Animas River / San Juan River – Durango, CO
If you could travel the country to trout fish different rivers, knowing that at the end of this journey your favorite place would become home, where would you go, and why?
John Flick took this challenge seriously. While in his 20s and fresh from a job with the United States Forest Service, he and his friend Tom Knopick decided to poke around the West for several months, fly fishing all they could, soaking in the finest trout destinations of the Rocky Mountains. They ultimately landed in Durango, Colorado, and established Duranglers fly shop.
Durango is in Colorado’s southwest corner, riding the break where the San Juan Mountains sluff into gentle meanderings of semi-arid plateaus and the high desert of the Four-Corners region. On any given day throughout the winter, you usually can ski or golf, depending on your mood, either climbing the heights toward Purgatory or Telluride, or else wandering the roads of northern New Mexico toward Farmington’s manicured links. In the summer, kayakers, rafters and mountain bikers flock from throughout the country to challenge the particular waterways and rocky terrain.
What John Flick found here was a fishing haven, a region thick with diverse challenges, complex, overlapping ecosystems, freestones, tailwaters and high-alpine streams and lakes. Rivers like the Animas, Florida, Piedra, Los Pinos, Rio Grande and San Juan, named by the conquistadors hundreds of years ago, create a varied angling universe, all interconnected within a half-day’s drive, yet too vast to be mastered fully in one lifetime.
“There’s more water here than I could ever hope to fish,” explains John. “There aren’t too many places that offer the fishing opportunities that we have in this region. I had to learn that for myself. Although I’ve been here a long time, I’ve never changed my mind about this part of Colorado.”
* * *
Breaking over Cerro Summit leading into Montrose, we are relieved to put the narrow and twisting Route 50 behind us, though we still have hours to drive. It is late April, and the weather has been warm and clear. A gray line of clouds forming over the Sneffels Range to our left reminds us that late-spring storms can be the most violent and dangerous of all, especially within the confines of 14,000-foot peaks in the San Juans.
We plan to stop at the old Stockmen’s Café for a drink. John Wayne used to quench a thirst here with his trademark order, a short glass of Jim Beam, a highball full of water, back in the day, when he was shooting scenes from True Grit in Ridgway, 40 minutes to the south. But the café is shuttered closed. We decide to press onward, over Red Hill Pass, through Silverton, where we will pick up the headwaters of the Animas River, loosely parallel the narrow-gauge railroad tracks through the Piney Mountains, and eventually slide into Durango.
John Flick is waiting for us when we arrive, killing time by tying Spey flies at a counter bench in his shop. As we walk in the door, he smiles and says hello, but keeps his eyes trained on the wraps of purple thread. With a whip-finish and a dab of head cement, he breaks the strand, wheels around and offers an informal handshake.
“So, you tell me… what’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asks. “Where do you want to go, and what do you want to see?”
We already are staring down the fish board, a running update of local river conditions, flow levels, fly patterns and a general assessment of how the action is. Spring can be hit-or-miss in Colorado, with runoff and rain changing water clarity and insect activity. But we are surprised to see that almost every river on the board is rated “hot,” and the San Juan River in New Mexico is down-right smokin’. We tell John “smokin’” works fine for us, but he suggests an alternative.
He wants to hit the San Juan the day after next. For tomorrow, there is a spot on a river a bit east of here he thinks we might want to check out. It has some pretty big rainbows and we will not have to work shoulder-to-shoulder with other people. The water will be clear and cold, the fishing difficult.
* * *
John Flick has a physical character more like a linebacker than a fishing guide. He has wide shoulders and a solid neck, and thick calf muscles that show through the crinkled seams of his waders when he stretches gravel guards around the tops of his boots. He has competitive eyes, furrowed brows and a thick, brushy mustache that, from time to time on the river, camouflages a small dip of snuff he tucks under his upper lip. John does not spit. At least not very much.
There is no denying that John Flick is one tough customer, though not completely battle-scarred or wind-beaten on the outside. Off the river, he carries himself with purpose and polish, much like Durango itself; a shrewd and thinking businessman, but also a devoted family man. He never guides on Sundays, committing at least one day a week to home and his family. On the river, he is quiet, focused and succinct, his dialogue often accentuated by “gotcha,” and “you-betcha.” And at his core is a genuine passion for fly fishing, one too intense to be manufactured on a whim, or for the entertainment of clients.
