah, let’s play nintendo.” What I got was a “Yeah! Can we get up at 5:12 when I was born to leave!?” I was thinking of taking his birthday off. That sealed the deal.

So we get up at 6:30 Tuesday morning (5:12 is inhumane when the sun isn’t coming up ’till nearly seven), hit the Chevron for some coffee and juice and we’re off. We pull in to the park, and his new felt sole hippers are in the trunk, and he can’t believe he gets to actually wade.

The first lesson. Wading. Remember the first time you stepped in and didn’t get wet? How cool was that!?!? Stay sideways, small steps, and plant your foot before you move the other one… Then comes the “looking at the water for places a fish might like” talk. Seams, undercuts, riffles and rocks are all there, and we get close, looking at why a fish might want to live here or there, talking alot about the moving buffet.

We tie an Adams on and grease it up well so he can see the fly float. Casting quarter upstream, small mend (make your rod tip move upstream like it’s jumping quickly over a turtle…) and he gets the hang of it. He’s casting better than we ever had in the backyard, and it’s more at a near 45 degree angle rather than up and down parallel to his body. Nice, tight loops. I’m proud of them and tell him about it. I also realized I wasn’t fishing, but just watching him.

After about an hour of this and working our way up through about half of the channel, he looks upstream at a small pool behind a rock and some overhanging brush and says “I think if I were a fish I’d like it there. I’m going to cast there, OK, Dad?” I’d been pointing out likely lies and coaching…

I’m thinking I should get ready to retrieve a fly from the bushes, and he sidearms a single false cast and right in to the head of the pool. Couldn’t have done it better myself, I think, and then, well, you know what happens. A small, saint of a ‘bow takes the fly with surprising fury and turns back to the pool, and he’s caught his first moving water fish – on a dry fly – by himself. The look on his face is something I’ll take to my grave and cherish for years to come. He played it for about 30 seconds, stripped it in nicely, and slid his hand under it like an old pro. I nearly did an aquatic faceplant trying to get to him. Nothing short of magical. We thanked the fish, turned it loose and gratefully watched it scurry in to the shadows of the pool.

(this was a few weeks later…)

So that was the only fish of the morning, as we had to get home for the birthday breakfast.

It was the best birthday I’ve ever had and it wasn’t even my own.

So ends my trip report. Hopefully one of many, as it was also the first time he has asked if we could go back, to anywhere we’ve fished. Life is really good.

(…this is a few years later…)

Fast forward to 2010. So, why post this, you ask? Well, I took him to his dorm for the first time this past weekend, nine hours away. He’s in college now. I bawled. He will do incredibly well, and I’m very proud of him, of course, but the flood of memories I experienced on the long, lonely drive home included many times like the one I wrote about above so many years ago.

Hug your kids, or call them and tell them you love them. Life is so very short. Do me a favor: Fish more with your kids and loved ones. Make memories.

As I’ve traveled this road of continuous learning and fly fishing, I’ve come to the conclusion that everyone has a go-to fly, or fly type. Some people love the dry fly – the sipping, the matching of insects and the puritan quality that dries . . . → Read More: Soft Hackle Flies – my “go-to” box…]]>

Partridge and Oranges lined up and ready to go...

As I’ve traveled this road of continuous learning and fly fishing, I’ve come to the conclusion that everyone has a go-to fly, or fly type. Some people love the dry fly – the sipping, the matching of insects and the puritan quality that dries seem to give. Some utilitarian fishers go straight to the nymphs – good old Hare’s Ear or PT, the Prince or some new variation of something similar.

Personally, on a small stream, I reach for my little silver Wheatley first and foremost… it’s a tiny box, dedicated to one specific type of fly, the venerable old soft hackle. Soft hackles, for me, are the epitome of a fishing fly. They are arguably the oldest documented fly, and have been called funny things over the years, including a favorite funky name – “flymphs.”

