August 28, 2024 hooknfly

The Search For The Elusive San Luis Valley Rio Grande Cutthroats Continues

August 2024

For Day 1 of my most recent search for elusive San Luis Valley cutthroats, see: http://hooknfly.com/2024/08/25/colorados-san-luis-valley-stronghold-of-the-rare-rio-grande-cutthroat/

For a sampling of some other of my Rio Grande Cutthroat adventures in the San Luis Valley, see http://hooknfly.com/2019/09/27/lake-fork-of-the-conejos-river-solitude-in-a-sanctuary-for-rare-rio-grande-cutthroat-trout/ ; http://hooknfly.com/2021/09/14/prospecting-for-trout-on-the-fab-five-forks-of-the-conejos-river-2-the-adams-fork/

Prelude: The comeback story of the endangered Rio Grande Cutthroat is an encouraging one. Once found in waters throughout the Rio Grande River drainage in southern Colorado and northern New Mexico and even in the Pecos River in Texas, its range had shrunk to less than ten percent of the historic area due to a variety of causes like habitat destruction and introduction of invasive species like rainbow and brook trout. But a cooperative effort by government agencies like the federal Fish and Wildlife Service and Colorado Parks and Wildlife as well as conservation groups such as Trout Unlimited has brought this stunningly beautiful fish back from the brink.

One of the pure delights of the angling adventures of this aging septuagenarian fly fisher has been to sample several of the streams in the San Luis Valley like Medano Creek in the Great Sand Dunes National Preserve and the Adams and Lake Fork of the Conejos River that provide safe harbor for this striking, rare fish. I am infatuated with its gorgeous colors and as much by the wild country where the Rio Grande Cutts survive and thrive, streams that you have to work to get to and offer quiet solitude upon arrival.

Rio Grande Cutthroat From A Remote Creek In The San Luis Valley

Given its status, I am extra cautious in following any applicable state regulations (e.g., flies only, catch and release) and handle each catch with extreme care before returning the fish to the water.

Recently, in doing some on-line research about the current status of recovery efforts, I stumbled on a couple of interesting reports from 2008 and 2016 entitled “The Range-Wide Status of Rio Grande Cutthroat Trout.” The 100-page plus studies, put together by a team of state and federal wildlife and land management agencies and the Jicarilla Apache Tribe, identified a host of smaller, little known creeks and streams that were documented as having viable Rio Grande Cutthroat populations along with summaries of efforts to protect and improve habitat for the trout. Illustrative maps depicted the stretches of these waters that held viable Rio Grande Cutthroat populations.

Three caught my eye in Saguache County, Colorado, that marked the northern most range of the Rio Grande Cutthroat—Jacks, Cross, and East Middle Creeks, lying just south of the Continental Divide and the range of the Greenback Cutthroats over the mountains in the Arkansas River drainage. All three are in the drainage of Saguache Creek, on of my favorite trout streams. The reports stated that there were decent populations of the fish—from 150 to 400/mile–in each water with fair but suitable habitat. In one—East Middle Creek, a tributary of Middle Creek—the reports noted the existence of a stream barrier high in the upper sections of the creek such as waterfall or a small dam/drop structure to protect cutthroat populations from intrusion by invasive species like brook trout from below. (cp004 in the map below) These creeks are located close together about a dozen miles or so west of the small town of Saguache and just over an hour’s drive from my cabin near Salida, Colorado. Who could resist exploring? Do those streams still hold the rare Rio Grande Cutthroats?

On Day One of my quest in July, I reconnoitered Cross, Jacks, and Middle Creeks. It was an enjoyable outing, and the brook trout were very cooperative on Middle Creek. (For Day 1 Follies, see http://hooknfly.com/2024/08/25/colorados-san-luis-valley-stronghold-of-the-rare-rio-grande-cutthroat/ ) But the cutthroat proved elusive. I started to question whether any of the cutts existed this far north in the San Luis Valley. Supposedly they survived high up in East Middle Creek, several miles above the confluence with Middle Creek, but I was beginning to have my doubts. The only way to find out was to break out the hiking boots and fly rods and hit the trail.

Day 2: Searching for the Elusive East Middle Creek Cutthroats

A month later in early August, I woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. In a disturbing dream I had fished for days on end nonstop on East Middle Creek, searching for the elusive Rio Grande Cutthroats reputed to be there, but had been skunked time and again. A true angler’s nightmare. From past experience, I knew the only antidote was to plan a trip post haste to East Middle Creek to prove the cutts are really there. And I would need a witness, so in the morning I rang my ace photographer friend Jody Bol to accompany me and document their existence.

A couple of weeks later we are bouncing up CR 38FF towards the Middle Creek trailhead. The road is rougher in spots than last month and pocked by occasional mudholes from all the rain the area has been getting during the so-called monsoon season—maybe a grand total of a couple of inches, which is substantial for this high mountain valley desert. I have checked the State Of Colorado on-line flow gauge for Saguache Creek downstream as none exist for Middle or East Middle Creeks. It shows that Saguache Creek is running high which may be a good indicator that there will be enough water in the smaller tributaries that are shallow this time of year under normal circumstances.

Soon we come to the trailhead and prepare our gear for what will be a day-long outing of about eight miles roundtrip to the supposed cutthroat lair and back.

I am going to wet wade today so pull on my new Simms Flyweight fishing boots designed for hiking as well as wading. I will be carrying only one rod, a short 7.5 foot wand that should be easier to cast with in the tight quarters of East Middle Creek. I have rigged it with a #16 bushy Royal Stimulator that produced well back in July. It’s a reasonable facimile of the grasshoppers clacking loudly as the flitter about, and more importantly it floats like a battleship and can be seen easily by aging eyes.

We hit the trail around 9:30 a.m. for the first mile of hiking along Middle Creek to the confluence with East Middle where the cutthroat allegedly swim.

The weather is 60 degrees under a beautiful cloudless Colorado bluebird sky. The trail is a bit damp in spots and lined with an abundance of gorgeous wildflowers—blue asters, dwarf mountain goldenrods, and lupines.

Jody disappears from time-to-time to snap photos. In a herculean exhibition of will, I refrain from sneaking down the slope to Middle Creek where I can see fish rising in the alluring beaver ponds that yielded many will brook trout on my last trip up here in July.

Iron Will Resists MIddle Creek Beaver Pond Temptation

We cover the route to the confluence in about 45 minutes and come to the spot above the confluence where the trail crosses East Middle Creek and then splits. The water is running a bit lower than a month ago but is clear and cold. We decide to take a quick break and a sip from our water bottles. Of course, now I can’t resist at least one cast…ok, maybe a few…into the inviting bend pool! Back in July I caught a scrappy brookie here, but maybe there’s a cutthroat in there fraternizing with the invaders from the eastern USA. My first cast is a bit short, and the fly skirts the edge of the pool in water only a few inches deep. No dice. I lengthen my line a few feet and recast. This time the Stimi alights close against the bank above the pool and swirls enticingly into the deeper water. There’s a flash, and I am onto an lively fish, but alas I can see from its orange trimming that it’s a brook trout.

After some quick pix of the spunky fish, we cross over the water and follow the trail a short distance where it splits. To the left would take us to the west back to where the trail intersects and then follows Middle Creek to the north. We turn to the right and hike the trail as it parallels East Creek upstream to the reputed cutthroat water. The hike is a pleasant one with a generally modest grade and a cool breeze blowing. The wildflower show seems to get even more incredible as we climb, carpeting the edges of the trail and slopes with gentle beauty.

Our plan is to descend to the creek whenever we spy a relatively open stretch with sufficient depth and that isn’t overgrown so I can safely cast a fly and that might hold some prized cutthroats. For the first half hour or so, they are few and far between. Most of the creek is hidden in thickets of willows, tree branches, and fallen logs. But where I can find a stretch that has some pools that will provide a hideout for trout and I can manage to thread my casts over logs and dodge overhanging branches or have enough elbow room to try an unorthodox downstream float, the trout are there and hungry. Every short stretch produces two or three. Unfortunately, they are not cutthroats, but chunky brookies that can’t resist the Stimi that they mistake for one of the grasshoppers buzzing about everywhere.

We continue on for another mile, sampling the stream whenever we find a decent-sized opening in the thicket. But it’s more brookies which have taken over the creek en masse. Then just when I am getting despondent about the chances of finding any cutthroats we come to a picture-perfect active big beaver pond complete with a photogenic beaver lodge.