He is from southeastern Kansas, the part of the state where Kansas, Oklahoma and Missouri meet. He learned to fly fish for bass, using poppers on farm ponds, but soon found trout to be his favorite fish. Upon graduating high school, he was given a plane ticket to anywhere in the world. He chose New Zealand–in 1974, long before most American fly fishers (let alone an 18-year-old kid) had thoughts of visiting the North and South Island.
He earned a degree in forestry at Colorado State, then signed on with the Peace Corps, where he was assigned to a village in Honduras, cut off from all roads, accessible only by boat or helicopter. There, his interest in fishing had more practical benefit, as he occasionally would spearfish for snook, hoping to add more variety to dinner staples of tortillas, beans and rice.
John eventually found a forestry job, but it only lasted for several months before he and Tom Knopick took their trip and set up their shop in Durango. John was in his mid 20s at the time, and he has not thought of doing anything else since.
“A lot of people have a favorite fishing place,” he explains. “But choosing to live there is another thing. I’ve been able to work it out–a business, fishing and family. Right now, I don’t have any reason to move.”
John is standing on a medium-sized sized boulder, arms at his side, heels together like a sentry at Buckingham Palace. Only his eyes are working, cutting through the glare of the Los Pinos River, isolating scattered and very reclusive rainbows feeding deep in the runs. His guiding approach is hands-off. If his clients know what they are doing and are not causing too many tangles, John would prefer to stand back and spot fish, calling out an occasional shot, rather than working hip-to-hip.
At the moment, John is happy to watch from a short distance as we marvel at the canyonscape around us. We are working a private section of river, a two-thirds scale version of Cheesman Canyon on the Front Range, only the fish are bigger, and we are the only ones here. Judging by the unmarked piles of snow along the bank, this water has not been fished for at least a week, maybe more.
“Nobody’s answering the telephone?” John asks a frustrated angler who has made 20 clean dead drifts through a run where fish are milling about, but as yet no takers. He suggests a smaller, darker fly, like a Black Beauty. Three casts with a new bug finally yield the day’s first strike, a healthy 18-inch male, with an undershot jaw, vivid, pre-spawn coloration and a take-no-prisoners fighting style. It would be the first of a half-dozen hard-earned, but well remembered, trout we would catch that day. On the drive home, John puts the experience in perspective.
“You didn’t even know this place existed before I told you,” he says. “A lot of the fishing in the Southwest is that way–hidden, and takes some work. People pass over so much of what we have, heading on to the San Juan to get their hook-ups and numbers. Today, you got to see what they all miss.”
* * *
The next morning we stick with the plan, and drive south into New Mexico toward the San Juan River. Making the nondescript turn off highway 173 along the river, we notice the San Juan is slightly off-color, which is not uncharacteristic for this high-desert tailwater. Especially during the spring when wash from overnight storms or cloudbursts push sandy topsoil into feeder creeks and eventually into the main channel. We speed past Abe’s Motel, then pull off at Duranglers’ small “outpost” shop below Navajo Dam, where we meet Tom Knopick, and stock up on a handful of CDC and no-hackle Blue-winged Olives.
The San Juan is a jewel in this desolate northwest corner of New Mexico. Like many tailwater dam projects, upon completion over 30 years ago, it instantaneously sprung a recreational boom, both in terms of a large, deep freshwater reservoir, and a vibrant trout environment below the spillway. By sucking water from beneath the thermocline in the reservoir and releasing the cool water into the river channel, the dam creates a counterfeit environment, an ideal home for trout in the high desert. The cold but rich water, baked by the sun and heavy with silt, is an ideal environment for midges, aquatic worms and small mayflies. The insect populations are immense and feeding season is year-round. Some of the best dry-fly fishing can be had in the midst of winter.
John says what makes the San Juan special is not the quantity of the fish, or the quantity of insect life, but the combined effect of the two.
“There are other rivers with more fish per mile, and other rivers where you can find bigger fish, but I have to believe that the poundage of fish per mile on the San Juan River has to be the highest in the Continental USA. And the number of bugs are off the map,” he says.
* * *
We can see fish working in the Kiddy Pool, and though there are a fair number of out-of-state cars and trucks in the parking lot, to our surprise, no one is casting at these fish. Maybe they are easy targets; maybe they are taken for granted.