One of the coolest factors is that soft hackles are universally versatile. I’ve caught fish using them in stillwater with various retrieves, they’re great on the dead drift, swung, or any combination of those techniques and others. That simplicity and versatility are part of my love for this style of fly. I love tying them and fishing them, and they work. What more could I ask? Now I do love to fish dries and am also of the belief that a dead drifted Pheasant Tail is one of the most effective flies… ever. But when I want to fish a fly that I love because of what it is and what it means, even to consider the history it signifies in this endeavor we have chosen, I choose a soft hackle.

My soft hackle box...

I enjoy the deep history of fishing the fly, and these fit right in to that theme and interest. When I was looking at the bookshelf the other day and pulled out the Manifesto, I also grabbed my copy of Syl Nemes’ book Two Centuries of Soft Hackled Flies and added it to my reading pile, and was inspired to post about them… That book s’s a terrific history of many soft hackle flies. I love my copy – it’s autographed and has one of Syl’s flies that he tied and was used for the photos in the book mounted inside (grin.)

Click to check it out at Amazon...

One of the most frequent searches that leads people to this site is “learn to flyfish small streams.” I was thinking about that last night and thought it would be a cool series of posts, so here you go. I have no idea how frequent these will be and I encourage the “team” . . . → Read More: The Manifesto]]>

One of the most frequent searches that leads people to this site is “learn to flyfish small streams.” I was thinking about that last night and thought it would be a cool series of posts, so here you go. I have no idea how frequent these will be and I encourage the “team” to think about adding posts of their own in this vein!

I was standing looking at my bookcase of fly fishing books when it hit me, and it didn’t take me too long to grab the first book I recommend to just about anyone interested in learning about fly fishing, the Curtis Creek Manifesto, by Sheridan Anderson (Amato books.)

I need to say that there is no substitute from learning from someone who loves small streams or fly fishing in person. None. But we’re not all that lucky, and frankly, you can’t have some smelly, grubby vested fly flinger sitting on your couch every night to shoot the breeze with you and coach you to the enlightened zen of smallstream fly fishing. Somehow I doubt the Mrs. would think that was too groovy and you may end up sleeping on said couch (again.)  So, like many, we have to resort to reading.

The Curtis Creek Manifesto is a gem – a true classic of fly fishing literature, and it’s a comic book. Yep. Comic. Seriously. Comic book. The wisdom is easily found, and presented in a truly entertaining way. Maybe it’s just my own twisted sense of humor, but I get sore from laughing every time I open the book, but also am reminded of some gem of information or other every time as well. Every time. Here is an example page… with some obvious nuggets of info that would absolutely help with small stream endeavors:

(Click to see the image larger...)

The book even covers a little bit on fly types and tying, but the core usefulness is in the areas that talk about stealth, lies, and the basics of reading streams and rivers. It’s an amazing little piece of humor, art and information, and truly one of my most favorite books on the topic.

That said, I’ll leave this post with an image of one of my most favorite pages of the book, the “Eleven Commandments:”

(Click to view larger...)

The book is often available in your local fly shop – the first place you should go to get stuff like this. Help them stay in business. It’s also linked from Amazon at the top of the post. Happy reading!

I fish because I love to; because I love the environs where trout are found, which are invariably beautiful, and hate the environs where crowds of people are found, which are invariable ugly; because of the television commercials, cocktail parties and assorted social posturing I thus escape;

. . . → Read More: Testament of a fisherman]]>

I fish because I love to;
because I love the environs where trout are found,
which are invariably beautiful,
and hate the environs where crowds of people are found,
which are invariable ugly;
because of the television commercials,
cocktail parties and assorted social posturing I thus escape;

because, in a world where most men seem to spend their lives doing things they hate,
my fishing is at once an endless source of delight and an act of small rebellion;
because trout do not lie or cheat but respond only to quietude and humility and endless patience;

because I suspect that men are going along this way for the last time,
and I for one don’t want to waste the trip;
because mercifully there are no telephones on trout waters;
because only in the woods can I find solitude without loneliness;
because bourbon out of an old tin cup tastes better out there;
because maybe someday I will catch a mermaid;

and, finally, not because I regard fishing as being so terribly important but because

I suspect that so many of the other concerns of men are equally unimportant – and not nearly so much fun.

