There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.

-Moby Dick, Herman Melville

I have spent most of the summer kicking around small streams catching mostly small trout. It has been a great time and I am not sure of a stretch in recent memory where I have enjoyed fly fishing so much. The wonderful habitat,  wild trout, and dry flies are in many ways what the sport is all about. I don’t think I have even used anything heavier than a 4 wt in months.

At some point though, I found myself wanting to catch some bigger fish. I am not sure if it just to prove to myself I still could or something deeper and more biological. Maybe it is just ego. I mean, after all, when you get back from fishing the first thing asked is if you caught any.  Assuming you answer in the affirmative to this, the second question is invariably “any good ones”?

Jimmy Crain releases a Brown trout

And by “good” they don’t mean small wild fish; they mean big ones.

There are some considerations for targeting big fish. First, you have to fish where they grow big. Now there are quite a few places which satisfy this criteria including many of the high country lakes and streams we frequent. After this things get tricky, starting with the catching part. Although it is almost never easy to catch the big ones (I mean they are big for a reason, right?), there are times of the year when it is less difficult. These tend to be early and late in the season, before or after the smorgasbord of summer food, when the water temperatures are just right, and the stocking programs, which add a lot of cheap competition to the mix, have not yet begun or ended.  August does not fit into this scenario – the waters are warm, the fish are deep with plenty of food options and many of the waters are loaded with cookie cutters.

So at this time of year you are left with fewer options. One is to fish lakes like Christmas Tree on the White Mountain Apache Reservation where they stock larger Apaches for which you pay a high daily access fee. It is a wonderful place I have been to and will go again, but it is really not my cup of tea. Also, you could hit the road for specially managed waters like Becker Lake outside of Springerville or even head to New Mexico’s San Juan River. Both are great places too, but tend to get a little crowded and are far enough from home to make them more of a 3-4 day weekend affair.

A final option is to hit a closer remote stream which has wild, large fish. These are places which are not common and tend to be mediocre fisheries. Generally they are mid-elevation brown trout waters which are too warm for most rainbows or other trout, and are infested with crayfish. Population are small, but what few fish do subsist tend to be very hard to catch, but large, which of course is the whole point.

There is one such water a group us used to hit freqeuntly which comes off the Central Mogollon Rim . Were were much younger then, full of piss and vinegar, and also of the belief that only big fish mattered. So we hiked in there time after time, catching few, but big fish. If I were to call any of this small group of guys today and tell them “I went to the Honey Holes last weekend”, they would still know exactly where I was talking about. Their eyes would glass over with nostalgia and as soon they came back to earth, they would probably have a few names to call me for not having invited them.

I did invite another friend who had never been there before. Since it has been so long since I have been a regular, I was curious as to what we would find. Memories can make for better fishing than reality. Either way, I was pretty certain we would not catch a lot of fish so I tried to temper not only my expectations, but my partner’s as well. Of course being fisherman, this is impossible. I kept visions of two foot trout in my head and I am sure he did the same.

Jimmy Crain palms a Roundtail chub

We left the Valley early on Saturday and were hiking down the hill before it got too hot. After a hasty construction of camp, we headed upstream with rods in hand. The creek was more overgrown than I ever remember it in the past. It had changed. The old routes we used to cross the stream were choked with alder and while we occasionally used to catch a chub or two, they were thick now. I don’t even know how many we caught.

One thing  had not changed though – trout were few and far between. Eventually I could see this begin to wear on my partner. His cast had become less enthusiastic and diminished in frequency. Just after I gave him the “you gotta just keep on casting speech”, he hooked three fish in a row: a big chub, a nice brown, and a good rainbow (very rare in this water). This perked us both up enough to continue the march upstream.

It was getting pretty late in the day and I was still troutless when we arrived at the last pool we were going to fish. A little tired, I found a spot above the pool to sit and rest for a few minutes. It wasn’t long until I spotted an enormous brown trout in about 6 feet of water. You may not believe me, but this monster was in the ten pound class and larger than any fish I have caught in a couple decades. I just watched it for a while. Keeping in the same general area, it occasionally moved a few feet to suck a crayfish off the bottom.