John subscribes to the theory that how you go about catching fish is 90 percent of the fun. He would just as soon stay here for a bit and go “smutting,” drifting miniscule black midge emergers just below the surface film. No weight. No indicator. Just precise casts, patient drifts and the eye-straining practice of following the dimple in the water where your tippet submerges. Any disruption in the pattern indicates a take, and signals the angler to set the tiny hook with a subtle lift of the rod tip.
We catch a few fish this way. Nothing huge. And soon, a trio of anglers wades underneath us, hoping to sneak in on the action. John says it is time to leave. Do not get frustrated. “That’s fishing on the San Juan,” he says.
We work our way downstream toward Baetis Bend and share uncertain glances when John points out his intended crossing place. We know from working the last run that visibility is about three feet, and in this spot, the bottom is not in sight. There is nobody on the other side of the river, which, says John, is exactly the point. Besides, there is a ridge of rocks and a sandy shelf that make a clear, underwater bridge. Trust him.
He and Liz go first, John carrying her piggyback through the heavy current. We lock arms and trail behind. All of us make it without so much as a splash over our wader tops. John decides it is time for Liz to fish. Enough pictures, let’s see that cast. Though a bit hesitant, she obliges and quickly hooks and lands a silvery 20-inch rainbow. John laughs, and says that people with the lowest expectations usually catch the biggest fish. It is the way a river should work–imprecise, and not according to plan.
“The people who try too hard–the ones on search-and-destroy missions–never do real well down here.”
* * *
“TODAY!” John yells.
“What?”
“Your strike indicator went under.”
“I know, I set the hook.”
“Yeah, but I need you to do it today, otherwise you won’t be catching many fish on this river.”
His point is well taken, and in good humor. John smiles back and says he is only kidding. High-stick nymphing can be tough business, especially on the San Juan: hundreds and hundreds of repetitive casts, lots of weight, small flies and fish that can be incredibly subtle when they eat. Even if you think you have the feel on the San Juan, you probably do not.
Years ago, John was so convinced anglers were missing more strikes than they realized, that he put on a wetsuit, mask and snorkel, and swam into a big run near the Cable Hole, to watch a friend drift nymphs through the depths. What John saw confirmed his suspicions–more than half the time a fish ate the nymph, they spit it out like a rotten sunflower seed–way before the angler had the slightest clue the fish was on.
“About 60 percent of the takes went unnoticed,” describes John. “And that was when a very good, experienced fisherman was working the rod.”
* * *
Steady rise forms convince John it is time to switch to dry flies. He pinches a CDC Baetis in his left hand, then, not quite satisfied by its body color, touches the abdomen with dabs from a felt-tip permanent marker. He has seen this river evolve throughout the years, learning most of the runs like rooms in his house, each with their own specific character and all with slightly different fish. He tells us that many of the rainbows assume subtle variations in coloration, depending on their food and stretch of river they occupy. Keeping track of these ongoing changes is a year-to-year process, but very interesting, he says.
John began fishing the San Juan in the late 60’s with his family, when hardly anyone knew about the river, and when the rainbows were known as “rattling rainbows.” In those days, tiny freshwater snails were a staple food source for many of the trout. When hooked, the very powerful fish often left the water violently for the air, filling the river corridor with the audible clacking of undigested snail shells. John says that those were the days–not many people and “pre-harassment” fish.
We enjoy a handful of aerial battles ourselves as the trout zero in on hatching Baetis mayflies, and every now and then, our tiny imitations. Catching well-built trout on tiny dry flies is one of John’s favorite pastimes, and an occurrence that brings out his soft and comfortable grin. Hidden from the main channel of the river, we spend the afternoon digging through fly boxes and hooking dozens of respectable trout. You will not find solitude on the San Juan, but wonderful fishing is usually a given. Through all the pressure, the river and its fish continue to hold their own, and even come up with a few surprises now and again.
“Every year, I burn out a little more on the San Juan,” says John. “The crowds, the way the fish are treated, the same old complaints and arguments over and over.”
“But just about the time Tom and I are about to give up on this place once and for all, usually late in October, we get this fresh run of fall-spawning rainbows–completely untouched fish. Nobody is sure where the hell they come from, but when they get here, it’s like this place is reborn for a while. You look at one of those fish and say, yeah, I can do the San Juan another year.”
* * *
Driving up and over Navajo Dam, John says he is sorry we did not get a chance to put the boat in the river today. The low flow can make it tough to stay out of the way of wading anglers, and besides, he says he likes a little more river volume to bring out the San Juan’s strength and rowing challenges. After long weeks of walk-wading through the crowds on the San Juan, John often craves the freedom and wide-open river space he can find in a boat.
