Where the Grass is as High as Your Hips

The gravel road in was more fit for a truck but we managed to get the passenger car in. It was only three miles, and we could have hiked in, but by crossing from one side of the road to the other helped us miss a lot of the washboard areas.

It was dry but not too hot. The grasses were still green even though the summer saw little rain. I could smell the junipers and sage as I put my fly rod together and tied on a size 12 hopper. I walked along the buck-rail fence and found a place to climb over. The grass was as high as my hips. I could tell no one had been in this are most of the summer--at least not through the grass or around the creek bank. No matted down trail anywhere. That is always a good sign. It means the trout, while always skittish, would not be quite as skittish if I was quiet and sneaky enough.

I've always had a penchant for this type of water and area. I'm glad others would rather fish the larger popular waters. I've never been a "real" introvert, I guess, but I love to search out little unknown or less known areas and see what surprises they might hold. Some claim getting away like this is an escape of some sort. I'm not really sure that is it. It's more like going to places you feel you belong. I've always joked that trout are some of my best friends--that I have never heard them say a bad thing about me.

On this particular creek, the water is on pretty level ground. The gradient is enough to keep it flowing, but there are very few places it is swift and choppy. One almost every bend the water is deep enough to hold decent-sized trout. Trout up to 19-inches while not exactly common, do swim around in the deeper sections. There are lots of undercut banks on this stretch and it is fun to watch a dark-backed brown or green-sided cutthroat trout slowly appear from the shaded edges of the creek.

Typical fly fishing techniques are not normally used here. Often, your cast lands on more grass than water, or you are dapping your line over the grass and waiting to hear the take. It's a little more like stalking and hunting than fishing in some regards. In some places it's possible to look upstream, cast upstream, and watch the fish take your fly. Even at that, the casts are not long.

This particular day, I caught some nice browns and one or two nice cutthroats. I used to not carry a net, but the last two years I've carried one to certain streams because the fish have not only been bigger, but it is easier to lift them up the bank and over the high grasses to remove the fly and release them unharmed.

This trip was a couple of months after my father died. It wasn't a place we shared together. In fact, I have shared this place with only one or two people. But fly fishing is one thing dad and I had in common. He had to give it up for the most part when his knees and health started to fade, but I'm pretty sure he would have still gone if those two things hadn't bothered him. So just the act of fly fishing made me feel good as I thought about him. He never came right out and said it, but I could tell with certain things he said to others, and to me, that he liked that I spent a decent amount of time outdoors and in particular fly fishing. I thought I often caught a little twinkle in his eye when I shared a story about a fishing trip with him.

All trips are about the fish. We fishers would be lying if we denied it. Yes, all the other things associated with fly fishing are important, but trout seem to hold it all together. These trout were for dad. I like to think he is still pleased. I like to think he will join me one day, maybe on a water we shared together. Maybe the wind will weave through the grass, or the aspen leaves will rustle. Then I'd know he was around. I'd like that.