Fly Fishing In Perelandra's Eleven Mile Canyon

There is something about 11 mile canyon (when it is not so busy), that reminds me of paradise. It is like Eden. With its abundant fish populations feeding on numerous hatches through out the summer this place is teeming with life and possesses a certain beauty that mimics something of paradise.

Perelandra (C.S Lewis) is a fictional fantasy story about another planet; a complete paradise before the fall. It is truly Eden. There are no divisions. On Perelandra the relationship between the natural world and the woman who lives there is quite different than on earth. A human  visits this planet and experiences some of these relational differences as he tries to figure out why he has been sent.

His name is Ransom and has been sent from earth to Perelandra on this  unknown mission. He lands and roams around this beautiful paradise and quickly encounters the "otherness' of this place. He becomes thirsty. He wanders through a forest and  sees these great globes of yellow fruit hanging from a tree. He accidentally pushes one of his fingers through the fruit. He puts the hole up to his mouth and drinks. The drink is so wonderful that Ransom could never quite describe it when he returned to Earth. To him it was a whole other category of pleasures; something he never experienced on earth. What is most interesting to me and how this perhaps relates to fly fishing is his reaction to this pleasure. He is about to grab another fruit and drink again but he stops.  He does not stop out of guilt or fear. He just stopped. CS Lewis writes;

“He was about to pluck another one, when it came to his head that he was now neither hungry nor thirsty. And yet to repeat a pleasure so intense and almost so spiritual seemed an obvious thing to do… Yet something seemed opposed to this reason.”

What was this “something” that seemed opposed to his reason? Perhaps Ransom was under the influence of Perelandra and that influence had altered  his relationship with the natural world and with himself . His response was different and “unearthly”.  It is difficult for us to understand.  Another explanation could be that God was influencing Ransom directly through nature. I am not sure how or why but somehow he was satisfied even as his rational mind which had been so conditioned on earth to repeat such pleasures urged him to drink again.

I draw a parallel with this story and experience on Perelandra to our  catch and release fly fishing rivers and the need of some higher consciousness. Is there a mechanism, a "something"  inside of us that when we have caught fish that whispers, “Enough, I do not need to repeat this pleasure over and over again”.  I know for me I have been the type of fly fisher who often continued  to feel the need to catch fish after fish, not so much for the repeated pleasure of the experience, and not even to build up my  fragile ego as a guide, but rather because I am somehow often under the compulsion of the experience.  I get the sense that so much of what I do in this life is under some kind of a compulsion, a form of addiction rather than out of thankfulness and joy or even for the sheer pleasure of the experience. In fact it not just my relationship to the fish and nature that seems "off". It is, in some sense, with everything. There is a sense, however faint, of brokenness.

Yet, in my “old age” there are times when I do choose to stop and in the midst of this awareness of the brokenness of life there is also comes some sense of healing.  I also see this healing in many of the people I fish with. Many of the folks I take fly fishing do seem to have some mechanism that tells them when enough is enough. This is good. Our sacred waters  in paradise need such stewards. But of course I know there are also those who go on and on caught up under the compulsion. And damage is done.

Today I guided a gentleman who had an internal mechanism that was more or less working. Not perfectly, but working in some mysterious manner and it spoke to him this morning  in some powerful way. He also had good fishing skills. He was one who seemed more mesmerized by simply observing the abundance of fish rising to the tricos than in the need to actually catch the fish. He missed many. He “lost” many.  But  in the midst of all these sipping fish and the casting and drifting of tiny flies, and all this beauty, Mark also caught some wonderful fish as he  too was caught up in this heavenly experience. And then perhaps the beauty and “Eden-ness” of Perelandra in this good old down to earth place called Eleven Mile Canyon, spoke to him and said it was enough.

And it was.

And it was good.

And we were satisfied.  Well, almost.  After all, this was only Eleven Mile Canyon in Colorado  and not Perelandra.

Dry Fly Action In Eleven Mile Canyon: South Platte River

We have been enjoying some of the best dry fly action anywhere. Flows are still up but fish are rising to Tricos, PMD's and midges in the upper canyon. Any thing small that you can see on the water and drift well will probably take fish. We have been getting away with using 5x tippet which is nice. They will soon get more picky and demanding. Good drifts are always a must.

Decker's South Platte River: It Only Takes One

Sometimes it only takes one big fish to make a dramatic ending to a day on the South Platte River at Deckers. Tom had put in the time. Made hundreds and hundreds of casts. Hundreds and hundreds of drifts. And for the most part he did not have  much to show for it. Tom was one for five in landing fish. Some how the hook kept pulling it out before we could net the fish. Or the fish broke the tippet on the strike.