-John Voelker (Robert Traver )
(spacing/formatting added for emphasis… -GS)

The Winter had been bitterly cold and dreary. Then again, what more can be said of Colorado’s San Luis Valley; the cold spot . . . → Read More: The Tale Of The Little Snow Fly]]> This was the winning entry of the smallstreams.com writing contest a few years ago… brought back to life recently in the forum by the author, member John M. Larson (Alpinefly.) Enjoy…

The Winter had been bitterly cold and dreary. Then again, what more can be said of Colorado’s San Luis Valley; the cold spot of the nation most of the time. With the Sangre De Christo Mountains to the East, the Methodist Mountains to the North, and the San Juan Mountains to the West, arctic air would sweep down into the valley with an unrestrained vengeance. Survival experts will simply tell you that an exposed body would be hypothermic and dead within minutes as the air sucks the water and life out of every living thing. There was something more then just arctic air that had sucked the life out of me on this Christmas day. Seven years before, I was married on this magical day. Now the magic had turned to a bitter divorce. On this Christmas day, I went hunting, more out of tradition then desire.

The surrounding beauty went unnoticed as I bagged my limit of ducks, geese, and rabbits with the accuracy and emotion of a cold calculated assassin. Warm, homecoming greetings after a chilly Christmas morning hunt were only replaced by the dim stillness of a country kitchen. A stern womanly command to take off my stinking camo, and hunting boots would have at least been welcomed. For any other guy, they would find the absence of such a scorning as a blessing. On previous Christmas days, the cast iron antique wood stove in the corner would be stoked with sweet smelling pine, bringing a toasty warmth and comforting fragrances of turkey, dressing, gravies, and holiday goodies. The other more modern stove in the opposite corner of the kitchen would be equally as busy, as hurried chatter is exchanged from all.

With a total lack of motivation, I lay the game on the wooden counter, grab a butcher knife, freezer paper, garbage bag, and go about the process of skinning a pile of ducks, geese, and rabbits. The kitchen sink runs with cold water as I rinse, wrap, and mark the contents, then place in the freezer. Myrr, my Blue Point Siamese cat rubs up against my leg trying to get some loving attention. “What the hell do you want cat.“ I mutter in my low Grinchy growl? Myrr just continues to rub my leg with a pleading look. I yank off a Mallard feather and throw it at the cat, “Here, now go play !!!” Myrr stares for one moment, picks up the feather in his mouth, and happily prances off to another room.

I continue my job of skinning the game, “kill da wabbitt……….bwast dat dissssssssssppppppicable duck”, I mutter more out of sick sarcasm then a perverse sense of humor. “Well if y’all weren’t dead before, you are now.” Just Great!!! I’m talking to a pile of dead ducks, geese, and rabbits with drool running down the sides of my mouth. Good thing no one is around to see that I’ve finally lost it.

I carefully wrap the last piece, a small Cinnamon Teal in freezer wrap, mark Teal and the date, and place it in the freezer. After washing the remaining game residue from my hands I slowly meander down to the family room. A silent stillness fills the darkness, with only the ticking of the Grandfather clock in the corner reminding me of so much wasted time. The sweet smell of a Christmas tree with it’s twinkling lights, stockings hung by the cold dormant fireplace that begs for a warm crackling fire, and giggling children happily playing with their new toys are only an empty distant memory. I go over to my mahogany circle bar with it’s various crystal decanters and pour me a Scotch (straight up) in one of the delicate crystal glasses; hoping to temporarily numb the bitter cold poison that relentlessly continues to suck the warm Christmas spirit from my broken heart. Extravagant lights that could be seen from the highway of the custom country tri-leval home and the towering pines on it’s front lawn were vacant.