He enjoys both the physical and technical aspects of navigating rafts and dories on the Animas, the Gunnison, the upper and lower San Juan and the Rio Grande River near Creede. Using the boat is the only way to get at the short windows post-runoff fishing on the private stretches of the Rio Grande and the San Juan River below Pagosa Springs. The fishing can be fast and furious when the runoff is on the wane, leaving the water clearer, but still high enough to navigate.
The one disadvantage of floating the rivers in the southern part of Colorado is that private stream banks do not allow many chances to stop the boat. John says there are trips where he literally rows all day, hours and hours without a break. As long as his clients thank him for the work at the end of the day, however, he is happy to put in some “strokes” on the river.
One of John’s favorite rowing stories involves an old friend (a former high school coach), a big brown trout and some fast water on the Rio Grande. The friend was in the front knee locks, John at the oars, when they both caught sight of a large brown gulp a caddis beneath an overhanging bank of willows. The only place to try the fish was from the center of the river. So, John rowed and rowed to hold the boat in place, giving his coach about a half-dozen shots at the free-rising trout. But the narrow, underneath-the-bush cast was too tough for his friend to make.
“He turns to me, just as my arms are about ready to fall off, hands me the rod, and says, ‘here, you try him–I can’t make the cast.’” describes John. “The only thing I could do was start laughing. I told him, ‘Well, I can’t either… who do you think is keeping the boat where it is?’ I told him later, ‘When you find one of those boats that rows itself, please call me, I’ll be the first one to buy one.’ We both still laugh about that one.”
We walk across Main Street, find a table in the back of a restaurant, then order some cheeseburgers.
“Favorite fishing memory…” John ponders, quietly repeating the question he has been asked. He spends a few minutes replaying the options in his mind. “That’s one of my favorite reasons for being a guide, you get to see everything, the double hookups, miles of river, all the fascinating fish.”
Finally, however, he concedes that his favorite fly fishing memory does not involve an exotic destination, mammoth trout, or gymnastics with a drift boat, rather a father, his daughter and a few 19-inch brown trout.
“Last summer I took my daughter fishing, on this small stream that runs out of the mountains, 20 minutes or so west of town,” he describes. “We hiked up to this pool almost covered in trees and bushes, not much bigger than a car trunk. My daughter makes one cast with a hopper and catches a 19-inch brown. After we land the fish, she casts a second time in the same spot and does it again–almost an identical trout. She asked me how the fish got there, and I didn’t have an answer. But that’s something we’ll both remember forever.”
* * *
John Flick still travels the world for fly-fishing adventures. He enjoys the saltwater, but perhaps his favorite diversion is a regular trip to British Columbia, near Smithers, where he spends four weeks every fall on the legendary steelhead tributaries of the Skeena River drainage, rivers like the Babine, the Bulkley, the Kispiox and the Sustut. Some of the largest steelhead on the Pacific Coast call these rivers home.
This time of year, the rivers are clear and manageable, devoid of summer crowds, and filled with just enough sea-run fish to keep things interesting. The days are short and cold, frequently cloudy, and muted from the low angle of the sun.
For John, steelheading is not made up of short days in the boat, followed by cocktails with buddies around a warm lodge fire. His steelhead trips are hard working, on-the-river, weeklong affairs–four in a row. He says that the finicky Skeena River steelhead, grizzlies and the weather can make for some pretty tough days, but when you land a fish, everything becomes worth it.
Aside from finding, casting to and landing 20-to-25 pound rainbows, he says the toughest part of steelheading is having customers understand the risks and rewards of chasing these magnificent, yet very elusive fish. Some days you win, some days, even weeks, you lose. And there is not much anyone can do to change this fact. Regardless of the conditions, or the attitude of the fish, you get to the river, work as much water as well and as hard as you can, and hope for the best. Everything else is in the hands of the steelhead gods. John would not have it any other way.
“In B.C. there are no guarantees. Last trip: 842 casts, and not one tug.” John describes.
* * *
We meet early the next morning, and have another look at Duranglers’ fish board. It is still “hot,” just about everywhere. The front that has brought light snow for the past two days is expected to linger through this afternoon. It might make for some more good dry-fly fishing. We kick around the idea of visiting John’s favorite river, the Dolores, below McPhee reservoir, but ultimately decide to make a short drive south of town and fish the Animas where the water looks best.
