This Ain't My First Rodeo

For whatever reason my favorite saying during our trip was, “This ain’t my first rodeo.” Not sure why I started saying it. Maybe I was tired of my three teenage sons “smarter than dad” attitude. Maybe it was in response to my wife’s questions. Maybe it was just to be funny. For instance, leaving the Denver airport in our rental vehicle I stated, “This ain’t my first rodeo,” and promptly missed a turn taking us through a scenic tour of the ongoing construction at the Denver airport.

When my son and I headed out on the mountain bikes and my wife said, “be careful,” I thought, “this ain’t my first rodeo.” Maybe not, but I’m sure lots of folks at the ER were probably thinking it was. I guess even experienced cowboys get thrown off the horse or bull now and then.

A fair cast...about 60 feet, but that loop could be tighter!

However, when it comes to fly fishing, “this ain’t my first rodeo.” I’ve been fly fishing for about 30 years. At a minimum, I fly fish weekly…during peak times much more than that. When I went to the Bahamas for the first time the guide asked how far I could cast…I told him, but he didn’t believe me. “This ain’t my first rodeo.” I got up on the bow of the boat and easily cast 80 feet. “Ok…you a good caster,” he said in that Bahamian accent.

And that’s my dilemma. When I fish with guides, especially ones that don’t know me or my skill level, I’m always hesitant to speak of my abilities. You don’t want to brag, but I also don’t like having the guide do everything for me. I hope that taking me fishing is a bit of a break from the sports that fly fish only once or twice a year. That kind of cockiness puts pressure on me, and can put people off, but doggone it this ain’t my first rodeo.

Fish on...and landed!

Yet when it came to landing BIG trout on this trip, I felt at times like it was my first rodeo. I can’t tell you how many times I lasted less than 8 seconds in the saddle. Oh sure…I had no problem casting on this trip, even with my broken collar bone. My percentage of hook-ups were high...trout refusal rate low. Part of that success was the guides. They knew what flies to tie on…but I still had to deliver them.

So let’s say you are a good caster and put the fly where it needs to be. The guides have the right fly tied on your leader and so the fish eats. You still have to time your hook set just right, battle the fish, and get them to the net. There’s a lot that can wrong. And it did go wrong, with every really big fish I hooked this trip. 

Not quite 24 but certainly worth smiling about!

By my count, I had hooked at least a dozen trout that went 20-24 inches. I landed 10 of those. No kidding…this ain’t my first rodeo you know. I also hooked at least 6 or 7 trout that by the guides estimates were over 25 inches! I got a whopping zero of those to the net.

“Damn, Terry,” said my guide Shannon, “how will I get your picture with a mega-trout so that you can show it to all your fly fishing buddies, make them drool and want to come out here to fish with me? I thought you said this ain’t your first rodeo?”

But that’s the beauty of fly fishing…despite how good you are (or think you are) it still takes a lot of luck to get a fish, especially a trophy to the net. Big fish are big for a reason…they have been able to outwit their predators. They know diving deep into the aquatic weeds may free them. They know that a jump and a gill rattling head shake may loosen that fly in their mouth. They understand that rocks, sticks, logs and other obstructions spell doomsday for any leader.

A 'Bow with shoulders but still just shy of 25!

So, while you are up above applying side pressure, bowing when they jump, keeping their head up, letting them run…they are down below diving for cover, shaking their head, jumping and twisting, getting into your backing. With a little luck, one of you will be smiling when it’s over. During this trip, I wasn’t smiling as much as I had hoped.

At one point during this trip, I had what looked like a 27 incher just seconds from the net. My guide John was literally reaching to net the fish when the fish decided he had one more trick up his sleeve. The fish headed toward a stick-up…I countered and turned him. John reached, the fish swam towards me, quickly and jumped. I wasn’t expecting a jump…the fly came flying back towards my face. The fish swirled and splashed the water with his tail as he swam away as if to say, “this ain’t my first rodeo.”

Cutbow Bass!

My latest installment from our Way Out West Adventure at The High Lonesome Ranch...

Sunrise at The Homestead Cabin, High Lonesome Ranch

While at the ranch, we stayed at The Homestead Cabin.  It was a cozy 3 bedroom log cabin, a part of which was one of the original ranch buildings.  It had been renovated, was very nice and very cozy.  Within steps of the front door was a spring fed pond, small, but it did hold trout.  Down the road a piece was a larger pond, part of the stream that traversed the valley.  That pond was deep, with lots of edge where the moss and aquatic vegetation grows within inches of the water surface, creating great flats. Those edges and flats were prime hunting grounds for the trout that lived there. I fished this pond several times before breakfast. I typically used streamers here, but one particular morning I decided to try a hopper pattern.