I rebuilt a leader and tied on a crayfish fly. Nervously, somehow I managed a near perfect cast which landed softly just a hair less than ten feet and directly in front the fish. Life seemed to be going in slow motion. Casually the brown swam towards my sinking fly. I started to repeat in my head “count to three one-thousand before setting the hook, count to three one-thousand before setting the hook”.

After the longest, slowest ten foot swim I have ever witnessed the monster sucked in the fly.

“One one-thousand”

“Two one-thousand”

On reaction alone, I struck too soon. I felt him for a second before the fly popped out directly back at me. I collapsed to the ground.

It wasn’t long afterward when we had to start the race with darkness back to camp urged on by rolling thunder. We did not win the race, but it was close enough and rain had set in.

It rained all night, but that was alright.

I did not catch the fish I was looking for, but somehow still found most of what I wanted. To catch big fish, you have to fish for big fish and sometimes that just has to be good enough.

When asked if you caught any “good ones” sometimes you have to say “No”.  Having a story to tell, which is all we have in the long run, has to suffice. That, and a resolution of return.

Jimmy with Brown

Even in these mercifully emancipated decades, many people still seem quite seriously alarmed at the prospect of sleeping away from officially consecrated campsites, with no more equipment than they can carry on their backs. When pressed, they babble about snakes or bears or even, by God, bandits. But the real barrier, I’m sure, is the unknown.

-Colin Fletcher

It started for me in the United States Bicentennial year – 1976. My mom strapped a pack to my back and we headed off into the wild. I remember camping next to the creek and the fascination with the stove, tent, and trying to catch a fish.

I guess not much has changed thankfully. I still love the simplicity of carrying all you need on your back. Food, shelter, clothing……add in a little fishing gear and you have it covered.

Top of the hill

With the son now nine years old, I thought it was time to bring him into the fold with his first real backpacking trip.

I had just the place in mind. A few weeks previous, a friend had turned me on to a place in the upper San Francisco River drainage which has access to four trout streams. Two of them hold  brown trout. Another has hybrid native/rainbow trout as well as browns. The last  contains only the hybrids. All of the fish are wild and the area knows little human use.

On a Tuesday morning we hiked a couple miles up around a ranch and past to the confluence of two of the streams. We found a nice spot to pitch our tent with a trout stream on each side. After filtering some water, we took a break. Following the construction of a small fire ring (no other previous campsites were found) and gathering some wood, our chores were done.

Brown Trout Lurk

We spent the balance of the afternoon working the larger of the two creeks. We caught too many wild brown trout to count, all on dry flies. As long as you kept a low profile and used a soft step they did not spook.

Matthew was still a little little nervous and concerned after counter-balance hanging our food. There was a lot of bear sign in the area. I assured him we were safer there than back in the city.  I also instructed him to watch-out for poison ivy and chiggers. This did little to assuage his nerves.

After dinner we started a small fire. I made us both a cup of hot chocolate and he finally relaxed. I knew this when he pronounced that “all I need is a warm campfire and a good cup of Joe”. I have know idea where that came from.

We slept well.

Wednesday morning came early. This was to be our big day. We had planned to hike up the creek on the other side of camp which contained both the browns and hybrids and then up a tributary which not only carried most of the water flow, but the source of the hybrids. The culmination of the trip would be a waterfall.

As we worked our way up, Matt did not want to fish much; he was more than content to watch me catch and release a score or more of trout.

I Spy

Finally as we approached the waterfall, he peered into a pool and spied a trout on station. Asking for the rod and using the cover of the rock, he dapped the fly in the pool above the fish. I watched as it struck viciously and then popped off. Matt was crestfallen. I peered back into the pool and rather than go into hiding, the fish had returned to station. I encouraged him to try again. As I watched intently, the fly drifted past the fish on the next attempt. He gave it one more try. This time the fish jumped out of the water after the fly before it hit the surface and Matt reflexively yanked it away. This trout was hot!