After climbing in his truck, we ask John about the Dolores River. We have heard the river is merely a shell of its former self. It is true, says John, that the Dolores is not what it used to be. The high-water heydays of the late 1980s, when the trout, their growth rates and insect populations exploded, are now only memories. In 1990, when drought conditions grew severe throughout the Four Corners, water authorities dropped releases from McPhee Reservoir to 20 cfs (cubic feet per second) to help conserve and store water. Although the extremely low flows were within the written operating regulations of the dam (initially intended to help irrigate and create hydroelectric power for the area), they were very hard on the thriving populations of browns, rainbows and cutthroat trout, raising water temperatures and exposing the fish to predators.
“That fishery was a house of cards, and a disaster waiting to happen,” laments John. “We can try to keep dam releases sustained at higher levels, and the river has made some small comebacks, but for those of us who experienced it 15 years ago, that Dolores River does not exist anymore.”
In this very dry corner of the state, many of the rivers are threatened in one form or another. Collectively, these waters form the key southern lattice that feeds the Colorado River before it flows out into the open desert. Endangered species studies, periodic droughts and subsequent tightening of dam releases all impact different rivers in different ways. A recently approved project to divert water from the Animas River for irrigation on the Ute Indian Reservation threatens to alter the character of this unique freestone resource, though to what extent, nobody knows for certain.
“I think you need to be realistic about some of the water issues out here,” says John. “The intent of all these water projects might be right, but finding a workable and practical solution is the tricky part. I’ll admit that I’ve done my part to increase pressure on some of these rivers. But I’m also looking at the long-term picture, and I’m willing to consider different options. We need more people, on all sides, to consider options.”
* * *
We park on the Animas’ east bank, near a bridge. There is nothing but road, steep bank and gray granite boulders on this side of the river. The west bank rises to the back doors of a long strip mall and the K-mart. John rigs his own fly rod, declaring this a “pure fun” adventure, meaning, there are no formal guiding strings attached. That is fine with us, because we will get to see him do his thing.
We rock hop up the bank, sporadically shooting long casts into the heart of the river. A brown trout inhales a sparkle dun in front of a large, angular rock, then surges upstream toward deeper water. John hooks another brown, maybe even a bit bigger than this one, and his fish is racing with the current, on a collision course with the first. Eventually both anglers find some slack water, tire the fish to their feet, and unhook them in unison. Standing 25 yards upstream, John smiles and slaps his hand at the air, sending us a “long distance” high five.
We spend the rest of that afternoon working small pods of fish, mostly browns, all of them relatively unmarked and brightly colored. The longest fish is 20 inches, not bad, John says, though he is quick to point out that the Animas shows its true stripes in the summertime, when early morning hatches of carpenter ants and afternoon caddisflies bring even bigger fish to the surface. The river’s truly enormous browns, measured in pounds, not inches, will eat streamers the size of your hand very infrequently–during any month, or time of day. John says those fish do what they want, when they want.
We wonder why we have not heard more about the Animas, a wonderfully diverse and challenging river. Maybe because it is a stepsister to the more famous San Juan 40 minutes away. Maybe because it flows through the urban setting of Durango. People tend to overlook the obvious. On the other hand, people also tend to hold their most valued secrets quietly to themselves. John gives a wink when he senses our wheels spinning in an obvious direction.
“Boys, I don’t need to see any more magazine articles on the Animas. A page or two in your book would be alright, but don’t get carried away,” he says. We notice his eyes get serious and his mustache purse down around the corners of his mouth. “I don’t want to have to come looking for you.”
* * *
We stop in the shop the next morning to say goodbye, but John has already left for the day. They say he went into the desert to fish the San Juan, this time with his boat in tow. The river board says the San Juan’s flow has been bumped a bit. We hope to hook up with John Flick again next summer, maybe float the Animas, or finally get down to the Dolores.
After breakfast, we head out from Durango, through Mancos, twisting along the southwestern edge of the San Juan Mountains, en route to Mesa Verde National Park and the Anasazi cliff dwellings and ruins. John mentioned the day before that the Anasazi dwellings are well worth the trip. The Anasazi, John says, were a lot tougher than most modern day fishing guides–living in stone houses beneath the cliffs, finding ways to survive drought and starvation–we should have done a book about them. They were some of the greatest hunters and fishermen in the Four Corners region.
