Early June 2023

I am back in Colorado from Florida just in time for the annual spring runoff that blows out all my favorite rivers and creeks.  Saguache Creek in the San Luis Valley that fishes well at 40-50 cfs is a rambunctious 260 cfs.  And the Big Ark near Salida that I can just wade safely across at 400 cfs is rolling at 2200 cfs.  To complicate matters, most of my preferred high alpine lakes are still frozen or inaccessible because of deep snow drifts on the trails up.  So, what to do?  I could break out my float tube and drive over to Antero or Spinney Reservoirs in South Park near Fairplay and join the pontoon flotilla and motorboat brigade—and probably catch some giant trout.  But that’s not my scene.  For my money, a better option if you are seeking solitude and wild fish (and even some surprisingly big ones) is beaver ponds.  

Pursued by the Spanish and Pilgrims, then trapped to near extinction in the US in the mid-1800s, beavers have staged a remarkable recovery.  That history, from pre-colonial times to the present, is chronicled in an engrossing book entitled Eager Beavers Matter by Ben Goldfarb. 

Beavers are particularly important in the dry western US where they create wetlands, help conserve water, AND as an added bonus for anglers, fashion inviting habitat for trout–a true foundational species in many areas.  As Professor Tom Lovejoy, a former colleague of mine at the World Wildlife Fund, wrote in review, “Eager is the stunning story of beavers—so integral to early human landscapes of North America—and their function in support of people and later the American economy.  Literally nature’s “Corps of Engineers,” beavers today play vital roles in restoring watersheds, landscapes, and flood control throughout the continent.  To view them just as a cute animal with a flat tail is to trivialize the central player in both history and modern-day landscape ecology.”

Now admittedly, to catch trout in beaver ponds can be a real challenge, both physically and mentally, but offers great rewards. I have learned this through the school of hard knocks over the past five decades and have shared some tips and rules for fishing beaver ponds in earlier posts, such as always approaching a beaver pond from below the dam. (For more beaver pond fishing tips, see my earlier article from 2019: https://hooknfly.com/2019/07/06/beaver-pond-perspicacity-solving-the-puzzle/. I will have great days and some not so good, but isn’t that trout fishing in a nutshell? Fortunately, almost every region in Colorado has its share of productive beaver ponds. Around Salida in south central Colorado we are lucky to have a surfeit—Silver, Pass, Fooses, Greens, and Little Cochetopa Creeks to name just a few.

Now having spent several days unloading my SUV after from my annual migration from Florida, tidying up my cabin, and the bird feeders full, I figured have earned a day on the water. I do a little recon on a creek only a few miles from my house, and things look good. Through the thicket along a bumpy gravel road that parallels the creek, I catch glimpses of several beaver ponds that seem to be in good shape despite a lot of runoff and rain this spring. And because the mornings have been cold in the 40s, I won’t have to be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow.

After a leisurely breakfast, I arrive at the chosen location around 9:30 a.m., a turnout that is a short walk to an opening in the brush and trees that according to Google Maps will lead to the series of nice-looking beaver ponds that have been good to me in the past. 

I slip on my chest waders—beaver ponds can have deep and mucky holes and it’s much too cold for wet wading this time of year.  The water will register a chilly 42 degrees when I break out my thermometer later in the morning. 

As I head into the thicket, wild rose bushes grasp at my waders (Leave the expensive Simms ones at home!), and the sharp thorns of the currant bushes prick my arms.  I march on resolutely down the increasingly steep slope, my wading staff saving me from a couple of ignominious falls.   Soon I am smiling when I see water shimmering in a pond below.  But when I emerge from the tangle, my heart sinks.  The big dam has been blown out, draining the pond that now only has a few inches of water over what was a deep pool.

I mope about hoping to spot a fin, but nary a trout remains to be seen.  I shake my head.  The dam and pond have apparently been victims of a huge storm and flood that hit the area late last August that blew out culverts in the valley below.  I look upstream and see that all may not be lost.  As the little creek cascades from the narrows above, it swirls around a couple of rocks and creates some small pools that just may harbor a fish.  I’ll give it a try.