Wranglers

This particular morning was the first since my mountain biking mishap. We were scheduled for some horseback riding. After breakfast, I accompanied Julie and the boys to the corral and snapped a few pictures while they got used to their horses.  All of them had some riding experience and even though I was about to go fish, I really wanted to ride with them.  There is just something about a women in boots and jeans…I guess that’s the Texan in me.  Even Aaron, born in Texas, agreed. In fact, he stayed after they finished riding to help one of the young lady wranglers brush horses, put away tack and saddles and what not.  Later in the week, one of the ranch staff remarked to me that Aaron must really have an interest in horses since he spent so much time helping.  I thought to myself… “nope, he just had a lot of interest in that cute girl wearing boots and jeans!”

"Hello, I'm Mr. Ed"

With the family headed down the trail, I headed back to the Homestead, grabbed my five weight and headed to the big pond below the cabin.  I caught a couple of fish but soon realized that while I could cast just fine, stripping line with my right arm was tough, but landing a fish was even tougher.  Why didn’t I ask for a guide that morning?  Why?  Because I’m hard core and thought I could handle it all myself.  That would cost me later that morning.

On the Trail

With the sun up a little higher, bug activity and cruising trout activity was on the rise.  This pond has some nice casting platforms built around it and I stationed myself on one that gave me access to one of the mossy “flats” as well as the edge along the deep water.  I saw what appeared to be a nice fish rise just as he crossed that edge.  I laid out a cast and the hopper went plop.  The fish swirled and I set the hook.  “Ouch,” I said out loud as I used my right hand to pull the slack fly line tight.  I must have “hit” that fish too hard…he broke off.

The big pond below our cabin

I managed to get another hopper tied onto my leader and caught a couple of fair fish (fair here would be awesome back in NC).  The fish pounded the hopper pretty good and I realized I didn’t have to strip strike the fish and the fish would run enough so that the slack line would disappear and I could play them off the reel.  I thought at one point… “Sure wish I had one of those Martin automatic reels!”

Cruising over the Moss

I looked at the flat area again and saw several fish move in and feed.  There was what seemed like a big push from a big fish within casting range.  I cast the hopper.  The hopper went plop.  The fish turned.  The fish hesitated. I twitched the hopper.  The fish moved closer.  I twitched harder, just like I was working a bass bug across my home river, The Eno. The fish charged, kipped jaw open wide, his nose sticking out of the water.  Strip, strip, strip I kept that fly moving and then it was if a bomb went off in the water!  Next thing I knew the fish was into my backing, but fortunately he headed towards deeper water. I dropped my arm out of my sling and began to battle this fish.  He made several long runs, jumped and danced on the water. It was a spectacular display but I had no one there to share it with me.  At one point the fish headed for the moss.  I stuck the rod butt into my belly and put the heat to him.  I kept his head up and he turned again for deeper water.  The fish had one more jump…a gills flared, head shaking, tail walking largemouth imitating jump.  Soon the fish lay exhausted in the shallow water at my feet.

It was the first cutbow I had ever caught. The fish was a thick, football shaped trout.  I wanted this fish to be over 24 inches long and based on its weight it should have been. However, I understand that cutbows tend to grow stockier for their length. The fish had that translucent golden hue like many cutthroat species, with a red lateral strip of a rainbow. A gorgeous fish in anyone’s book. Quickly I grabbed my smart phone to take a picture. The phone seized up and I had to reboot it. More importantly I had to reboot this fish. I sat down on my backside and gently moved the fish back and forth in the water. It took several minutes but he finally swam off, giving me one more tail splash as if to say “nice job!”

My collar bone and right shoulder ached from the fight and the difficulty reaching down and releasing the fish. Before I released the fish, I did get a measurement… 22 inches, but more importantly I estimated about four pounds!

Sometimes you gotta play hurt

But I have no picture…except the one permanently etched in my mind.

Whether you believe the size or not, it doesn’t matter. What was unique for me was the way this fish behaved…just like he was an Eno River largemouth from my own backyard. It was as if this fish was simply trying to make me feel at home because I was alone that morning, injured and concerned that the majority of the rest of my vacation would be spent sitting around doing nothing because of the broken collar bone.

I did spend the next 30 minutes just sitting; waiting for the pain to ease, reveling in this wonderful place. I looked up and there was a ranch vehicle bringing Julie and the boys back to the cabin. “How you feeling?” Julie asked.

“I’m fine…caught some fish,” I responded.

“You’re hard core…can’t believe you are fishing with a broken collar bone.  Catch anything worth writing about?”

“Yep…a cutbow bass!”

He’ll Be Comin’ Down the Mountain

Waiting for the Take

It was day four of our 10-day trip…the second full day on the ranch. We spent the morning fishing up at the highest elevation pond called “Sawmill.” This pond was full of big trout and skinny water. These spring ponds are full of vegetation…algae and “moss.” Large trout cruised in and out of an area with only inches of water above the moss. It was ambush central. Shannon, our guide, positioned me to intercept these fish…some would come within 15 feet others about 30. As long as you led the fish and didn’t line it, they would take. The problem…they dove for the moss or screamed across the pond…either way you had about a 1 in 10 shot in landing a fish.  I landed two that morning, but had at least 10 fish hooked. My biggest? A 24 inch bow with “shoulders,” but the ones that got away were much bigger. I’m still having nightmares…wet nightmares…me standing in my skivvies casting to cruising trout nightmares…trout refusing my fly and swallowing me nightmares.