Trout are rising steadily in the center of the pond. The dam is definitely large and high enough that it could be the barrier that stops the brookie invasion. Fearlessly, I start to work my way across the beaver dam to get within casting distance of the risers, all the while doing do my best imitation of a tight-rope walker. To make things more dicey, the beaver have chinked the top of the dam with mud to stop any leaks. Somehow I survive the gooey mess and carefully unfurl a cast that astonishingly avoids snagging in the trees that are lined up below the dam. I let the fly settle then strip it in slowly across the surface. A couple of twitches and the water explodes as a decent-sized fish tries to devour the fly. He misses. I reload and throw another cast that is intercepted in the clutches of a dastardly willow tree behind me. I issue some choice expletives then miraculously pull the offending branch close enough that I can wriggle the fly loose. A good omen, as my next offering alights near where a good fishing has been rising, and he immediately gulps down my offering. My rod bends nicely as the fish jumps then dives for safety of a pile of submerged logs. In preparation for a celebratory cutthroat trout, I do my patented sashaying 360 degree pirouette retrieve, and after a good battle, he relents.

My blood pressure spikes as I await the verdict…. brookie or cutthroat?. Aarghh!! Another chunky brookie has eaten the Stimi!

Five casts and five fish later—all brook trout—I dejectedly begin navigating back across the beaver dam, an impressive high-wire act reminiscent of the famous Flying Wallendas, to renew the search for cutthroats further upstream.

Septuagenarian Death Wish

Soon the high peak of Mount Antora, an almost 14-teener, peeks above the horizon signaling the headwaters of East Middle Creek can’t be far ahead.

Mount Antora Above On The Continental Divide

In another half mile the creek hangs a turn to the south and heads up a steep ravine flanked by the trail high above. My resolve is wavering on whether to continue further up a series of switchbacks when I come to a sign from Colorado Parks and Wildlife featuring a handsome Rio Grande Cutthroat and catch and release regulations. Has to be an good omen so I continue up the switchbacks that climb up the steep slope. Hope springs eternal!

The climb in my heavy wading/hiking boots is no picnic in my now soaking wet, so-call flyweight wading boots. But I can hear the creek roaring over a hundred feet below and can see a series of enchanting clear pools.

Huffing And Puffing Up The Switchbacks (Disclaimer: That’s My Waterproof Phone Gear Around My Waist, Not A Belly Fat Roll!)

Then in the canyon below I spot what we have been looking for—the brook trout barrier in the form of a four-foot waterfall that probably is high enough to stop the invaders.

After the series of steep switchbacks, the trail soon reaches a plateau at almost 10,000 feet elevation then descends a short distance down an easy slope to the creek which is nestled in a small valley above the waterfall. The gradient here is much gentler, and the creek is less overgrown. The casting will still be in tight quarters and there are big logs toppled into the water here and there, but mercifully more open water without the heavy bushwhacking I had to do downstream of the waterfall.

The first pool looks promising and immediately a fish pushing at least two inches bumps the fly with her nose repeatedly, nibbling away. I have to laugh—talk about eyes being bigger than her stomach. I carefully recast a little further up in the pool. This time the fly disappears as a good trout smacks it and dives.

It’s a stout fighter and as it thrashes on the surface looks to be a veritable leviathan of 10-11 inches! The battle continues and I catch a silvery glint as the fish rolls—something you wouldn’t expect from a brook trout. BINGO! As the fish slides closer, I see the hallmark orange slash along its throat, a wild, grand Rio Grande Cutthroat!! I’m beaming—all that trudging and bushwhacking has paid off. A quick photo, and the cutthroat scoots back to his lair.

The Beautiful, Elusive Rio Grande Cutthroat

Now I pause and reflect. It feels like a near-religious experience to gently cradle such a beautiful, rare creature in my hand in the northern most reaches of his kind.

Appreciating The Beauty And The History, Contemplating The Future

I think of his lineage, a long line of ancestors that have plied these waters through the centuries. Of the Utes and other Native Americans who were stewards of this land and water and how they and the cutthroat trout lived together for decades in a balanced nature before the white man intruded. I take consolation that there is a strong coalition of conservation groups and federal and state agencies like Colorado Parks and Wildlife that are successfully protecting the Rio Grande Cutthroats today and rebuilding its numbers in dozens of waters throughout its range in Colorado and New Mexico. I tip my hat to them and look forward to reporting more in the future about how their handiwork is paying off here on remote East Middle Creek and elsewhere in the San Luis Valley, a gift to future generations.

August 25, 2024September 9, 2024 hooknfly

Colorado’s San Luis Valley: Stronghold Of The Rare Rio Grande Cutthroat

July 2024

For Day 2 of the quest for rare Rio Grande Cutthroats in Colorado’s San Luis Valley,see http://hooknfly.com/2024/08/28/the-search-for-the-elusive-san-luis-valley-rio -grande-cutthroats-continues/

For a sampling of another of my Rio Grande Cutthroat adventures in the San Luis Valley, see http://hooknfly.com/2021/09/14/prospecting-for-trout-on-the-fab-five-forks-of-the-conejos-river-2-the-adams-fork/

The comeback story of the endangered Rio Grande Cutthroat is an encouraging one. Once found in waters throughout the Rio Grande River drainage in southern Colorado and northern New Mexico and even in the Pecos River in Texas, its range had shrunk to less than ten percent of its historic area due to a variety of causes like habitat destruction and introduction of invasive species like rainbow and brook trout. But a cooperative effort by government agencies like the federal Fish and Wildlife Service and Colorado Parks and Wildlife as well as conservation groups such as Trout Unlimited has brought this stunningly beautiful fish back from the brink.

Rio Grande Cutthrout From A Remote Creek In The San Luis Valley

Given its status, I am extra cautious in following all applicable state regulations (e.g., flies only, catch and release) and handle each catch with extreme care before returning them to the water.

Three caught my eye in Saguache County, Colorado, that mark the northern most range of the Rio Grande Cutthroat—Jacks, Cross, and East Middle Creeks, lying just south of the Continental Divide and the range of the Greenback Cutthroats over the mountains in the Arkansas River drainage. Better yet, they are only an hour’s drive from my cabin near Salida, Colorado.

From The Reports: CP030 and CP 004 Mark Jack, Cross, and East Middle Creek In Saguache County, CO

All three are in the drainage of Saguache Creek, on of my favorite trout streams. The reports stated that there were decent populations of the fish—from 150 to 400/mile–in each water with fair but suitable habitat. In one—East Middle Creek—the reports noted the existence of a stream barrier high in the upper sections of the creek such as waterfall or a small dam/drop structure to protect cutthroat populations from intrusion by invasive species like brook trout from below. These creeks are located close together about a dozen miles or so west of the small town of Saguache, Colorado. Who could resist exploring? Do those streams still hold the rare Rio Grande Cutthroats?

Day 1: Exploring Cross, Jacks, and Middle Creeks

In early July I decide to do a little reconnoitering so headed south from my cabin early one morning towards Saguache on US Highway 284 over Poncha Pass then west on Colorado 114 until the turnoff to the north on Saguache County Road EE 38. I opt first to take a look at Jacks Creek and its tributary Cross Creek to the northwest before heading up the 10-mile stretch on CR 38FF to the Middle Creek Trailhead from where I could hike up to the confluence with East Middle Creek.

I gun up the good gravel road pushing the speed limit of 40 miles an hour, anxious to see these two Rio Grande Cutthroat bastions. I slow as I cross over Cross Creek—beautiful and clear and definitely with enough water to float some cutties. Just ahead to the west I spy a faint two-track that parallels Cross Creek to the north and turn off to explore. Around a bend I go a short distance only to be met by a stout barbed wire fence announcing it is private property. Ok, maybe Jacks Creek will offer more. (I’ll later learn from Colorado Parks and Wildlife staff that the Rio Grande Cutthroats are doing well in Cross Creek.)

I retrace my route back to the county road and continue upstream paralleling Jacks Creek which is several hundred yards south from the road at this point. As I continue west, I am confused a bit by what looks to be a lot of wood cuttings/piles in the valley. In another mile or so the creek swings close to the road so I stop and jump out to explore. The creek is so tiny as to be invisible. Then it dawns on me those wood piles are trees that have been washed down the valley by a tremendous flood in the last year or two. In one spot a tangle to branches and trunks is jammed up over 10 feet high against a stand of big aspen trees on what had been the banks of the creek. The creek bed itself is scoured and completely washed out in long stretches, with the sad remains only a few feet across and a few inches deep. I don’t see a fish anywhere.

Jacks Creek Wipeout

I continue upstream until I come to a fork in the road. Here a see a herd of cattle tromping in the creek, adding to the habitat destruction.

Uncontrolled Grazing By Cattle Has Added To The Jacks Creek Carnage

Soon I cross over Jacks Creek and again the damage is evident. I do see a couple of minnow-sized fish darting into one-foot-deep hole, but again as a viable trout habitat it has been destroyed. I can only shake my head thinking of the carnage wreaked on the cutthroats by that torrent plus the cattle. This devastation on Jacks Creek underscores the importance of the efforts to protect Rio Grande Cutthroat habitat. Floods, wildfires, overgrazing, and development can all snuff the life out of a stream in no time flat.