I’m using short 7.5 foot, 3-weight fly rod rigged with a #16 Crystal Royal Stimulator dry fly and a #16 red bead head San Juan Worm dropper.  The water is stained from the runoff, and I will try other droppers throughout the day—from tiny zebra midges to bushy olive wooly buggers, but the San Juan Worm will rule. 

The first two casts the flies float down the middle of the foam line in the narrow creek.  But on the third I nudge the dry closer to the quiet postage-sized backwater behind one of the rocks and just out of the fast current.  WHOOSH!  A silvery fish rockets out of the water and smashes the Stimi.  Startled, I still manage to set the hook after a slight hesitation that I attribute to a slight case of rustiness due to six months away from a trout stream.  Obviously could have nothing to do with aging reflexes! The trout cavorts upstream to a little waterfall then reverses course and rushes back to his hideaway.  I slowly work him out from behind the rock and ease him into the net where he pushes 12-inches—a respectable start! 

I continue bushwacking upstream following the creek up the slope to another beaver dam that I can see through the tangle of brush and downed tree branches.  When I finally emerge, the warm glow from that first fish evaporates—damn, another blown out dam, wrecked just as thoroughly as the first although Google Maps depicts it as brim full!  Tip:  Google Maps satellite photos are notoriously out of date in remote areas like this.  Ground-truthing mandatory.

I resolutely press on and find the third pond also to be a mere shadow of its former self.  And to make matters worse, the thicket above this one appears impenetrable.  I’m going to have to detour up the slope on the opposite side of the dry pond where the vegetation appears to open up a bit.  After some grasping, grunting, and clawing up the hill, I manage to find a route upstream that appears less suicidal.  Along the way I take a short rest surrounded by a carpet of beautiful yellow wild sweet peas that are buzzing with bumble bees. 

Then I spot an odd brown spherical shape in the forest floor that turns out to be a giant puffball of the Sclerodermataceae family of fungi. 

When I poke it, the puffball emits a cloud of brown spores that waft away in the gentle breeze. Like Clinton, I didn’t inhale.

I continue on and in a few minutes, I am looking down at a beautiful dam that actually has a pond with a decent amount of water behind it.  I gingerly zig-zag down the steep slope with the help of my trusty wading staff and emerge onto a muddy sandbar that I see some big elk have recently traversed to get themselves a drink of water from the pond. 

Then I see it—another big track in the mud.  I think first “bear” but then see it 4 toes instead of 5 and a big palm pad, which means mountain lion. 

My skin starts to prickle as I survey the surrounding forest for the cat.  This county reportedly has more cougars than any in Colorado, but I have set to see one in the wild.  Not that I want to!  

When my nerves settle down, I inch up towards a foam line that spills into a deeper hole where I can’t see the bottom. 

On my second cast in the foam line, the dry is yanked under as something eats the San Juan Worm.  It’s a frisky little brown trout, but I figure something bigger has to be lurking around that dead tree stump jutting from the bottom. 

After releasing the little tyke I cast again into the foam line above the deep hole.  The dry drifts near the stump and suddenly it’s gone.  I set the hook and my rod bends double.  A big brown trout rolls on the surface and dives towards the snag.  I put the brakes on him and after a worthy battle, the brownie slides into the net, pushing 14-inches! 

He will be the biggest of the day.  Score another for the San Juan Worm. 

I make a dozen more casts in the pond, but come up empty, so start bushwhacking upstream again.  I soon am scrambling up on another beaver dam that has backed up a decent looking pond with a nice foam line coursing down its middle. 

There are plenty of signs of beaver activity. 

I fish the entire foam line thoroughly and am surprised not to spark any interest.  The water just doesn’t have enough depth as it did a year ago. My guess is the dam was blown out and then rebuilt by the indefatigable beavers, but the fish haven’t yet returned.  I’m about to continue upstream, but then spot what appears be a side channel on the other side of the pond and deftly wade across to discover a beautiful waterfall that I hope will be a stairway to angling heaven. 

