Fly Fishing On the Run: Pueblo's Arkansas River Tail-water

Today I fly fished along 13 miles of the Arkansas below Pueblo Dam. Technically it was only about half that distance as I ran an 'out and back' half marathon course this morning.  I was not really fly fishing. It was too cold: Temperature: 6 degrees with light misty snow.  

To pass the time, in my mind, I fly fish as I run. I am pretty good at picturing things. Fly fishing is not any different. Memories took my soul back to big rainbows hooked over the last several years in this river. I run over and under bridges following the “river walk” path looking for rising fish in the slower pools. I run from City Park up river past the deep run along the Honor Farm, past the nature center and then up and over the bridge below the dam.  I thought of big rainbows I had caught in the gauging station hole on pegged eggs and RS2”s after school on a  February late afternoon.  I then loop around and head back down river again toward the nature center. As I run, I think back to a big fish a client had on in the “Carp hole”  that broke my rod and how I had to run back to the nature center parking lot to my truck to get another rod. It was a 100 degrees that day and Waldo Canyon was burning out of control.  But here in the freezing mist every time I see  structure, a pile of rocks, or any number of habitat improvements,  I thought of fish; abundant fish;  if not hooked then beautiful fish laying  in the runs showing their colors and often ignoring my offerings.  I thought of clients I fished with, my daughters and a monster Brown we stalked, and dear friends. These images warm my heart but not my body.  The memories come and go with each mile marker of beautiful fish, holding in the runs and sometimes, huge fish hooked leaping out of the water in the movie of my mind.

I am awakened from my winter day dream by the sight of two runners I had finally caught up to in  the cold mist.  I stop casting and pick up the pace, in spite of my aged and dulled competitive edge,  to make a move past, one, and then the other. Now I hear people yelling at the finish line and as  I try to finish strong,  I also try  to maintain the hope that the river, in spite, of the fires and droughts and flooding and endless fishing pressure, will continue to hold its magnificent fish.

I know these memories are more than merely a winters’ day dream.