Back on the main road I drive further northwest until I came to a gate and private property sign blocking the route. Whether anything of Jacks Creek above survives I can’t tell, but I am not optimistic. I turn and head back towards the junction with the road to East Middle Creek, CR38FF, hoping for the best there.

The route to the Middle Creek trailhead (where the mile hike to the confluence with East Middle Creek begins) is about 10 miles over a good gravel road. The first five miles are on public land, but the last five snake through private property starting with the historic Middle Creek Ranch. Here and there ranch buildings and corrals can be seen, then views old cabins and new second homes pop up along the drive. When I arrive at the trailhead, I am surprised to find it empty on a holiday weekend and even more so with the relatively posh flat and shady camp site with a picnic table and deluxe pit restroom facilities nearby.

I ease out of my SUV and to size things up walk over to the steep slope that plunges down to Middle Creek to the west. I immediately spy some big beaver ponds below and good-looking stretches of stream water that I can’t resist.

I decide to fish my way up to East Middle Creek and on the way see if any cutthroats are hiding in Middle Creek. The sky is clear and sun is bright but still a cool 60 degrees at 9:30 as I suit up in my chest waders. I will carry two rods, a 7.5 foot, 3# wand with just a single dry fly, a #16 Royal Trude, and an 8.5 foot rod rigged with a #16 Royal Stimulator and a #16 green caddis larva dropper of my own creation—the famous Dirk’s Delight.

Soon I am heading north up the good trail that wends through a ponderosa pine forest and offers occasional views of Middle Creek and beaver ponds below.

I walk ten minutes or so upstream then cut down the slope when I see openings in the dense willow thicket along the stream and catch glimpses of open stretches and beaver ponds on the west side of the valley. After some vigorous bushwhacking I break through into more open territory. When I get to the creek I wade in stealthily and overturn a few streambed rocks to see what the trout might be dining on. I find some caddis cases and a few mayfly nymphs, but not the abundant food supply I expected. I take the water temperature, which registers a cold 42 degrees.

Is a lack of food and icy water a bad sign?? But any misgivings are immediately dismissed in the first open run as a nice fish smacks the Royal Trude. He cartwheels out of the water then heads upstream. The small rod bends perilously but is up to the fight and soon a chunky 10-inch brown trout slides into my net. Not a bad start!

From there the action is steady with a few fish feasting on the caddis, but most on top. And after catching one more brownie a tad bigger than the first, the brook trout take over. Most go 8-10 inches, and all are healthy and frisky. Interestingly, the large majority of the fish are initially finning in shallow runs, not the more alluring deeper bend pools in the creek where I would usually expect to find them. I figure the fish must be warming up with a little sunbathing.

Soon I come to a series of beaver ponds and see a few rises here and there, maybe bigger fish I’m thinking. I cautiously work up on the beaver dams keeping a low profile and loft a cast into a foamy flow skirting some deeper water in the pond. All of a sudden, the dry disappears as a brookie inhales the caddis. After a short tussle, I land a six-inch leviathan!

Several more quickly follow. That will be the scene in most of the ponds I sample upstream—only a few fish succumb to the dry and most are smaller than in the creek. Go figure.

As the air temperature rises and I work upstream, the action gets hotter, with every open stretch producing three or four brookies, a couple pushing 12 inches. No cutts and only one more brownie materialize. Often, I am able to cast to fish finning casually in the crystal-clear current above, and it’s great fun to watch them size up the faux insect then quietly rise and inhale it.

Other times the brookies will jet out from an undercut bank to nail the dry midstream in a splashy show. Some of the best spots turn out to be the plunge pools just below the beaver dams. In one I hook a muscular, colorful brookie that looked to be the biggest of the day–over 12 inches–but I execute a long-distance release before confirmation. Fortunately, he is followed by a half dozen hungry buddies of his that don’t escape.

Plunge Pools Below Beaver Dams Are Hotspots

By now the sun is high and my stomach is growling. Visions of an RC Cola are dancing in my head. I think about heading back to that picnic table but decide to hike up just a bit further to the confluence with East Middle Creek, the supposed lair of the Rio Grand Cutthroats. I snake up valley for a few minutes then the trail turns east and soon intersects the stream. Here I find a pretty little pool with a bend that reeks fish! I kneel and carefully flick the Royal Stimi into the run above the pool. The fly swirls downstream and is quickly intercepted by a lightning-bolt-quick fish that the flees back to the depths. I think it looks like a cutt, lighter on the back than a brookie. My heart pounds!! But my old eyes have deceived me. It turns out to be another spunky brookie, but I have to laugh.

I remember now that the map of the barrier installed by the wildlife folk to stop the brook trout from intruding on the cutthroat habitat showed it being a mile or more upstream on East Middle Creek. It’s been a blast catching the spunky brookies on Middl Creek, but guess I will have to come back and work harder to find the prized fish! (Day Two Article Coming Soon!)

That cinches the deal for a stroll back to the picnic table, lunch, and my cold RC. Along the way I enjoy a profusion of wildflowers—winsome wild roses, splashy skyrockets, bold Black-Eyed Susans, and a Rocky Mountain Bee Plant complete with a Checkered While Sulphur Butterfly. The veritable icing on the cake of a lovely day on the water.

July 2, 2024July 13, 2024 hooknfly

Mobile Fish Camp Shakedown Cruise: The Fishing–Act 2

June 2024

My trip to the Cochetopa Creek/Dome Lake State Wildlife Areas continues with a day on Lower Archuleta Creek and another day hunting for trout upstream in the tributaries of Cochetopa Creek. For Act 1/Days One and Two see http://hooknfly.com/2024/06/24/mobile-fish-camp-shakedown-cruise-the-bad-the-good-and-the-fish-in-two-acts/

Day Three: Lower Archuleta Creek

I am up early the next morning to greet Mr. Sol. I am anxious to try the lower section of Archuleta that has been good to me in the past. But with the temperature in the low 40s and the wind still kicking up, I judiciously decide to await the warming rays of the sun to do their job.

Sunrise Over Campsite And Upper Dome Lake

By 9:00 a.m. things are looking better, and I strike out. I wave to my Florida white pelican fan club as I cruise around Upper Dome Lake and then head downstream on CR NN14. I pass the turnout where I reconnoitered yesterday and continue another quarter mile or so where I park on the side of a wide spot in the road. Soon I am suited up in my waders, and today I carry two rods, the 4# rod rigged with the just the Royal Stimulator that has been a hit with the trout and the shorter 3# rod with a #16 Royal Trude and a sparkle caddis larva dropper just in case they aren’t hitting the dry today.

Day Three; The Chosen Three Flies–Royal Stimulator, Chubby Chernobyl, And Sparkle Caddis Larva Nymph

I slide down the steep bank and begin to gracefully tiptoe through the barbed wire fence that is tilted at a precarious angle just barely off the ground. My long legs should have no problem I think as I step adroitly over a couple of strands. Soon I am congratulating myself on my gymnastic ability, but then I notice a rip in my waders about knee high where a sharp barb has done its silent dirty work. Grrrr! The rip is about a half inch long, indicating the potential for wet socks in the not-too-distant future.

Shaking off this inauspicious start, I head downstream through the boggy terrain to the confluence of Archuleta with the larger Cochetopa Creek. While I know Cochetopa is high, I am not prepared for the turbulent, raging torrent that greets me.

Confluence Of Archuleta (on left) And Cochetopa Creeks

I have often waded easily across Cochetopa just below the confluence, which would now be a risk of life adventure. The good news is that the wind has died down a bit and while annoying from time-to-time today, casting won’t be a major hassle.

I unfurl the 4# rod and flick the Stimi upstream into a quiet pocket in Archuleta Creek just above the confluence. Pandemonium ensues as a dozen or more fish hiding in the pocket spy me and start darting in and out of their hideaway. I had gotten careless and didn’t kneel or stand back from the bank. After a period of self-flagellation, I calm down, kneel down, and flick my fly 20 feet upstream into a nice run below a riffle.

Looking Upstream On Archuleta Creek Above Confluence

A substantial brown trout gulps down the Stimi like he is starving, no hesitation whatsoever. Two more follow in quick succession. The action is fast as I continue upstream, but I must move cautiously as the water is crystal clear.