The third time, the trout took the fly as soon as it hit the surface and did not slip the hook. It darted and dashed around the pool until I cupped it in my wet hand, snapped a photo, and released it.

Matt's Fish

Afterward, I could hardly pry the rod from his hands. Pool after pool he called and he caught several more on his own.

Spotted Beauty

When we returned to the confluence and were crossing the stream, I spotted a fish in shallow water less than ten feet away which was somehow oblivious to our presence. Since the rod was in my hand, I flicked the fly upstream and it watched as it drifted by. “Try again, daddy”, Matt encouraged. The kid learns fast. I complied and this time the fish rose with a deliberate slowness to inhale the fly.

It was poetry in motion.

We laboriously made our way back to camp and by the time we arrived the sun was low in the sky. A honest tired had set in as we ate and enjoyed the fire with hot chocolate in hand.

Thursday morning we hiked out. Matt asked if we could come again someday. I sure hope so. Even more, I hope he lives a long and healthy enough life to enjoy the simple life for the Tricentennial. May America still have places so wild.

Waterfall

Young people need models, not critics

-John Wooden

Remember when the days of summer were as long as the season itself? Carefree days between grades of school?  The days before jobs, mortgages, and other pressures stole the wonder from the world?

Streamside PB&J

Those were the days of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

I had a chance to revisit them over the past weekend with my son and his friend, both 9 years old.

We hiked along streams in the name of searching for wild trout on the fly. We found much more than that.

We saw tarantulas running into their den. Wild horses mobbed the car like groupies at a rock concert. We got soaking wet every day by heavy rain and splashed in the puddles.  Exploring an old abandon ranch headquarters of decrepit stone and log buildings, we collected rusting and rustic artifacts.

Skipping stones. Climbing over and under standing fences and downed trees. Gathering wildflowers and smashing plate-sized mushrooms. Beating logs with sticks. Chasing frogs, watching birds, catching grasshoppers. We did it all.

Oh yeah, occasionally we fished too.

Dapping a fly

We kept it simple. A large bushy dry, sometimes with a midge or nymph dropper will fool most wild fish if you can stay hidden enough.

In all, we fished four streams- three of the Black River and one of the Little Colorado drainages. Each held their own wonders, not the least of which was trout. We covered a few miles, but there were so many distractions from the task we covered fewer than I had planned in my narrow adult mind.

Each day, we had a peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch.

I had forgotten how good they taste – maybe it was the air,  but more likely it was everything else.

I think I’ll have one now. As soon as I am done catching grasshoppers.

An exciting distraction

Our demons are our own limitations, which shut us off from the realization of the ubiquity of the spirit…each of these demons is conquered in a vision quest.

-Joseph John Campbell

Ask most Arizona anglers how many trout streams they can name on the National Forest portion (non-reservation) of the White Mountains in the eastern part of the state and I would guess their answer would be less than a dozen. In reality, there are far more. Taking out a map and not counting forks of the same name, I stopped listing them at 33. This includes only waters I have fished or have very reliable second-hand knowledge of. The fact is, they are everywhere.

Trout on Station

As proved by a recent outing,  they are as different as they are everywhere.

The past few days, I passed some time fishing with Joe DiSilvestro. Joe has a keen interest in indigenous and wild trout of the West and has spent considerable time and effort over several decades pursuing these fish in their native habitats, including the White Mountains. He is also one of the finest small stream anglers I have ever seen. His bow and arrow casts shoot true, threading through tree and willow to deliver his fly to targets small as a dinner plate.

I have stomped around the streams of Eastern Arizona, and the West at large, for a few decades myself. So after a conversation, Joe and I made plans to show each other some waters one of us had fished, but the other had not.

On  mid-elevation feeders of the San Fransisco River, we found brown trout in beaver dams and plunge pools protected by New Mexican Locust and shaded by Arizona Ash and Ponderosa Pine. We saw turkey and elk.

Along two high-elevation streams of the Little Colorado River drainage we fooled Apache-Rainbow hybrids under the shadow of Ponderosa Pine, Quaking Aspen, and Douglas Fir.

