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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Of Pond Beckons
Grips Old Angler
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.
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.