I come to a long shallow stretch and am about ready to cross over the stream to get a better casting angle at the upcoming bend pool when I see something big rise and gobble something down against the opposite shoreline in a dark little depression no more than a couple of feet long. My first cast is a flub, too far out in the thin current, but my second alights just a few inches from the shoreline, and my dry swirls into the dark spot. The denizen pounces on the Stimi as I watch transfixed. He disappears back into the shadow as I wake up and set the hook. The trout erupts into the air and blasts off upstream. My reel is screaming as I bail into the water in hot pursuit. Trout are scattering every which way in front of me as I apply the brakes and force the muscular brownie to reverse course. Before long I ease him into my net. He goes a tad over 16-inches, a nice trophy in this small water.

Big Brownie From Against Far Shoreline In Shallow Stretch

I release the handsome fish, then decide it’s time to enjoy the scene and have a little snack. Beautiful yellow wild sweet peas are blooming in profusion along the bank, and wild iris dot the wet meadow.

I spot some pronghorn grazing up above on the slopes of the Cochetopa Dome. All is framed by a brilliant blue bird Colorado sky. But before long the next bend pool beckons.

I decide to try the dry/dropper rig, and catch a few on the sparkle caddis larva, but the Stimi continues to rule. Another bend pool looms ahead, but this one will be tricky as a couple of overhanging bushes will demand a pinpoint cast to drop the fly into the current along the far shoreline without getting snagged. I carefully gauge the distance, execute a couple of false casts, and send the dry to alight daintily right in the upper bush. I utter a few expletives, but instead of jerking the line hard, a give it the lightest of tugs, and the fly falls delicately right into the honey hole.

Brownie Bush!!

It immediately disappears in a small geyser of water as another big brownie dines noisily. The trout bores deep into the hole, but I manage to ease him away from the snags and soon he relents, a 15-incher.

It’s approaching noon by now and my stomach is growling, but I decided to fish another pool before breaking out the beef stick, granola bar, and peanuts. There’s a riffle midstream above that cascades into a good-looking pool with some depth. I throw my cast upstream of the riffle and watch the fly bounce jauntily through the turbulent water. Then it disappears in a swirl. I raise the rod quickly and the fish is hooked. It’s a chunky brook trout, the first I see today.

I continue fishing post snack until about 2 p.m., when I come to the stile below the turnout. It’s taken me a good four hours to work only about a half mile of intriguing winding water up from the confluence. As I scramble up the slope to the road, I turn and tip my hat to the wonderful waters of Archuleta Creek. Later this afternoon I will be heading to Gunnison to gas up the SUV for the trip tomorrow and partake of my annual chicken fried steak dinner there.

Day Four: Exploring Four Fine Finny Tributaries of Cochetopa Creek

With Cochetopa Creek blown out, running at over 130 cfs, I decide to devote my last day of fishing exploring one of its major four tributaries between my campsite on Dome Lake and the Eddiesville South Trailhead 20 plus miles upstream to the west—Pauline, Perfecto, Chavez, and Nutras Creeks. Several have good meadow sections, but I am particularly interested in checking out the big beaver ponds they harbor, all of which have been productive on past trips. Can you figure out which one I choose??

I am up early and on the road by 8 a.m. I drive up CR 14DD, the Eddiesville Road that once was a major route over the mountains to Lake City and other booming gold and silver mining areas in the 1870s. I am in my 4WD SUV, but the road is usually in good enough condition to be negotiable by a sedan—except after heavy rains.

I start out being treated to an incredible sight of thousands of sheep moving across a meadow of the Quarter Circle Ranch, replete with a sheep wagon that houses the flock’s sheepherder.

Soon I cross the bridge over raging Cochetopa Creek and then a hundred feet further on the brim-full Pauline Creek just above the confluence of the two waters. Then it’s up a steep uphill where I am greeted by a couple of pronghorn bucks grazing nonchalantly in a meadow. Before long I come to the turnoff to Pauline Creek canyon where I have had good days on some big beaver ponds.

I decide to continue, thinking maybe I will come back later after my recon is complete. Soon I dip down into the valley above the canyon and cross the upper stretch of Pauline which is running hard but clear.

A few miles further up the road I am treated to magnificent views of the snow-covered peaks of the eastern San Juan mountains—San Luis at 14,022 feet and Steward at 13,983 feet.

Then I drop down into another valley where I see the enticing beaver ponds of Perfecto Creek but keep going. Before long I cross Chavez and Nutras Creek, both looking good with strong, clear flows and featuring some alluring beaver ponds. What’s an angler to do??

I ponder a bit then head to the chosen creek. I turn off the Eddiesville Road onto a rough two track that leads to a ridge overlooking the curvaceous creek below in a broad valley. I suit up and start the descent, heading downstream where I know there are a series of five big beaver ponds that harbor 20-inch brown trout.

I follow a game trail on the west side of the valley that soon narrows, now flanked by some impressive rock walls with steep pine covered slopes across on the east side. I get a nice early surprise when I look down and see a new beaver pond with signs of recent activity courtesy of the wizards of gnaws. I decide to catch it on my way back upstream after hitting the big beaver ponds below.

I feel the joy of wilderness and solitude as I continue on. There isn’t a boot mark on the narrow game trail, only hoof prints of deer, antelope, and maybe moose. The aspen are just popping, spring coming late in the high country. Showy wild iris are blooming wherever there is a wet spot along the trail.

Suddenly I hear the clatter of hoofs up above the trail and turn just in time to see two big buck pronghorn skedaddling the opposite direction. I do my best imitation of a crow, and that stops one of the curious boys in his tracks. He turns slowly to size up the intruder. I smile and snap a couple of photos as he slowly walks closer. I ask him how things are going. He wheels and jets away.

The trail edges higher up the slope and gives me a glimpse of the five beaver ponds stair-stepping down into the canyon. My fishing fever is boiling over as I step up the pace. In a half mile I am above one of the ponds and bushwhack my way down to the water, but a big surprise awaits. There’s a major gap in the dam where a flood has blown it out. The water in the pond is barely knee deep, and I don’t see a fish anywhere. I make a few casts here and there where the water looks deeper, but it’s no dice. So I work my way upstream to the next dam where the scene is repeated. This one is a real heartbreaker–when I last trekked here five years ago it was one of the most scenic beaver ponds I had ever seen, complete with a picturesque lodge. And I had caught a 20” brown standing on the dam that is now breached in a couple of spots. Nary a fish is in sight as I wade up the current throwing a cast here and there with little hope.

The Heartbreak Of Blown Out
Beaver Ponds

It takes me almost hour to work my way back up to the first pond I had spotted at the start of my hike that looked to be of recent construction. Three other ponds had met the same fate as the lower two, gaps ripped in the dams leaving very little holding water. I had failed to spot a fish the whole time, either in the leftover puddles or creek stretches in between the breached dams.

But then I see a rise in the new pond–hope springs eternal. I decide to forego lunch for the time being and navigate down the slope to the water. I wade in carefully between the trees and brush that appear to have been inundated only recently.

The bottom is unusually firm for a beaver pond, another indication that the dam is fairly new. I choose my shorter rod that will make it easier to avoid all the limbs and branches around me when casting and flip out the Stimi/sparkle caddis dry/dropper rig a few feet while adjust my drag and lengthen my line. WHAM, something immediately gulps down the caddis dropper and tugs away. Of course I miss the eager fish, but I can’t help chuckle. I wade out a tad further and flip the flies upstream into the inlet flow. Immediately the dry is yanked under as another fish eats the caddis dropper. It’s a frisky brook trout pushing 12 inches. He jumps and dives, but eventually relents. The first fish of the day, the skunk vanquished. I quickly release and reload and this time another brookie, a bit smaller, nails the dry. Then another.

I throw a couple of long casts across the current down towards the dam where the water appears darker and deeper. I slowly coax the flies back into the current and watch a bigger brookie poking after the dry, but he won’t take. I also see a couple of rises by the dam but can’t reach the spot from this angle because of all the intervening trees and bushes. Beaver ponds are never easy! If I want to reach that sweet looking water I will have to wade across the inlet stream above, navigate around some bushes at the upper end of the pond, clamber up a steep slope around a thicket, then slide back down to the water near the dam. Exhibiting some impressive septuagenarian gymnastic moves, I succeed in navigating to the opposite side of the pond with only minor scratches and bruises.

The water is indeed deeper on this side as discover when it laps at my waist only 10 feet from the shoreline. I decide to rerig my 4# rod with a beadhead olive wooly bugger with a Psycho Prince dropper. The weighted olive bugger will make sure the flies get down deep where I suspect the bigger fish are hiding. And they are. On the first cast towards the dam, I let the flies sink to the count of six and something immediately intercepts with a light tug before I start the retrieve. I miss connecting. It takes me awhile to get the hang of it with these fish, but soon a nice almost foot-long brookie is coming to the net, having succumbed to the allure of the Psycho Prince.