I used to welcome the peaceful solitude of this country home. A custom country home on 15 acres of land with mountains in every direction was a welcome dream come true after living in the uncivilized craziness of front-range Denver, Colorado. No matter which direction you drove, you could choose from the best of fly fishing, big game archery hunting, skiing, or any other dream come true for an avid outdoorsman. A welcome escape from my ongoing music studies. The road south of my house lead to the Alamosa National Wildlife Refuge, and the best Goose & Duck hunting you could find anywhere. I took another long draw from my glass of Scottish nectar. A bottle of Puilly Fuisse stored with the rest of the liquor on the bar shelf pleaded to be opened; to compliment a warm Christmas dinner, only to be ignored.

The Westminster chimes coming from the Grandfather clock startled me from my quiet daydreaming. The peaceful, quiet solitude of this lovely home had now become a dim, silent, and unwanted grave. Deep in my wounded heart, I sadly knew that life must go on, and I could no longer remain in this beautiful house. I turned and walked up the stairs to the master bedroom for some different scenery with my glass of half sipped Scotch still in hand. Plopping down in the soft chase lounge and grabbing the TV remote I proceeded to surf through the channels. “The Grinch That Stole Christmas”, even though one of my long time favorites… No Way!

First, I would not proceed to steal Christmas presents, ornaments, “roast beast”, and the last can of “Who Hash” from human kind, dressed in a cheesy Santa suit, all the while lying to a little child that I was taking her Christmas tree to be repaired in my shop. Everyone else has the right to celebrate as they wish; I just have nothing to celebrate. In fact, I am in no mood to see any corn ball Christmas movie. With such a modern convenience as satellite TV, there has to be something worth watching. Ahhh yes ! OLN & some fly fishing , there ya go! A music stand by the chase lounge with my ebony Buffet Clarinet laying on the chair had gone untouched since the start of holiday vacation. Rose Etudes! So lovingly called by clarinet students “an exercise in futility”. Since the divorce, I had buried myself in my music classes and studies to take my mind off this toxic divorce; all in total futility.

The Bible lay on top of the night stand by the mirrored waterbed. I walked over and turned unthinkingly to a marked page. The book of Ecclesiastes. “There is a time for everything, and a season for every activity under heaven… a time to weep and a time to laugh… a time to mourn and a time to dance… a time to search and a time to give up… a time to tear and a time to mend… a time to love and a time to hate”.

Riiiiiiiight !!! Didn’t the writer of this book also say that life is “Meaningless ! Meaningless ! …Utterly Meaningless!” Scholarly logic was trying to tell me to read further and get the full meaning of the passage, but how can you see through piles of hurt and anger that bifocals can’t even correct?

I eased over to my fly tying desk and clamped a # 18 dry fly hook into the vise. “What will I tie today”, I asked myself with all the enthusiasm of a worm dunker in a fly fisherman’s only pub.

With much (don’t rack your brain, you’re on vacation John) careful thought I take another long sip of Scotch, and load a Danish Freehand Pipe with Honey Rum Cavendish. As I light the fragrant tobacco and take a few puffs, I decide to tie a Pale Morning Dun. Damn it !!! Why can’t I get these wings right ???

Earlier that fall, I production tied Renegades (over and over and over in ad nauseum) for a well known fly fisherman and fly fishing outlet. I yanked the unfinished product from the vise and threw it on the shag carpet in total disgust. Proportion ! Proportion !! Proportion !!! There has to be perfect proportion. The fly tying that had once started out as an enjoyable boyhood hobby had now become unenjoyably anal, so with my music, so with life.

No one can be perfect I told myself. Then why does everyone expect perfection?

Myrrh pranced into the bedroom and unwelcomely on to my lap. “Don’t even think about going after that hook on the carpet”, I sternly warned.

Oh, what terrible memories. A few months before, my obnoxious Siamese got into a bunch of midge hooks, ending up in his hide. The veterinary bill was all the more painful as the doctor was left to extract every hook from Myrrh’s hide. My now ex-wife pleaded and begged for a Blue Point Siamese ($250 worth of costly chaos). The cat hated her, and adored me. Amazing how such animals could be a great judge of character, or was it that Myrrh knew good and well that I was an obsessed fly fisherman and would be spoiled with an occasional fresh trout.