Apache Rainbow Hybrid

From the runs, riffles, and pools of a  remote alpine stretch on a  fork of the Black River, we sampled resident Brown and Apache Trout. A Bighorn Sheep was sighted among the spruce and through the willows.

We probably covered about ten miles of trout stream in the three days and double that in terms of miles walked. Each mile was as different as our names – Joe and Mike. On the converse, many people share our names but each is a different a person. As such are  trout streams: defined by differences in flora, fauna, and topography, yet waters united in ubiquity.

Be faithful in small things because it is in them that your strength lies.

-Mother Teresa

A small stream is Arizona is truly small. Tiny. Diminutive. Consider the East Fork of the Black River. In most places it would be thought of as a tiny stream or dismissed as a creek. Here, we call it a river. In the Desert Southwest, the size of water is  relative.

The size of trout is a relative thing too. A small trout from a big water might well be a big trout from a small water.

So then what is a small Arizona trout stream? In my book, it is a perennial flowing or even ephemeral water which contains trout (preferably wild) which you can step across with an average inseam.

Step Across

These waters have their fans and, in the case of waters with wild trout, these fans are often secretive fanatics. People who fish are often tight-lipped  enough, but these fanatics can take it to a whole new level. Fishing itself is an uncertain search for the elusive. A hunt for a small trout stream in water-starved Arizona is an elusive search for the elusive. Fishing for small streams to fish is thus secretive and elusive squared.

Consider me one of these fanatics to the second power.

This past holiday weekend in the White Mountains, my wife joined me on an another obsessive quest for new water. On a map, I had spied a tributary of a tributary of a tributary of the Little Colorado River. I had been looking at it on paper for several years but did not know if it held fish or not. We embarked figuring that there is only one way to find out for sure.  If nothing else, we were sure to find relief form the masses on one of the busiest weekends of the year up on the mountain.

The stream was not accessible by road, so we left town and sometime after the road turned to dirt we pulled the car off to the side, humped our day packs on, and headed out into the forest in the general direction of the stream. After slipping under a barbed-wire fence we found a long-abandoned road which gently wound down into the canyon. As we neared the creek the mosquitoes closed in on fresh meat.

Pocket Pool

The stream was running and along it was a trail. A game trail was to be expected but this was not just a game trail. This fact was obvious because it had been cleared over the years on occasion by chainsaw. There were cuts ranging from ancient to probably as recent as last year. Why would anyone clear a trail back here in the middle of nowhere? I was not sure, but had a few guesses in the back of my head.

Spooking a small herd of deer, we continued upstream along the trail. The canyon was heavily shaded by old growth Ponderosa Pine, Douglas Fir, and Blue Spruce. I occasionally peered into the water searching for the dart of a trout, but saw nothing. Even if there were no trout, this was a pleasant hike in a pristine environment. I considered this reason enough for someone’s chainsawed-endeavor.

Birds sang and snakes slithered. The trail continued on and where the creek forked, the trail split. We chose the right turn and pressed on until the creek forked again and the path ran out. We decided to make this our turn-around point.

After a lunch in the shade of an ancient, gnarled fir and despite having seen no fish, I rigged a rod. Remember, we are acting on faith here.

I had brought the 8’3″ 4wt because it is a five-piece. I was wishing I had brought the  3 wt. 6’6″  despite its two pieces because this was not going to be a matter of casting. With the thick overgrowth, it was  a matter of just finding spots I could thread the rod through to dap.

If there were any fish in this smallest of waters, I knew they would not be very selective, so I tied on a  Wulff pattern with plenty of hackle so it would float high. Finally finding an opening, I dropped a fly in a pool much smaller than a bathtub. Instantly a trout appeared and inhaled it.

Large Praise for Small Trout

As we continued to work our way back, I dropped a fly in every spot bigger that a shoebox which I could get a rod into. Each time a trout appeared and acted with no suspicions.

While most people would not consider 6-9″ trout very large, there are times worthy of reconsideration. I felt this was one of them in the name of faith in small things.

In praise of  the smallest of waters, now I know why you maintain the path – whoever you are.

I swear to Mother Teresa:  your secret is safe.