No one would deny that John Flick has his own way of looking at the world, and this unique corner of southwest Colorado. Land where desert and mountains come rumbling together, where snowstorms and sunburn share afternoons, where dozens of rivers thread their way down from the high San Juans into dry sandstone arroyos and mesa, where John Flick has spent a third of his life chasing after fish.
He claims to only have scratched the surface of this region. That seems hard to believe.
River Notes
In April, so many of the Durango area rivers fish well that it is difficult to know exactly where to begin, even for veterans who have fished and guided here for years. When we first meet John, tying Skeena River spey flies in the brick basement of his downtown fly shop, he runs us through the list of spring-time fishing options on the Los Pinos, Animas, Dolores and San Juan Rivers and is confident that none of these will disappoint. Because we would rather explore uncrowded water with fewer but larger fish, we decide to try the Los Pinos below Vallecito Reservoir for a couple of hours of near-freezing midge fishing. The Los Pinos is just one of many medium-sized, boulder-strewn rivers of southwestern Colorado with endless amounts of holding water, difficult wading and healthy populations of rainbow and brown trout. On this snowy afternoon nothing but perfect dead-drift presentations with tiny black and white midges and ridiculously small Pheasant Tails pique the interest of the well-fed and defensed rainbows. These Los Pinos bows are a tough group, John explains, and they’ll find every rock in the river if you let them.
The next morning, we agree to meet at Duranglers’ small fly shop in northern New Mexico below the Navajo Dam and to brave the crowds on the San Juan River. John wants to show us some overlooked, willow-lined channels on the Lower Flats with hard-nosed trout and dense hatches of Blue-winged Olives. Accepting the San Juan River on its own terms–with its crowds, unforgiving weather, stark sandstone hills and hi-tech fishing–is the only way to truly enjoy this desolate, high-desert tailwater. If you come down here to battle, to do things your way, John says, you are going to leave pissed off and fishless. He urges anglers to learn more river than just the Kiddy Pool and the Texas Hole, maybe hire a guide for the day to ease the learning curve and be willing to experiment with different fly patterns and techniques. In run after run, the fishing is a full-tilt affair for the better part of the morning and all of the afternoon. Midges and Baetis cycle dependably throughout the day and most of the 2-to-3 pound rainbows get involved in one way or another. On the river, there are so many fish doing so many different things it gets downright scary. Regardless of how many fish you catch, the San Juan is a river that leaves you thinking of missed opportunities all the way home.
On our final day, the weather that was supposed to clear refuses to do so, leaving low-hanging clouds, blasts of snow and momentary windows of light to battle it out above. John wants to show us another backyard sleeper and suggests that we fish the Animas just a few miles south of town where the river, its insects and trout have rebounded in the last few years. He tells us that the weather should be perfect for another day of spring Baetis fishing, but that we may have to move around to find some fish. The Animas is a large, fast-moving freestone, cut out of Montana river cloth, with healthy populations of rainbow, very large brown, and some cutthroat trout. We spend a drizzly afternoon casting gray Sparkle Duns and CDC emergers to all three species and do not see another angler in two miles of river. While many “serious” fishermen ridicule the urban setting of the Animas River as less than blue-ribbon, there are miles of wide open, tough-to-fish water just minutes from town. Why no one seems that interested in the Animas is just another mystery of the Four Corners region.
Tip: Given low, stable flows, San Juan River trout often will move into very shallow water to pick off small mayfly nymphs or midge pupae just inches below the surface. These frequently large and highly-pressured fish do not tolerate the brutish technique, chartreuse strike indicators and loud whoop-it-up mentality often associated with corporate angling groups. For these tough fish, John likes to grease all but the final 15 inches of a 12-foot tapered dry-fly leader with any commonly available floatant. The remaining 15 inches of leader and a tiny, unweighted fly are treated with a sinking paste or mud, allowing them to sink, then suspend at the level of feeding fish. Using a kneeling approach, anglers should make reliable 25-to-30-foot downstream casts to visibly feeding, non-cruising fish. How will you know when a trout eats your fly? Always watch the fish and practice, says John.
This chapter is excerpted from Castwork: Reflections of Fly Fishing Guides and the American West (2002). Photo plates and proofs: Liz Steketee
Fascinating article and great information and insight into fly fishing out West. I've never been out there fly fishing but this sure gives me the itch.
Really enjoyed this one.