It is hard to believe that less than five weeks before this trip down Interstate 70 would have taken more than two hours, with ski traffic slowing the 65mph stretches to a crawl. My fishing partner and I made the trip to the Blue River in under an hour and fifteen minutes, with hardly a car on the road. It was the beginning of May, which is a great time to fish some of Colorado 's freestone streams and rivers. The mornings have a chill, but the weather always warms with the rising sun, and the water is not yet muddied by runoff.
This was an especially beautiful morning, mostly sunny with a few clouds pillowing some of the higher peaks. It was slightly below 50 degrees at seven in the morning, but the sun hadn't snuck above the Loveland Pass peak yet. There was only one other car in the lot, which usually indicates a spin-caster is down working the reservoir. We hop out of the truck, I stretch my old bones and quickly change into my waders, snug my boots, yank down my gaiters, grab my rod and reel, throw on my chest pack and net and wander across the two lane highway to the trailhead next to the river. The trail isn't much to look at. It has a parking lot and is visible from the road, but the trail is mostly used by the occasional spin fisherman who is content to lug cooler and lawn chair to the reservoir's edge to toss plugs, spoons and spinners. It is also right next to a treatment plant and a quarter-mile boat ramp.
The Blue here is a vibrant and noisy stream that runs under the highway bridge. As you dress in the parking lot you can peek over the edge of the bridge for a view of the clear, icy-cold water. A smile comes to my face as I see that runoff has not hit yet --temperatures are still chilly at night, so the water is indeed gin clear. I cross the road and stop on the bridge to see if I can spot any trout hanging below. I never do. The bottom is rocky with multicolored chucks of rounded granite; I look more from habit than interest. My partner is anxious --the river is calling her name. The first good hole is no more than twenty yards beyond the bridge, so I drop down from the path to the river's edge. There is a calm in the air this morning. I hear only the sound of rushing water, far off vehicles, and small birds chirping their welcome.
It is amazing to think that this stretch of the Blue is a couple of miles outside one of the busiest winter recreation areas in Colorado , and is seldom less crowded during the summer. There are four ski resorts within a fifteen mile radius and two bustling downtowns with everything that entails. Spring and fall are different, the crown jewel seasons to visit the area. There are fewer ski bums and tourists, complemented by cool but moderate temperatures and weather patterns. The best part is that the fishing is overlooked on this side of the reservoir, especially since the Blue is a Gold Medal tailwater below the dam.
As I string up my rod, my partner is even more restless –fishing just isn't her thing. She'd rather be wet and chewing sticks. If you haven't yet guessed, my my companion is Cabo, my four-year-old Chocolate Lab. We make many trips throughout the season to give Mom a chance to sleep in without the noise and distractions of a man who would rather be fishing and a dog that would rather be chasing a ball or stick, though this has been complicated recently by a new addition to the family.
The stretch of the Blue River above Dillon Reservoir is a midsize freestoner about ten miles long. It runs south to north from the mountains past the famous ski town of Breckenridge and into the reservoir. The Breckenridge stretch, which was abused for decades around the turn of the century by mining companies, has been restored in recent years to enhance fish habitat. A better channel and boulders to provide water diversions and cover for fish have been added, for example. The stretch of river immediately above Dillon Reservoir has gone relatively unchanged over the past few decades, except that Salmon Snagging Prohibited signs have been added at the roadway and trailhead.
During the winter, flows through this stretch can be low, but around the beginning of May they increase to about 50cfs and can peek at around 250cfs during the June runoff. The quarter-mile stretch of river between Highway 9 and the delta at Dillon Reservoir holds some feisty little brown and rainbow trout. Most range from ten to twelve inches, with an occasional brute in the fourteen-inch range. This is in contrast to the tailwater section a few miles away, which holds fish in the twenty-inch range that dine on Mysis shrimp by the truck load. The fish in the upper stretch have to work harder for their food and are much more willing to attack a size 14 Humpy or size 16 Elk Hair Caddis. Dry flies are always fun and seem to produce all year. My favorite rig, however, is a double nymph setup, with a red size 16 Zebra Midge on top and a size 18 Black Beauty on a dropper about ten inches below.
The Blue almost never gets more than waist-deep here and the stream has many accessible areas to cross, so leapfrogging the river is your best bet. With lots of riffles, fallen, dead wood and stumps, rocks, bends, and undercut banks, the river tests all of your skills. For a midsized stream there are some tempting unreachable areas as well, since bush-lined banks with protruding sticks and a slick bottom of buffed cobblestones make for tricky footing.