I have to be ready to set the hook whenever there is the slightest tug or even just a momentary tightening of the line. Oddly for brookies, only a few strikes are hard and bold. The brookies seem to like both the wooly bugger and prince equally, and before long I have caught and released more than a dozen of the spunky fish, including a couple of bigger ones. They were hiding in the deeper water that was flowing across the face of the dam to the outlet at the east corner of the pond. Interestingly, I don’t catch any brown trout that used to dominate the ponds in the canyon. Washed away in the floods that breached the dams??

It’s early afternoon now and my thoughts are turning to the cold RC Cola back across the pond in my little cooler bag. I start working back across the pond and pick up a couple more brookies at the inlet stream on the Stimi and sparkle caddis larva. I also spot what looks to be a beaver lodge in the early stages of construction amongst a tangle of flooded trees. Freshly cut branches litter the ground around it. I have never seen a lodge built in such a concealed location and will be interested to see what it looks like the next time I am here and the beaver have completed their new home.

The sun is hot now, and I climb towards a cliff on the west side of the canyon that will provide a some welcome shade. On the way up I run into two grasshoppers making whoopie. It seems early in the season to see hoppers, but I decide after lunch I will try a Chubby Chernobyl dry fly in the meadow above the canyon. The little nook in the cliff turns out to be a good spot to relax, with a peaceful view up and down the valley and a bonus of rock art work thanks to a colony of fungus.

After lunch I continue upstream along the trail for five minutes then cut down to where I can hear the creek gurgling and gushing. I get lucky and emerge just below a narrow section where the remains of a beaver dam have backed up water in a nice pool below a bend in the creek. I start to cast and out of nowhere a mama moose and two calves come crashing out of the thicket of willows and bushes just above the pool. Fortunately, the big mama decides to run away upstream rather than confronting the intruder. I wait a few minutes to let my nerves settle, then aim a cast at the head of the pool where the current spins in. A nice brook trout nails the Chubby and puts up a scrappy battle. I get a few more looks and flashes in the pool, but no solid hits.

I ease around the pool and start casting upstream in the rushing creek. Fortunately the Chubby is so buoyant that it floats like a battleship and is easy to see with its big white wing. Apparently the fish can see it as well because a burly brown laying in a foam line below a riffle smashes the fly. It’s a respectable 13-inch fish and will be the only brownie I catch all day. The brook trout have taken over since my last visit!

I continue to pick up brookies here and there as I emerge from the canyon, out of the thicket, and into a broad meadow. I have been singing loudly the whole time to make sure I don’t surprise the mama moose, which can be exceedingly truculent when protecting their calves. My ditty went something like this (to the tune of Be Kind To Your Fine Feathered Friends Cause a Duck Maybe Somebody’s Mother): “Be kind to your silver-haired friends, because an old codger may be somebody’s grandpa.” Well definitely not a top 40 hit, but it scared the mama moose and her babies out of the thicket, into the open, then tearing back down the valley.

I continue into the meadow which is sop and wet from the creek which is overflowing its banks in spots from the runoff, but still fairly clear and fishable. The meadow is carpeted with wild iris and striking white marsh marigolds.

I approach the first bend pool stealthily and using my #3 weight short rod with only the Chubby dry fly cast from my knees. The faux hopper swirls into the deepest part of the pool and is promptly wolfed down by a hungry brook trout that goes about 10 inches. Over the next half hour another dozen or so scrappy brookies cannot resist what looks to be a good meal.

However, nary a brown joins the feast in that pool and several that followed upstream—a stretch that produced many just early last summer. I am still puzzling over that. I am contemplating spending another hour on the stream when I hear some thunder coming from the dark clouds that have scudded over the mountains. A few drops of rain start to fall, so I decide I better hightail it back to the SUV just at the top of the hill. The wind kicks up but the rain doesn’t amount too much.

Rain Clouds And Thunder Threaten But Pass On By

Soon I am back on the Eddiesville Road heading to camp. On the way I admire the lupines that are showing their colors all along the road, and right on que another antelope scoots into view to bid me adieu.

It’s been a relaxing and fun four days, notwithstanding the rookie-type mistakes with the mobile fish camp. The angling Gods have been beneficient.

March 2, 2024March 4, 2024 hooknfly

2023 Ruminations–The Sweet, The Sour, and The Surprising

February 2024

It was early January 2023 and I was just back from Christmas in Denver with my little sweetheart granddaughter Aly. A nice farewell snowstorm reminded me why I am now a confirmed snowbird.

But it only took me a few days of 80-degree temperatures to thaw out, and I was itching to hit the water. My chosen inaugural 2023 trip was kayaking on the Barron River, the namesake of the famous Barron Collier, founder of Everglades City. The tidal river skirts the northern edge of the small town, running out of the Everglades wilderness into the Ten Thousand Islands, a chain of islands and mangrove islets just off the coast. That first trip was a sweet one!!

THE SWEET

I launched early from below the bridge at the town’s entryway, but 30 minutes after fighting a strong falling tide and scoring nary a fish, the odor of skunk was wafting in the air. With a stiff upper lip, I continued pedaling upstream and rounded a bend in the river so I could work a deep channel that opened up into a lagoon where I had scored before. And no sooner did my gold curlytail lure hit the water than something smacked it hard. I saw a flash of silver and thought “SNOOK.” The fight was on, my rod bending double. The fish made a hard run then erupted out of the water in a spectacular jump. But it wasn’t a snook, but a high-stepping ladyfish!!

Putting The Squeeze On A Sultry Ladyfish!

Now many of my angler friends would be bummed out by this turn of events, but not me. What’s not to like about these sleek beauties? For starters, they are close cousins to one of the most revered gamefish, the much larger tarpon, known as silver kings, which can grow to five feet in these waters. They have big, forked tails like the tarpon and no teeth to bite you when you release them, unlike females of certain other species. Ladyfish are also feisty fighters like tarpon and incredible jumpers as well. I have had them vault clear over my kayak in a spectacular aerial display on several occasions! To cap things off, they eagerly eat artificial lures. An hour later, after luring dozens of the finned creatures, no wonder I had reaffirmed my reputation as an accomplished ladies’ man!! For the lubricious story of this romance, see: http://hooknfly.com/2023/01/15/ladys-man-bares-intimate-secrets-on-barron-river/

A few weeks later, my friend from Georgia, Steve Keeble, came to town. He’s the quintessential fishing buddy, an amiable, low-key, and knowledgeable gent who’s a pleasure to spend a day with on the water. I am happy to share secret spots and techniques with him as I know I will learn from him new angling tricks and the location of what he calls chicken holes where the fish flourish. The term “chicken holes” apparently comes from the practice of good ole southern boys to chuck a dead chicken carcass into a deep spot in a river to lure unsuspecting fish for easy pickings. On our first day out, I took him to one of my hidden spots with the more civilized name of a honey hole, the headwaters of a remote narrow creek far up in the Everglades backcountry. There under my sagacious tutelage, and displaying some impressive angling skills, Steve managed to hook and land a massive 33-inch mama snook in tight quarters fringed by menacing mangrove roots.

Big Mama Snook Meets Her Match In Mr. Keeble

Later in the year in Colorado, he exhibited his piscatorial prowess by catching ten beautiful brown trout out of a single pool in one of my favorite mountain streams. I was particularly impressed with his crawling ability in reaching my favorite chicken holes!

I was lucky in 2023 to hook up with a couple of new fishing chums, both veritable youngsters (defined by this septuagenarian as anyone under 55). My new neighbor on Chokoloskee Island close to Everglades, Mark Mitchell, is a wealth of knowledge and energy when it comes to fishing the far-flung reaches of the Everglades Waterway that stretches 99 miles from Everglades City all the way to Flamingo. Later in the year he would lead me to a spot where I fooled my largest snook of 2023—a 33-inch beauty.

On the freshwater front, my new buddy is Tom Palka who lives near me in Salida, Colorado, where I spend the summer in the Colorado mountains. He has an insatiable curiosity and energy that is invigorating to everyone around him and a keen eye for assessing new waters like a hidden access trail to a remote section of my home water in Colorado, Saguache Creek.

Tom Palka With Colorful Brookie From Secret Creek

Family time on the water was another highlight of 2023. During their annual spring trip to Florida to visit me, I took my son Matthew and Aly kayak/canoe fishing on a freshwater lake near Everglades City. Matthew caught a boatload of largemouth bass and Mayan Cichlids while Aly fooled a monster Oscar then brought it in all by herself.

Scads of graceful birds including herons, egrets, osprey, and black vultures plus some curious gators made for an interesting ecotour. A few months later Matthew’s good friend Blaine and his family spent a weekend with us at my mountain cabin. I had the enjoyable assignment of teaching Blaine how to fly cast on the South Arkansas River, one of my favorite mountain streams. Not only was he a perspicacious student, but proceeded to catch a respectable brown trout on what was his maiden fly fishing trip. What a treat to watch him make that perfect cast, manage a good float, and fool that fish that glinted gold in the sun as I swept it up in the net.