Well, no woman to get mad at me getting a small hooks in the shag carpet. I’ll take a magnet later to search for the now invisible hook (thank God it wasn’t a size 32 like the ones that stuck in Myrrh’s hide). Myrrh hopped down off my lap and leaped onto the chase lounge, now snobbily licking his fur and staring at me with a puzzled expression (then again, cats have the same stupid expression all the time……don’t they ?).

I got up and opened the door that lead out to the redwood deck. The vast 15 acres in the back property lay lifeless. No chickens in the coop that once gave up fresh eggs and even some hackle for my tying. Goat Goat. An obnoxious nanny goat that would only come up to my little 3 year old girl Jennifer, but nastily head butt you in the behind if you turned your head. That stupid goat loved Jennifer, and Jennifer adored her pet goat.

As I stare over to the stables, I hear Jennifer’s voice softly say, “Don’t cry Daddy”, as she tightly clung to me before boarding the plane. How can I cry anymore ??? The bitter hurt of divorce has sucked me dry . I once dreamed of my three little boys and little girl going out to the stables to find a new born colt. “This is your Christmas present. Take good care of him”. I could have only wished, but as my Grandpa once said, “if wishes were dreams, beggars would ride horses”. The harsh reality of the world had wiped out what once were dreams; even ideals that I was raised on. Marriage was to be till death do us part, having been spoken before God. Meaningless! A total exercise in futility!

Why does reality hurt so much?

Walking back inside the master bedroom, it’s cold empty fire place only further reminded me of the world’s bitterness.

I walked over to the corner by the fly tying table, grabbing my fly rod, vest, and a box of flies without much thought. It was afternoon, and unseasonably warm for some reason (upper 50’s). I took an empty pipe and some Mc Barrens Symphony (tobacco) from the table and proceeded downstairs to the kitchen to rob a couple of German Beers from the Refrigerator, and fix a fast sandwich. Walking outside, I once again noticed the sunshine and warm temperature, now hopping into my Chevy 4×4 Pickup, The Blue Beast.

As I drove into town, the streets were deserted and lifeless. Driving past the dark brown brick church where my father had once been minister was just as empty and cold as my heart. Christmas Eve service the night before no longer held my interest or desire to attend. My Father now a minister in West Texas. He and my mother were celebrating with my two brothers and sister. I chose to stay behind instead of travel to (boring drive) West Texas to join in a family celebration. I certainly did not feel like hearing my father and mother preaching (even if he is a preacher) to me the I told you so’s; you should have never married her, as well as the sibling bickering. It seemed like I had been abandoned by family and friends anyway (or was it mutual divorce). The Downtown ornaments on the streetlights looked only ugly to me as I worked my way out of town, and closer toward the Rio Grande River. A smokehouse giving off it’s sweet aroma of smoked meats and cheeses only irritated me all the more. My oldest son used to love teething on the special beef jerky. We would all buy several sticks as the whole family enjoyably munched the spicy mountain treat on our scenic family road & fishing trips.

Not today, it’s closed. Another town past like a time warp. Past an outfitter, taxidermist, and father of one of my fellow music major friends. Ernst even had a pet cougar that would follow him like a playful, tame kitten while hiking in the mountain wilderness. He even had a picture in his advertisements. What an ideal life.

Ideal? Maybe there are still ideals for some, if only for me. Maybe, someday. Another town with it’s hospital. What terrible memories of being carried down off Wolf Creek Mountain after dislocating a shoulder and elbow while skiing. In total shock, it is still hard to fathom such pain. Now, even mental pain robbed me of the beauty of this scenic drive. In no time, the Rio Grande was following along side the highway as the music of Journey blared from the speakers, “Highway run, in the midnight sun. Wheels go round and round in my mind.”