The first run always produces a fish or two –I can always count on a nice little brown with an amber belly and vibrant blue and red spots. Today is no exception. I hook up on the fifth cast in one of the nicer runs. I land him slightly below the run. When I land a fish, I always take a moment to show it to Cabo. She is attracted to the splashing, but less interested in the actual fish. I tell her to give it kisses, but she just twitches her jowls up showing teeth and gums. She's not going to bite the fish; the look is in anticipation of getting splashed or tail-flipped. She makes this face a lot when I play with rubber bands around her – she's expecting that little snap in the snout.
I set the fish back in the water and he darts straight for deeper water, leaving Cabo to wonder where he went. She searches for him, head completely submerged, to no avail. She's probably not the best fishing dog. She couldn't catch a trout if she tried, since she's actually afraid of the fish. But she's by far my best fishing partner. She never complains about a long day, always comes over to see what I caught, and never tells my friends I only caught one ten -inch fish, right after I've told them I had a great day and landed multiple sixteen-inchers.
There are multiple holes in this quarter-mile stretch above the reservoir. I hit them all quickly and with decent luck. I catch a few in the expected spots and one in an unexpected spot, but don't get even a nibble in some of the good runs. The final stretch right above the river mouth is the best treat. Normally it is an eighty-foot stretch of straight, quick, riffles about fifteen feet wide. Today the river was different. It ran narrow with several small branches of water that stretched about two hundred yards or so down a steady slope to the shrunken reservoir. In the main branch there were a few thigh-deep pools and knee-deep runs where the sandy beach-like terrain leveled for a stretch before dropping towards the reservoir again.
Dillon Reservoir continues to be starved for water. For more than two years (most of 2003 and 2004) Dillon remained at between 50% and 60% of capacity, partly due to the steady flows released from the reservoir by the Denver Water Board through the Roberts Tunnel on the backside of Dillon into the North Fork of the South Platte . While these flows remained almost steady, the tailwater was ignored, often flowing at around 50cfs for many months at a time. But the largest contributor to the low volume of water in Dillon reservoir was plain and simple -the shortfall of moisture in Summit County .
Just two years before, I had fished the exact same spot and stood right at the river's mouth catching stacked rainbow trout on woolly buggers and streamers, fish that streaked off to join the lurkers of the deep. Today the shoreline is two hundred yards away. This “new” stretch of river has soft sandy banks and almost no rocks on its bottom. I can see two stray anchors sticking out of the sand, hundreds of beer cans tossed overboard by boaters and shore fishermen many decades before, sinkers, rusted lures, and other items discarded many yards from shore with no thought they'd be seen again. It was a depressing sight –decades of pollution on top of two long years of Mother Nature's wrath. It was hard to tell which was worse.
I had to walk a hundred feet or so to get to the first small pool. I fished each run, riffle and pool faithfully, though any fish present lived in a two hundred yard netherworld, neither river nor reservoir. I stalked my way to the last hole before the cold rushing river met the calm of the lake. I was having very good luck, hooking a handful of silvery rainbows, all feisty and small. Many wouldn't come to hand after two or three runs, but eventually tired. The water was cold and refreshing, and the healthy trout were priceless. Even with the occasional hook in my finger as I released the fish was a reminder that I was out in the wilderness, even if I could look across the lake and see cars rushing past.
I was ready to give up and pack it in. I was disenchanted by the water being so low (again) and I had caught my fair share this morning. If I left now, I could make it home by one and spend some time with my wife. Just one more cast turned into 20 more, when it happened. At first it was nothing to get excited about --it felt more like a snag than anything else. The indicator stopped its swing and dunked below the surface, I set up, and the fly didn't really move. I got a sudden rush of adrenaline and then started to think to myself “gotta be the bottom, there's nothing that big in here.” I've fished this stretch about twenty times, and I've hooked and landed some nice fish --nothing huge, but some bully fighters in the sixteen-inch range. I pulled the slack even tighter and just a split second before I gave it the old straight yank it moved. Not far, it could have been a stick dislodging from the bottom. But then it moved upstream against the current and I realized it was indeed a fish.