The creek has split and cascades steeply downhill into a couple of captivating small ponds with all the makings of honey holes.  I pick my way carefully down the slope and then kneel to cast towards the deeper water at the foot of the small dam.  Again, after multiple casts, nothing doing.

 I reverse course and climb back up the waterfall and continue to the last two ponds that are a short trek upstream. 

When I mount the first dam, again I am flummoxed.  Both dams have been breached in the middle, and the ponds aren’t not deep enough to float a duck.  Looks like the end of the day as I climb the slope to my waiting SUV.

But wait!  After recharging with a can of RC Cola elixir and a hearty lunch, I refuse to give in and decide to drive upstream a mile or so to another set of beaver ponds with big dams that may have been able to survive last year’s torrent.  As I round the bend just above a couple of the ponds, I see indeed they have and are in good shape, showing signs of recent beaver activity.

The first dam is so big I decide not to risk scaling it but opt to skirt around its south side.

This requires clambering up a steep slope with occasional crawling, then sliding down to the pond oh so gracefully on my derriere.  But it pays off.  The pond is plenty deep and features a tempting foam line below the next dam upstream. 

On my very first cast, an eager little brook trout nails the San Juan Worm.  

Three more follow quick succession, then I start to work a good-looking spot just above two converging foam lines.  The Royal Stimulator alights daintily just below the outreaching tentacles of several overhanging branches. 

Pinpoint casting, I congratulate myself on, although admittedly luck may have had something to do with it.  Then I notice the Stimi is gone and set the hook.  I hefty fish has taken the dropper and erupts into the air.  He tears downstream with me in hot pursuit.  I hit a muddy stretch, and my wading boots refuse to move.  So I stand there up to my knees in muck and gradually wear down the hard-fighting critter.  It turns out to be a colorful brookie, almost 13-inches long, a veritable leviathan in these waters. 

I continue to probe the two foam lines just below the dam, and low and behold, soon hook and land a surprise brown trout in this brookie haven.  After a good battle he slides into my net, another fish pushing 12-inches. 

I fool a couple more willing brookies up close against the dam before the action quiets and I head upstream. The next pond has a beautiful foam line that breaks around a stand of dead trees where the bottom drops off.  On the first cast I land another brownie and follow that with a half dozen spunky brookies. 

Then I spot some fish rising on the opposite shoreline in a foam line that slides under some nasty looking branches.  Who can resist.  The pond is too deep to wade straight across, so I wade back downstream and perform a high-wire act across the dam to the other side successfully.  The Flying Wallendas aerialists have nothing on me! 

Then I bushwhack into position and carefully cast my rig into the maze of sticks and branches.  My old eyes have a hard time seeing the white wing of the Royal Stimulator in the foam line, but a hard jerk on my line lets me know something has dined on one of my flies.  It’s a nice brookie that surfaces with the San Juan Worm in its mouth. 

On the next cast, I push my luck too far and get snagged on one of the grabby branches.  Fortunately, when I give my line one last hard tug, the branch breaks and my rig comes back in one piece with both flies.  I try again, and this time the flies some how dodge the snags, and immediately another brook trout nails the San Juan Worm.  And then another.

I’m thinking I should call it a day and not tempt fate by messing any further with the water thicket above but succumb and head up to the little pool just below the next dam that looks like it can’t miss.  I slide into place to throw a short cast up against the dam, and sure enough, another brookie just can’t resist.  But just as I reach for my net, I feel my left boot start to sink further into the muck, while my right boot refuses to move.  The result is a slow-motion fall sideways into a mud-covered sandbar.  There is no danger as the water is shallow, and I have to laugh while the cold water seeps into my waders as my left elbow sinks into the muck.  After a few tries, I manage to extricate and right myself.  But the brookie has won her freedom.  This is definitely a sign that I should leave the next pond above featuring a big dam and shoreline completely surrounded by a mass of dead trees and branches, for another day. 

This one has been a good one where persistence (or hard-headed stubbornness) has paid off.   As I leave, I tip my hat to the inimitable Wizards of Gnaws!! They have had the answer to the runoff riddle.

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