Suddenly and by reflex I came to a stop along the side of the road where there was open water on the river. Taking the fly rod, fanny pack, and box of flies from behind my seat I stepped out of the Blue Beast and walked over to a large rock by the bank to sit down. For a long moment I stared at the flowing water, searching, but for what on this Christmas afternoon? I pulled a now not so cold beer from my fanny pack, opening, and slowly drinking while still gazing at the water. Was this just another exercise in futility? I continued to gaze, and my eyes fell upon the icy snow along the bank. A tiny little black speck emerged from the still icy snow, then another, and another. Some were washed into the chilly flowing water.

Soon a dimple appeared on the once dead surface, followed by many more.

Snow Flies, by God, these are Snow Flies (what we called these tiny midges in this part of the Rocky Mountain West). The trout were sipping these little gourmet morsels in like excited children attacking their Christmas stocking candy.

In utter desperation I looked through my fly box to find a midge pattern that would match this little Snow Fly. A single tiny Griffiths Gnat would have to do. Luckily I found a spool of 7X tippet in my vest from an earlier trip to South Platte’s Cheeseman Canyon. How nice, so where did I put the blasted box of midges ? Oh well! With still shaky hands I tied the spider web like tippet to the fly line and then the Griffiths Gnat to the tippet. A careful cast above the surface dimples & soft landing of the midge, now mend the line, produced nothing.

Another careful cast and mend, drift, drift, then life at the end of my line as my fly rod doubled over in strain. A few beautiful jumps and quickly I brought the trout to hand.

Two small little voices in my head excitedly squealed “Rainbow Fishy Daddy! Aren’t Rainbows God’s promise?” My two little boys would always call them Rainbow Fishys and look on with delight. Yes, Rainbows are God’s promise. I looked upon this Rainbow with the same child like delight, then released it back to it’s home. I caught a few more Rainbows and a small colorful Brown before I lost the one and only Griffiths Gnat in my box.

Walking back over to the rock to sit down, I loaded my pipe with the sweet Symphony tobacco. Another small voice spoke to me. Like the little Snow Fly that emerged from the cold snow into a bitter world and sacrificed itself to bring you these Rainbows (a true gift), a tiny baby, like the snow fly, also emerged into the world long ago on a Christmas day. So tiny and seemingly insignificant amongst the cold bitterness of humanity, He showed us the beauty of life eternal, only to later sacrifice himself for all. He once again emerged from a cold bitter tomb (death) to become a gift to us all; for us to accept or deny.

The river of life continues to flow through all seasons no matter what obstacle is in it’s path. The sun shines on the good and the bad. The clouds rain on the good and the bad. Life goes on. A small doe made its way slowly to the opposite bank of the river to nibble on the grasses and drink of the river’s water. I returned to my pickup and started my trip toward home.

This time I saw the beauty along the way that had been blinded by hurt and anger.

Upon returning home and opening the door, I was warmly greeted by my cat Myrrh, as he leaped into my arms; sniffing my hands. “No Myrrh, no trout. I returned them to the water, but I will fix you and me a special Christmas feast.” I went to the bar in the family room and took the bottle of Puilly Fuisse to put in the Refrigerator to chill and a bottle of Cognac for the duck. After washing my hands, I greased a pan with butter, sliced apples, and some carrots, then sprinkled currents over the combination. I removed the small Teal from the freezer and wrap and placed in the pan with some corn bread stuffing. Mixing apple cider, pumpkin pie spices & cognac, I poured the mixture over the duck. The antique wood stove was stoked with sweet pine and lit, bringing a toasty warmth and life to the kitchen. Now to place the duck in the oven to bake. A wonderful fragrance filled the house with much needed holiday spirit.

Now just one more thing was left to be done. I picked up the phone and dialed, “Merry Christmas Mom, Merry Christmas Dad” !!!

Prologue:

The Sno- Fly Swap began with a small box of midges given as a random gift each following Christmas.

Sno-fly finished it’s fourth year with the 15th box of midges given to “Casting For Recovery”. Just a box of small Snow Flies given by a bunch of great smallstreams fly fishermen that now know the special meaning of the little Snow Fly filled with life, healing, and hope, and open their eyes each day to life’s beauty that only small streams can provide.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=VNdSfGP4Tts