Degrees, Minutes, Seconds

 

The water and fertility of the immediate canyon contrasted sharply with the surrounding arid landscape. 

High rock walls rose toward the sun like cathedrals enshrining holy water.  I would negotiate the area for two days and try to lose myself from the other fisherman during my 15 mile float to Indian Crossing in Brown’s Park. 

On the second day, I approached the confluence with Red Creek.   I could hear a boat negotiating the rapid around the river bend ahead of me. 
Clanging and banging, it was spit out below the rapid.  I pulled the raft over before reaching the head of the rapid and walked downstream. 

One side of the river was squeezed by a tower of red canyon rock, while Red Creek occupied the other.

Rocks with a thin veil of clear water running over their tops littered the now narrow river.  The rocks, currents and shadows in the rapid were deceitful. 

After paying attention to the river and picking my line through the rapid, I made it through uneventfully.

Below the rapid, the river opened wide again revealing blue skies and open banks.  I saw a large boulder the size of a bus near the bank. 

A streak of deep green water lay where the river met the rock.  I pulled my raft over 40 yards upstream from the boulder. 

I grabbed my four weight rod and pushed my way into the current, the water reaching my crotch before receding back to my knees as I reached the middle of the river.  I stood and watched the green ribbon of water coursing past the boulder. 

I prayed and waited an eternity.

Then I saw him.

He appeared from the deep green, lazily swimming upward, his nose broke the surface ever so slightly and he sipped something from the water.  He swam effortlessly, slowly downward and disappeared below.

I’m in heaven.

I looked for insects, something, anything, any sign of what the trout just ate.  Caddis?  Caddis Pupae?  I tied on a green caddis emerger.  I bent forward at the hips, bringing my torso closer to the cool water and began my step, wait, step shuffle towards communion.

I pulled line from my reel and let the free line ride the current downstream and straighten.  I quickly raised the rod and brought the line off the water and gave it one heave to clean the line of water.  I aimed on my second false cast and sat my fly on the water on my third.  Not far enough.

I stood upright, gauged the distance once more, pulled the line off the water and cast again, quickly bending forward, looking…waiting…wishing…hoping. 

Amplified silence. 

Magnified solitude.

Then I saw him again, appearing like an apparition, a ghost from the past.  He appeared from the deep green, lazily swimming upward, his nose broke the surface ever so slightly and he sipped something from the water. 

He swam effortlessly, slowly downward.  I rely on faith and pull my fly line tight and raise the rod.  The rod doubled over as the fish felt the sting.  I stood and stepped backward, trying to draw him away from the rock.  After a few minutes I coaxed him to the net, upstream from his home. 

He shined beautifully green, with black spots sprinkled throughout his length, and a pale red stripe down his side. 

The shadows of the surface danced on the river bottom in delight.

  
The boulder is still there below those rapids.  I’m sure the fish is there also.

He lives at 40 degrees, 53 minutes, 59 seconds North.
109 degrees, 14 minutes, 58 seconds West.
5544 ft.

 

 

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