The pool and riffle were only twenty feet long; if the fish dropped down towards the lake he'd go through rapids and rough shallow water for forty feet. If he hauled butt up the pool he'd face a steep grade and a twenty yard run to the next pool. I knew I had to steer this fish to the bank before it made a run. So what did I do? I panicked, of course! My rod tip was tilted straight up into the sky, I was performing the Statue of Liberty dance by myself and still trying to stretch farther. Although I've hooked and landed large fish, it seemed that no practice in the world could prepare me for this. It was almost as if I was caught off guard, not expecting to have to go through this. I stumbled in the muddy silt and the fish spooked straight up into the pool and straight at me. I was standing in the middle of the pool and he bulleted back to the bank I had just been standing on. I tried to corner him in the shallows with no luck, as he took off running again. I had now created the perfect lime green lasso around my ankles, so I fell to one knee, nearly dropping my rod and landing on the dog, who saw the splashing and knew the fish wasn't a normal runt. I shouted at her to move, as if somehow this would make the fish calm down enough to land.
The trout was in no mood to succumb to me so quickly, but he was disoriented in the narrow stretch upriver and made the mistake of swimming directly at Cabo, who was waiting at the bottom of the pool near the break of faster rapids. Cabo began to panic again as she could see the fish breaking the surface and wiggling towards her. I hollered at her to move again and she gave me a look that said “which way Dad?” The fish made a final escape attempt right between the shallow edges of the sand-packed cobblestone shore and myself, back toward the head of the pool. I maneuvered the rod tip in the opposite direction to use the resistance to tire him and slow his run, then I more or less threw the net on top of him --more of a sideways pin or trap than a scoop. The fish filled the net, and I felt his heft. I pulled the net taut, leaving the fish partially submerged in the shallow water. He flopped and struggled in the net, and I fell to my knees and let out a huge sigh --a mile of tangled fly line and at least a gallon of sweat are strewn all around me. At that moment I wondered who was more exhausted --me or the fish? Bliss is close, but triumph would be better description of the feeling I had when I captured the unexpected, but only for a second. I removed the Zebra Midge with my forceps and held up this wonderful creature just above the water. This time Cabo was content to view it from six feet away. The fish was a rainbow I estimate at about twenty inches. He was a little soft in the belly, but had a strip along his midsection like a watermelon Starburst.
He had obviously come up out of the reservoir to feast on the insects flushed out of the river bed. I cradled his belly gently with one hand, pointed him into the current, and he wiggled forward out of my hand about a foot with his dorsal fin breaking the surface. The moment he regained his strength and bearings he shot off into the waist-deep hole to sit on the bottom. After watching the release I didn't move for about six seconds, just stared into the water, not sure what I expected to see. Then it hit me, I had missed another perfect photo opportunity. I didn't let that thought linger long.
My senses all seem to be hypersensitive, I can feel the gurgling of the river, the rush of the water over the rocks, the sounds of enormous black crows yacking in the background, the noise of cars quietly whooshing by on the highways, the vibrations of a water swollen stick hitting the sand under my feet, and I see the face of a friend who just wants a little attention. I quickly come out of my daze, pick up the stick and throw it into the river far downstream. Cabo bounds in after it.
For five hours or so I have managed to escape the hustle and bustle of city life, escape the smog and traffic, escape household chores, the thought of bills, and the boredom of the same old routine. I got to enjoy this time with my best friend and let my mind wander to a thoughtless place where my body took over and made familiar casts to the rhythms of water in motion. It feels like I have waited a lifetime to finally get my escape, but the reality is that it has only been a week or so.
I have fished many places and many days with the quest of catching a fish that big, and after I catch and release it, I realize my underlying agenda was not to catch such a big fish, but to have the opportunity to do so. The perfect location, the perfect situation, the perfect companionship, and the perfect escape don't have to be miles from the closest road --although it might be. A perfect fish embodies more than just a number of inches or the river where it was caught. It is the perfect combination of mind, body, spirit and love for the sport and the outdoors.
I was only about halfway through my fishing day at this moment, but I felt satisfied to just break down the fly rod and watch my dog enjoy herself. I realized that if it's the fish you are after, you might just be missing the point.
This article was a recollection of a day trip I took in 2004, during the heart of the Colorado drought. Since then Dillon Reservoir has rebounded, completely filling by the fall of 2005. The Blue River now joins the reservoir where it should, and streamers and buggers are the flies of choice at the mouth of the river.