Then the one big fish struck and blasted out of the water. I don't really know exactly why or how sometimes everything seems to line up right. But, Tom set the hook just right. He let go when the fish bolted. The hook held even after the fish exploded out of the water two times. Somehow Tom was able to put just enough pressure to keep the fish from running down under the bridge. He kept just enough pressure on, but not too much, to keep the fish in range. Tom's shoulder held up just long enough to keep the rod just high enough to ease the strain on leader and hook. When the fish surged, Tom let it go.

Maybe there was also that thing we call "luck"???? I don't know.

I never told Tom this but my money was on the fish escaping. I lost the bet. I was wrong. Glad to be wrong.

What a fish! Great piece of angling Tom. It only took one and everything came together.

A World With Dew Still On It; Fly Fishing New Waters

Norman Maclean recalled, "Every afternoon I was set free, untutored and untouched till supper, to learn on my own the natural side of God's order. And there could be no better place to learn than the Montana of my youth. It was a world with dew still on it- more touched by wonder and possibility than any I have since known."

Sometimes I get a glimpse of paradise. A world with dew still on it as Norman Maclean recalled.

Such was the feeling while fly fishing with my friend Jim on the North Tongue river in the Bighorn mountains of Wyoming. The meadows were vast and untrammeled with thousands of wild flowers as far as we could see. Vast silence filled the air.

 The fish were wild, frisky and willing to take our flies. We hooked fish in every pocket. Fish abundant.  We never crossed paths with another fisherman. Never thought of "sitting on a hole". We saw moose. We fished pocket after pocket of water and kept moving with excitement as we wondered what was around the next meander. Waters never fished by us. Rarely by any one.

I could not help but compare this river to my home river of the South Platte. I do love the Platte but it gets hit so hard by fishermen that the fish have become very selective to the point of being tame if not "beat up".  There is the very real sense that the fish have been altered by man by his over abundant presence. There is not that feeling of wildness, wilderness, nor, of paradise. Too many people casting over the fish. Too much noise. But not here in the middle of the mountains of Wyoming. This was a land with dew still on it.

Jim and I kept saying to each other; “This is perhaps how Eden was; I feel like we are in paradise”.  I kept remembering how the Platte was once like this river. But not anymore.

Maybe we need to remember paradise.  Perhaps we lament its loss in hope of figuring out a way to bring it back. Not sure that is possible anymore.Or maybe we remember it because it is our hope of what is to come.

Decker's South Platte River: A Real River, Real Fish

The South Platte is racing through the town of Deckers flowing over 500 CFS. A real river. Real fish. Strong fish. A river that if you take a tumble you are going for a ride. It holds the kind of big fish that only come out when the river is high and wild.

None of this fishing off the tip of your rod with fine 6x tippet and a mico-shot. Nothing of weak and tame fish that come by your feet when you hook them. In these heavy flows the fish go ballistic and race wildly with the heavy water down stream. Standing in one spot and trying to pull these fish upstream against the current will not do. You have to get up on the bank and and run down after them.

Such was the case when I took a father and his two sons to fish the Platte just upstream of Deckers. The river was raging. It was clear but, even as a guide, it looked intimidating.

Kelly, the father, was a big strong guy. When he was younger he benched  425. As a baseball player he would step up to the plate, not take the first pitch as my Dad had taught me, but would swing away and often drive the ball deep into the gaps if not out of the park. No messing around. Step up and swing away.

And this is exactly what he and his boys did on the South Platte. I guess the boys had learned it from watching Dad. Step up and swing. No messing around. Step up to the river and swing.. Cast, drift, set the hook and move.

Dad was fond of saying about raising kids,  fly fishing and in life in general, “They will figure it  out”. And they did.

I had left Dad downstream by the island. He would explore on his own. I would work with the boys up river. But before I could even catch up to the boys and show them anything about where to cast,  one of them was chasing a big rainbow downstream tripping over rocks, losing his balance, falling here and there.   But he kept moving. Two hundred yards downstream we netted a large rainbow that had taken a brown San Juan worm.

And then another, and another, and another. I think we netted 5-6 big rainbows (and one brown). Most took the worm. One on a PMD nymph.

After a while, Kelly came up with his leader in his hand. The flies had been stripped off. He was a bit out of breath. He had a stunned look on his face perhaps similar to one of the few times he got caught looking  as a pitcher had thrown a fast ball down and away to strike him out. Maybe there had been a few times when he just could not see that low and away fastball coming.

He did not see this fish coming. Earlier he had landed a nice chunky 16 inch rainbow. But this fish that stripped him of his two flies was “nothing in comparison”.  He would add, “Twice as big as the one I caught”. I asked, “How big”? He opened his hands to over 2 feet long. I said, “Twenty-five inches”? He said, “At least”.

He would tell us, “I thought I was snagged so I kept yanking it trying to get it to come lose when all of a sudden the water exploded.” Several times through out the morning I would ask him again, "So, is it  still your testimony that this fish was at least twenty-five inches"?   Each time, "Yes", was all he responded.