New waters are also a treat to explore, and 2023 was a banner year in that regard. I was able to score a freshwater slam on two tributaries of La Jara Creek–Torsido and Jim Creeks–not far from Antonito, Colorado. After several false starts in 2022, I finally located Torsido Creek, finding it hiding coyly between two ridges far off the beaten path above where in flowed into La Jara Creek. There I had a ball catching dozens of beautiful brookies and several flamboyantly colored tiger trout.

A few days later I survived a bone-rattling 4WD two-track rocky road that led to Jim Creek, where native and rare Rio Grande cutthroats reputedly thrived. The rumors were true, and I had a ball catching and releasing many cutts, including some tackle-busting brutes that pushed 15-inches.

Hats off to Trout Unlimited and its partner organizations for bringing this stream back from near oblivion with a host of rehabilitation tricks like bottomless culverts. Articles on both will be coming out in American Fly Fishing in 2024.

I was excited to revisit another water that had treated me kindly on one of my first trout fishing trips over 50 years ago. I am happy to report fishing is as good if not better today. I managed a grand slam of brookies, cutthroat, browns, and rainbows on the three branches of Clear Creek, not to mention a 19-inch plus monster rainbow that I managed to land on a wisp of a wand.

On the saltwater side, I had a beautiful day exploring around a little-known island in the Florida Keys—Shell Key Preserve and bird sanctuary. Carefully surrounded by no-combustion motor zones and with special steps to protect sea grasses, Shell Key shared its bounty with me and Steve Keeble. Being a confirmed Cuda Buddha, I had a blast catching dozens of barracuda while Steve had multiple shots at tarpon and caught some mangrove snapper before he relented and joined the cuda caper. See the following for the full story: http://hooknfly.com/2023/09/24/lignumvitae-and-shell-keys-no-motor-zone-fishing-magic-in-the-florida-keys/

One of the most satisfying endeavors of 2023 was expanding my horizons and writing articles that focused on terra firma, several hiking trails in the Fakahatchee Strand Preserve State Park, the largest in Florida. A critical piece of Everglades habitat located near Everglades City, the reserve offers a range of fascinating habitats from slough swamps, pine hammocks, bald cypress stands, to marl prairie. Did I mention a half dozen freshwater lakes loaded with truculent largemouth and peacock bass? These habitats provide shelter for two endangered species, the Florida Panther and tiny Florida Mink as well as rare orchids and other exotic plants not to mention bear, deer, myriad birds, and, of course, alligators. These articles garnered almost 3,000 views, hopefully helping more people appreciate and enjoy this fascinating and unique place. For my articles on hiking and fishing the Fakahatchee Strand from Florida Sportsman, see: http://hooknfly.com/2023/07/31/a-hidden-gem-fakahatchee-strand-state-preserve-park-florida/ ; http://hooknfly.com/2024/01/26/hiking-in-the-fakahatchee-strand-preserve-dont-overlook-the-jones-grade-trail/ ; http://hooknfly.com/2023/01/26/hiking-the-fab-four-trails-of-the-fakahatchee-strand-preserve-state-park-2-the-east-main/ .

Overall, the numbers of readers stayed at peak levels with over 40,000 visitors. The most popular article was one I wrote back in 2020 entitled “The Best Fishing Books of All Time” which garnered 3,400 views. If you Google “best fishing books” it pops up near the top of the list of sources to explore. It does my heart good that people still read books, especially of the angling variety. On the trout fishing side a trio of articles on exploring the Conejos River in southern Colorado logged over 4,000 views, and the favorite saltwater article was one on kayak and wade fishing around the popular Bahia Honda State Park in the Florida Keys

No 2023 retrospective of sweet spots would be complete without noting my great joy and satisfaction in watching my partner in angling escapades, Jody Bol, reach new heights with her photographic skills. At times risking injury to get the perfect shot (like clambering on top of my SUV along Jim Creek), Jody managed to bring my stories to life with stunning photos.

In that light, I forgive her for double crossing me by shooting a scene of me falling butt first into a hole in a beaver dam, a photo that made the Parting Shots photo on the inside back cover of a national flyfishing magazine that shall remain nameless as I plot my revenge against Ms. Bol and the editor of that august publication.

I was also particularly gratified that I had three articles published in popular fishing magazines. Florida Sportsman carried my pieces on fishing on the tidal rivers and freshwater lakes of the Fakahatchee Strand Preserve mentioned above, and American Fly Fishing featured an article on chasing trout on the remote La Garita and Carnero Creeks in the San Juan Mountains of Colorado. 2024 got off to a good start with a tale in American Fly Fishing about my adventure chasing wild trout on Noontootla Creek in northern Georgia, a new trout fishing locale for me.

THE SOUR

2023 was a terrific year from an angling perspective. And while I am usually a Pangloss Pescador, not all was rosy. Early in the year a January cold wave in Florida with temperatures dipping into the 30s killed thousands of fish plus a few manatees and even gators. Most of the deceased were invasive Mayan Cichlids and Oscars which are a blast to catch, but even some snook and tarpon fell victim.

The chilly temperatures put fishing into the deep freeze for several weeks as well as my moods. On the bright side, this experience with plummeting temperatures led me to dig deep into the question of what water temperatures my favorite finned quarry prefer and what cold water readings they flee. The silver lining to these climatological vicissitudes is that Florida Sportsman will be publishing the results of my research in an article in early 2024.

I had another good reason to be crabby in 2023, notably when the prop of my little Gheenoe motor boat that I rely on to explore the far-flung Everglades backcountry was snarled up in a sunken crap trap anchor rope. The trap had no marker buoy as required, likely the work (or lack thereof) by an amateur crabber who did not check his cage often as he should have or had abandoned it. The result was a Gordian Knot that had me leaning over the stern of the boat hacking away at the thick rope with a knife while simultaneously filling the sky blue with expletives.

Things went more smoothly for the next few months until I ran into a real mystery on one of my favorite high-country trout streams, Chavez Creek. In preparation for my Florida fishing buddy Bob Wayne’s annual fishing trip to Colorado, I made a special trip to make sure Chavez was up to snuff. I found the brook and brown trout famished plus some hungry lunker brownies in several deep bend pools in the serpentine meadow section of this beautiful stream.

A few weeks later, I confidently guided Bob to the best stretches. On the lower section where the valley narrows and beaver have created some beautiful small ponds, Mr. Wayne had his way with the willing brook trout who seemed to fight over his fly on every cast.

That, I thought, would be just a prelude to a grand finale in the upstream meadow stretch where the brown trout ruled. Think again. We saw nary a fish there, let alone coaxed any rises. What had happened to the big boys and girls was a mystery. After flailing the water for almost an hour we flew the white flag. Was it the cattle that had appeared on the scene as part of an early fall roundup since my last trip that were the culprits? Certainly, they had damaged the creek in some reaches, but hard to believe they had driven all the fish away. Did some poacher get out a seine and do his dirty work?? We are still scratching our bald pates over this mystery. I hasten to add that on the morose trip back home we decided to fish little Archuleta Creek, and it saved the day. We both fooled some nice rainbows up to 15-inches, preserving our sterling angling reputations.

The final sour note of the year came when I did my annual migration back to Florida. When I arrived in November, my buddies were singing the blues about the big drought gripping the region during the summer and early fall “wet” season that was putting the quietus on decent fishing for snook, tarpon, and redfish. But as soon as I arrived at the start of the normal “dry” season, the heavens let loose. Continuing waves of rain, cold weather, and blustery winds made fishing a real conundrum, even for Everglades old timers and guides. An active and powerful El Nino was widely blamed for the contrary weather. Luckily I was able to find fish on most of my trips by kayaking into tidal creeks that most motor boats could not reach or using my Gheenoe that can run in six inches of water to get far from the madding crowds. However, on one day-long trip with buddy Mark Mitchell on Halfway Creek, an old reliable favorite of mine, we got a measly six strikes and landed only three fish—one snook and two Mayan Cichlids. Yikes!!

THE SURPRISING

Surprisingly, I had also run into a surfeit of water back in Colorado during the summer. In May and early June, normally dry Colorado got lots of rain and by the time I got there my favorite streams were all blown out. Not to worry, I consulted with the wizards of gnaws and their beaver ponds. Most sane fly anglers take to pitching big streamers in these conditions and avoid beaver ponds like the plague given the touch of insanity it takes to tackle these often maddening waters. One must be ready to do a high-wire act on the beaver dam, slosh through knee-deep muck, and execute perfect casts to avoid the clutching branches of surrounding trees and bushes to have any chance at success. In other words, one must be a tad daft. But that didn’t stop me, and I wracked up a string of excellent days on hidden ponds near my cabin in the Colorado high country, netting several brown trout in excess of 16-inches, veritable leviathans. But in the process, I got my waders nearly scared off me. Here’s what happened.