Kelly is a Judge. He seems fair minded. Good sense of right and wrong. Likes to tell the truth. Hates lies.

I believed him. I don’t think this is so much because he is a judge. But rather it is just who he is as a person. I could sense this guy was not one to mess around. Not one to tell stories. And I will never forget how he was shaking a bit when he put his hands out to show me how big the fish was.

Kelly caught a few more nice fish with the boys. But, two times he walked back down to the island where he had hooked the big fish. He wanted another shot at it. I could tell he was thinking, “Maybe this time I will drive that low and away fast ball off the right center field wall”. And I think he would have if he had been given the chance.

But he would not be granted this next at bat. No sign of the great fish. But, I think Kelly and his boys will be back next year to step up to this real river with real fish and swing away.  

Dream Stream Fish Story: Creating Our Own Endings to the Fish Stories of Our Lives

This sort of thing does not happen often. Might have been the first time.

I am about ready to tie on a new  RS2 nymph as a dropper to Greg’s caddis emerger. We are on the South Platte’s Dream Stream. The fish are large and picky. Flows are up. The fish have virtually ignored a thick trico hatch. No response. Only a few fish were put in the net and those came by nymphing. A few lost opportunities.

After a snag, with a certain level of desperation,  I ask Greg, “Do you want me to tie this RS2 dropper on  with 5x or 6x fluorocarbon tippet.?”  (At this point I am thinking it would be nice to just hook up even if we break off). He considered the question and made his choice. “Lets be daring, use 6x”. I hesitantly agreed but immediately had this little story play out in my mind and shared it. “Greg, I just had this little story play out in my mind.  You are going to hook a large fish on the caddis on the 5X. We are going to be playing out this fish and then the caddis is going to slip out of his mouth and we are going to re-hook the fish on the RS2. We are then going to be in a tough situation and I will feel a bit guilty wondering if I should have ever dared to tie it on with 6x in these waters with big fish. Not sure what is going to happen after that. You finish the story.”

Not sure Greg took my little story seriously. Not sure I did either. At times in life we might get impressions of things that might occur; Glimpses covered in mystery rather than conviction. With out any more discussion or thought, I tied the new rig, 5X to the caddis and 6X to the size 24 RS2. And we were casting and drifting again looking for fish in the Dream Stream's meanders.

We make our choices in life and we have to live with them and by them. The choice had been made. I made my choice. Greg made his.

It was about ¾ mile above the Weir, above the Charlie Myers parking area when the large fish rolled on the caddis emerger. Greg gently struck remembering the light tippet and the fish was on. The fish rolled again showing its deep bodied side. We knew we were in for a battle. Excitement filled our hearts as distant storm clouds starting rolling in from the collegiate peaks and flashed lightning.

Greg knew what to do but seeing the size of this fish, I yelled the commands anyway. “Get on the bank and move with this fish, you will have to land him down stream. It’s our only chance. Do not rush this fish. Do not try to pull him back up river against these currents. Move with the fish”.   

The fish surged down stream with the heavy currents. The fish knew how to use the heavy water to his advantage. Again and again the fish rolled and turned showing us its size and strength.  Several times we temporarily got the angle on the fish and worked the fish in toward some calmer water on the edge of the bank. Several times I was ready with my 4 foot long net handle  only to see the fish turn again and surge down stream.  All I could yell was, “Let go, let go, let him run”.  A guides famous last words.

The battle went on for a quarter mile and then a half mile. Greg had been wet wading and now lost one of his sandals in the muck. Now he is chasing the fish with only one sandal over the willows and rocks. In the chase I thought about the Greek story of Jason in pursuit of the golden fleece and how it was prophesied that the chosen one would appear with only one sandal. I am brought back to the river and the chase as Greg yells something about his toe being broken but neither of us stops in our pursuit. We could deal with his battle wounds later.

Finally we had the fish on the edge of the bank. Tired, I saw our chance. And then it happened. As I reach the net into the water the caddis slipped from his mouth and for a moment I thought we had lost the fish only to see that we re-hooked the fish with the RS2. I was so caught up in this pursuit,  I had no recollection of the story I had told Greg 20 minutes earlier. The fish again surged down the river as though its taste of its freedom revived the fish’s instincts.  We all knew (and perhaps the fish also) we were connected to this fish with only a 3 pound test connection that had been strained, and stretched to a mere thread and our point of contact was a size 24 hook.

Again we chased. Again the fish surged. Again we pursued trying to stay sideways of the fish. Finally, another calm area. We had our chance again. Would the 6X tippet hold?  We were tired. Greg makes a choice to put pressure on the fish to drag him toward the net. I make a choice to lunge at the fish with my long-handled net.

I hear a blast of thunder. Dark ominous clouds over head. Lightning flashes. Time to get out of here.

We are covered in mystery and the choices we make. It is all part of our life story that we all must help finish.  .

Finish the story. Greg finished his.