I hacked my way into the creek below one of my favorite beaver ponds, up the hill on the far slope, then descended along a game trail to the pond. I came to a nice firm sandbar and noticed quite a few elk tracks where the beasts apparently came down for a drink. Then I froze. A couple of feet in front of me were the fresh tracks of a mountain lion. The few remaining hairs on my head stood at attention.

With my heart pounding, I scanned the surrounding thicket for any sign of the cat. Not seeing anything I then backed carefully out of the water and picked my way cautiously back up the slope till I came to a clearing where I could get a better view of the surrounding landscape. Seeing nothing after several minutes, I then beat a hasty retreat to my SUV. Luckily, I can report that I had good luck at a string of beaver ponds about a mile up the road, but it was a reminder that I wasn’t the only predator on this stream. I was also gratified to see that as the summer proceeded the movement to protect and even emulate beaver ponds throughout the West was gaining momentum. Based on scientific research, it is becoming clear how important beaver ponds are to recharging local aquifers, protecting water quality, and providing important habitat for fish, particularly on smaller streams. An excellent book entitled Eager Beavers Matter by Ben Goldfarb makes for a good read for any fly fisher between angling trips. For more on my beaver pond peregrinations, see: http://hooknfly.com/2023/06/08/solving-the-runoff-riddle-off-to-see-the-wizards-of-gnaws/

My next surprise in the summer, one much more pleasant, was the phenomenal recovery of Grape Creek, a tributary of the Arkansas River, near Westcliffe, Colorado. Two monumental floods about five years earlier had scoured this favorite trout stream of mine of all fish and fish food. Before the floods I would routinely catch dozens of fish on every outing into the rugged canyon through which the creek flows—mainly browns, some over 18-inches, plus some nice feisty rainbows. On my first trip after the floods, I couldn’t find a caddis larva anywhere and came up skunked! So, I waited a couple of years before trying again. Boy, am I glad I did. The browns were back in numbers, including one that went over 18 inches, and they were joined by scads of rambunctious rainbows in the 10-to-13 inch range. But where had those rainbows come from? Maybe migrated down from DeWeese Reservoir upstream where they are stocked? Or natural recovery like the brownies? With a little digging I found out the renaissance was due to a smart, methodical restocking program of 8-10 inch fish throughout the river for miles below the reservoir by the fine, hardworking crew at Colorado Parks and Wildlife. They told me the browns can usually recover on their own after a flooding disaster, but the rainbows need a little help. As a result, the fishing in Grape Creek is as good if not better than before. For the full story of Grape Creek’s comeback, see: http://hooknfly.com/2023/08/28/grape-creek-the-curious-case-of-the-rambunctious-rainbow-resurgence/

And talking about rainbow trout, the nearly 20-inch Brobdingnagian specimen I caught in little Clear Creek was noted above was definitely a surprise of the best kind!

On the medical and health side of things, I was surprised to learn I had contracted the deadly mangrove madness disease. Fortunately, I was able to find the cure—the drug was the tugs….on fish on my line.

I did have to chuckle that some of my readers were hoodwinked for a few minutes before they realized I was pulling their legs. For the full story on this medical emergency, see: http://hooknfly.com/2023/12/16/emergency-health-warning-issued-for-sw-florida-saltwater-anglers/

Perhaps the biggest surprise of all in 2023 was being introduced by Mr. Keeble to the non-descript Mop Fly that he employed to embarrass and outfish me decisively on his home water, the Tuckasegee River in the Great Smokey Mountains. Never has such an ordinary looking and frankly uninspiring looking concoction produced such a bountiful catch for him while I nursed a skunk. After being subjected to his withering and relentless taunts, I finally relented and joined the fish parade. I will be using this secret weapon on western trout this summer.

I must mention, however, I schooled Mr. Keeble the next day on nearby Deep Creek by introducing him to the Two-Bit Hooker, a renowned fly from the Mountain West.

Lastly, and perhaps my most satisfying surprise was catching a 14-inch rare native Rio Grande Cutthroat in the headwaters of Carnero Creek in southern Colorado. To fool this beauty required me casting blindly around a bend in the tiny creek which up that high was small enough to jump across with ease. I heard a splash and set the hook, then had to take off running to keep up with the big boy before bringing him to the net for a quick photo and release.

Headwaters of Carnero Creek Shelter Elusive Cutts

For my adventures on Carnero and LaGarita Creek, see: http://hooknfly.com/2023/09/14/into-the-wilds-exploring-la-garita-and-carnero-creeks-in-s-colorado/

So here’s to an remarkable and sometimes a tad frustrating 2023, the sweet, the sour, and the surprising. Wouldn’t have missed it for the world!!

January 26, 2024January 26, 2024 hooknfly

Hiking In The Fakahatchee Strand Preserve? Don’t Overlook The Jones Grade Trail

For my other hikes in the Fakahatchee Strand Preserve see: http://hooknfly.com/2023/01/26/hiking-the-fab-four-trails-of-the-fakahatchee-strand-preserve-state-park-2-the-east-main/; http://hooknfly.com/2022/11/30/hiking-the-fab-four-trails-of-the-fakahatachee-strand-preserve-state-park-1-the-west-main/; http://hooknfly.com/2024/01/14/hiking-the-mellow-yellow-trail-gate-3-in-the-fakahatchee-preserve-and-stumbling-on-a-haunted-house/

January 2024

A rogue cold front has invaded the sunny climes of Florida’s Everglades, an angler’s nightmare. It has put the fish down deep with an acute case of lockjaw. What now? I decide to try a new hike and settle on the Jones Grade Trail, one of the least traveled in the area, located in the northern reaches of Fakahatchee Strand Preserve State Park near Everglades City. The trailhead is 30 minutes north from park headquarters and main road into Strand and the preserve’s most popular tram trails. Like most of the trails in the preserve, it was carved out of the swamp to build a rail line to haul out cypress logs.

Red Dot At Top Is Location Of Jones Grade

I have often fished the freshwater lakes in the Jones Grade area but have never explored the trail which is tucked away at the end of a gravel road that provides access to the reserve.

Serendipitously, it turns out to be one of my favorite hikes, the only one offering the full range of the fascinating habitats found in the preserve—prairie, pine island/hammock, strand swamp, and freshwater slough. And a bonus is you will likely to have the place to yourself.

It is also a good one for families with kids. In just the first mile or so on an easy wide two-track path it offers a hidden pond with a raft of noisy birds and fish, towering bald cypress trees, and iconic Everglades critters like deer and alligators. However, to the observant you will also find that it is the small, delicate, and quiet things that come into focus, holding and rewarding your attention.

The entrance to the Jones Grade Park is located just ¾ mile south of Alligator Alley (Interstate 75) off Florida Highway 29. There are no state park signs to guide you, but the turn is at a white mailbox with the name Quail. Then it’s an easy drive on a narrow gravel road one mile to the trailhead. As I putter down the road, I know it is going to be a good day when see a doe browsing nonchalantly on the edge of the track. She reminds me to slow down and observe. When I get closer, I see she has yearling with her. I creep forward slowly and snap some photos, and they finally skedaddle into the marshy forest.

As I drive past the point where they dove into the swamp, I can’t see any trace of them as if they disappeared into thin air.

Soon I am at the trailhead gate, only about a mile from the highway. There is only parking for a couple of vehicles, so take care not to block the access gate or private road that peels off to the south. I can see the wide two-track trail which extends for several miles will make for easy hiking and that the path is not overgrown.

The bonus of the recent cool spell and gusty north wind is that there are no mosquitos, at least for now. They will come later on the return trip, so be sure to take some bug spray.

One of the attractions of the Jones Grade trail is that it runs east to west so that a series of culverts has been put in place to allow the strand slough to pass underneath as flows north to south towards the Gulf. That provides great opportunities for views into the prairie to the north then the swamp later in the hike.

I tug my hiking boots on and am on my way. I soon get my first glimpse of the prairie to the north. Usually dry during the winter, this year there’s standing water.

Soon I see something tawny brown in distance? It’s moving! Maybe a rare Florida Panther? They are definitely around here—the Florida Panther National Wildlife Refuge is just on the other side of the interstate highway. I grab my binoculars and spy….another momma deer. Then I spot her yearling.

are grazing, seemingly unperturbed by my presence. I walk very slowly forward and pause when they lift their heads. I get closer and closer, snapping photos as I go. Suddenly Junior has had enough, and he bolts into an opening up the trail, flashing here signature white flag of a tail. His mom is hard on his heels. I pause and smile as I look at the pictures on my phone camera, and as I do, the curious doe comes back to take another look at the intruder. Then she saunters slowly off again.

As it turns out, just ahead the Jones Grade Trail meets the 11-mile long East Prairie Trail that runs all the way south to intersect with Janes Scenic Drive, the park’s main road. The doe continues to browse as she ambles south, then finally stops and takes one last look before she bounds into the tall wet prairie grass and soil. The yearling hesitates, then he is off.

I hear them sloshing through saturated soil but when I jog up to see where they are going, they have completely disappeared into a stand of bald cypress to the west. Was I imagining things?

I backtrack and continue on the Jones Grade Trail. I stop to investigate an odd-looking pile on the side of the trail—what looks to be some very fresh bear scat. I back off and look around, but don’t see or hear anything. I check my handy-dandy Pocket Naturalist Guide that confirms it is indeed Ursa americanus poop! Looks like he’s been dining on his fair share of berries.

I proceed carefully, just in case the bear is still around. It’s winter here in the Glades which means there not much flowering flora, but still lots of interesting plants everywhere—prickly greenbrier with triangular leaves and pickerel weed that will bloom with beautiful purple flowers later in year.

I come to a grand stand of bald cypress that tower over the landscape. They are somewhat of an oddity—a deciduous conifer that sheds its needles come winter and regrows them by spring. The bonus is that the needles provide a soft trail duff that makes for pleasant walking. Bald cypress is one of the few trees that can live and thrive in swampy water. The wood of the trees is highly valued because it is extremely water resistant. That fact led to the extensive logging of the cypress forests in the Everglades in the 1940s for use in WWII PT boats and aircraft carrier decks among other things. The cypress are bracketed here by the ubiquitous sabal palms with their broad fronds.

The trail curves a tad to the south ahead, and I see some shafts of sunshine which I have a hunch means there’s some sort of opening in the tree canopy. I hear lots of wings flapping and the squawking of egrets, herons, anhingas, and burly red-shouldered hawks. I speed up hoping to catch a few photos, but put on the brakes as a gator scurries across the path and dives into the slough to the north.

The attraction turns out to be a pond that is wider and much deeper than the slough on the south side of the trail that feeds it. Fish are jumping everywhere, probably bass and cichlids, and they are smacking something on the surface. It’s an angler’s dream–and me without my fishing rod. Next trip!

Hidden Pond

I explore the edges of the pond and spot some antediluvian gar, a fish that has been around for millions of years, coexisting with and then outliving the dinosaurs. They have a leg up because if a pond gets stagnant they can breathe air as well as take oxygen from the water. (For more about is fascinating fish, see my article: http://hooknfly.com/2020/04/15/in-defense-of-the-antediluvian-gar/.)

I continue down the trail that is lined with giant sword ferns and wild coffee plants with their bright red berries. I also start to see more and more gator skids, flattened areas along the slough where alligators enter and exit the slough.

It’s a reminder to approach openings in the trail vegetation carefully.

Gator Skid!!

Then I come to odd-looking mounds of gray soil—they remind me of termite nests I saw on a trip to Africa years ago. I can’t see any entrances. But rest assured, truculent little invasive fire ants are in there, literally thousands of them. Despite their lilliputian size, believe me their bites sting and will result in nasty red lesions with pus at the center. Interestingly, I see some tiny wasps landing on several of the domes.

My handy PictureThis app identifies them as potter wasps that build nests out of mud that is a mixture of soil (maybe from the ant hill?) and regurgitated water. They then sting and paralyze caterpillars, larva, and beetles (and maybe ants and ant larva??) then place them in the nest where a single egg has been laid. When it hatches it has a nice meal waiting! The adult wasp feeds more civilly on flower nectar.

A few hundred feet further at the next opening in the trail-side vegetation, I spy a marsh bathing beauty—a 10-foot-long gator that is sunning itself across the way on the banks of a small, shallow pond. He looks very content and doesn’t even give me a glance.

As I snap some pictures, several birds berate me noisily. I pull up my Cornell University Merlin bird sound app that identifies birds by their calls. I hold it high above my head, and it immediately confirms these irate avians are red-bellied woodpeckers, common in the Everglades.

Bird Call ID App Works Auditory Miracles!

I amble on, enjoying the small flowers peppering the trail here and there. The zebra butterflies seem to enjoy them all.

I hear some water gurgling ahead and soon come to a stretch where the slough has jumped its banks is has run across the trail—no doubt thanks to the buckets of rain we have had this past month during the supposed dry season.

Fortunately, it isn’t very deep, but still manages to swirl over the top of my “waterproof” hiking boots. Actually, the cool water feels good on my tootsies.

The surprises keep coming as I continue snooping down the trail. I stumble on an odd-looking form in the shadows along the slough that turns out to be an abandoned canoe.

It has a chain on it, but the chain isn’t anchored to anything. So odd to find it out here in the middle of nowhere. With all the deadfall and obstructions in the slough, it’s hard to fathom how anyone could have paddled this far into the wilds, and carrying it a mile or so from the trailhead would have been quite a haul. I wonder what might be the about story behind it. Maybe they makings of a novel like one of my favorite tales “Where The Crawdads Sing?” To make the atmosphere even more mysterious, an owl starts hooting not far back in the swamp. Then another. I click on my bird sound app again and it quickly tells me they are distinctive barred owls that prefers deep moist forests and wooded swamps. No wonder they call the Everglades home.

There are many fascinating stories the flora and fauna of Strand tell. Like the tree full of plump Seville oranges that I cross under where it has arched over the trail.

El Gran Arco Del Las Naranjas De Sevilla

Back in the late 1700s, Spaniards brought the tree with them to St. Augustine in northern Florida. Since then they have spread, even reaching the Everglades. They never made it commercially, as hinted at by their common name “bitter orange.” Here and there I see evidence in the scattered orange peel that some hungry animals have had a citrus treat.

As I linger, a red-shouldered hawk perched in a cypress tree across the slough reminds me with his raucous call that I need to keep moving. As I do, a squadron of zebra butterflies envelops me. I stand still, hoping one might land. Several can’t resist some alluring small white beggartick flowers on the edge of the trail, and one alights right next to me. I move slowly and snap a close-up of the beauty, capturing some wonderful detail of her proboscis probing the flower for nectar. Can you see it?? It’s another reminder to look down as well as up on this hike.

And as I do, I see another handsome and interesting plant, this one a guava, a fruit-producing evergreen shrub that hales from the Carribean and South America.

It’s past noon now and I am getting hungry. My timing is impeccable. I reach a large clearing in the swamp where the Jones Grade Trail curves and then meets the East Main Tram Trail which extends south to Janes Scenic Drive, about 10 miles away. I have walked about 2.3 miles, not counting peregrinations and backtracking.

After snapping a few photos, I retreat a few hundred feet to a great place for lunch where I can sit on the moss-covered stones of the culvert opening and soak in the scene. I am surrounded by giant bald cypress and see big bird’s nest ferns and holly trees back in the forest.

Dining In The Wilds

A gaggle of noisy red-bellied woodpeckers squabble in the woods, then I hear a Carolina wren and a white-eyed vireo. I am definitely a happy hiker.

As I sit and dine, I notice something shiny along the shoreline just a few feet away. I scramble down the incline and discover it’s a lovely apple snail shell. I think my granddaughter Aly will like it for her collection.

Now it’s time to head back. I vow to focus on the little things on the forest floor and am rewarded with treasures and twists like tiny wild violets, Parmeliaceae fungus, and red maple seeds.

As I scan the trail ahead, I see something flutter at the edge of the path. But as I get closer and get set to take a picture, I see that it was just a leaf stirred up by the wind. Then a few seconds later I get a big surprise as the “leaf” folds its wings and flies away! It was a Curve-Tooth Geometer Moth, a new one on me! Talk about perfect camouflage!

Another hundred yards down the trail, I also chuckle when I discover that the highway isn’t the only place one might see a tailgater (er, tail gator?).

Back at the big, deep pond, I am excited when I see a big turtle sunning on a log, but in my haste to get closer and snap a photo get a good surprise when the shoreline 20 feet in front of me explodes in a big geyser of water—it’s that same alligator I saw scrambling across the trail this morning that has come back to his sunning spot. Thankfully he was fleeing, and soon comes up for a quick pose before he disappears again in the swamp.

Once my blood pressure comes back down to normal, I carry on.

Soon I am at the gate. But the delights aren’t over. I spy a big shiny apple snail shell for my little Aly. And as I peel off my boots, my eyes catch sight of a mob of tiny black insects fleeing wildly into the bush that turn out to be young Eastern Lubber Grasshoppers—little black beauties.

It seems the gifts of the swamp never cease. It’s been an enjoyable foray into the wilds with few boot or bike tire marks, just a healthy dose of solitude and nature.