Fish On!

Adam Had to "Catch" This One Twice!

Oh yeah?! You try to land a 25-inch plus trout on 5X tippet using a 5-weight rod…see if you can beat my 20% success rate…go ahead try it…I’ll go with you.

My son Aaron landed a nice one from this pond. Heck…my son Adam landed a nice one from this pond, although he pissed Shannon off because he kept dropping the fish while Shannon tried to get a picture. The ranch (and guides) wants those pictures. That’s how suckers like me get hooked...and suckers like you. I know you want to go…just say the word, I’ll go along.  I’ll even bring the beer.

Aaron and Guide John with a P-I-G Hawg!

Yo Boys...Now, This Here is a Fish!

Speaking of beer…did you know that beer would have prevented a serious injury while I was vacationing? It’s true…here is how it happened.

I Should Have Listened to the Trout and Drank Beer

Our guides dropped us off at our cabin after a full day of trout fishing and clay shooting. Since our guides were now off the clock, we offered them a cold one… small compensation for putting up with my 3 teenagers all day.  At first they were going to accept, but one of the guides remembered that he promised to pick up his daughter and said they would catch us Thursday after fishing. No problem I thought.

It was about 4pm and I was still up for something before dinner. So rather than drinking a couple of beers I asked my son Aaron if he wanted to go mountain biking.  He said yes. Had we instead drank beer, I wouldn’t have gotten on that bike.  Had I not gotten on that bike, I wouldn’t have ridden up Cross Mountain. Had I not ridden up Cross Mountain, I wouldn’t have had to ride down Cross Mountain. Had I not ridden down Cross Mountain, I wouldn’t have wrecked. Had I just stayed at the cabin and drank beer I wouldn’t have broken my collar bone. There is a moral to this story…I’ll let y’all figure out what that moral is.

So what really happened up on Cross Mountain? Depends…do you want the story I remember or the story that my son remembers? How about both?

Cross Mountain...Say a Prayer Before You Head Down

We readied the mountain bikes…good bikes that the ranch owns. Specialized rock hopper hard tail 26ers. Not quite the 29er stump jumpers my son and I own and ride regularly, but good bikes. Aaron and I are not newbies to the sport. We ride frequently, and have ridden far more knarly trails than what we ended up riding this day. This wasn’t my first rodeo. We weren’t going to ride anything we couldn’t handle.  Sure, there were no designated mountain bike trails at the ranch, but there were plenty of two track and horse trails…nothing to lead you to believe a crash was eminent.

So we headed out a valley road with nice easy climbs and descents. We had plenty of time before dinner and when I saw a switchback trail headed up Cross Mountain, I said, “Let’s see how far we can go up before I run out of breath.” The trail was wide enough that it was not very technical…except for the climb a relatively easy trail to negotiate. We made it up several switchbacks when the thin Rocky Mountain air literally sucked the oxygen out of my lungs. My legs were screaming for a break and my mouth was drier than a West Texas dust storm. So we stopped, drank some water and decided it was time to head down the trail. Here’s where the two stories diverge as if we took two different trails down the mountain.

We Headed Out this Valley Road Towards Cross Mountain

I started down the trail and noticed that the dirt was very loose, deep and difficult to keep traction.  I eased my speed through the first two switchbacks. Gravity kicked in again and as I started down the next section a black bear bolted across the trail in front of me! Just then a mountain lion lunged over top of me, across the trail chasing the bear! His back paws clipped my helmet and I started to skid. I pulled back to straighten the bike when I realized why the mountain lion was chasing the bear. They were both being chased by a Sasquatch who had an empty Jack Links package in one hand my younger son’s hat in the other (I told them not to mess with Sasquatch, no matter what the TV commercial showed!) As I straightened myself, Sasquatch stopped in front of me and I swerved to miss him and lost control of the bike. I went down hard. Ole’ Sasquatch put on the hat and just laughed. 

Ok…so maybe that’s not quite how it happened, but I use that version at the bar and there is someone that always believes it.

The truth is we started down Cross Mountain trail and we did notice some loose stuff along the way. As I headed down a straight stretch I hit some loose sand and the back wheel fished tailed. I tried to pull it back, when according to my son I hit a rock. The bike slid out from under me and gravity took care of the rest. I hit the ground hard, right shoulder first. My head hit the ground hard too and perhaps that’s why I have a different rendering of the crash. Fortunately my helmet saved me from further injury (or was it attributable to my hard head?). I sat for a moment while I assessed the damage.

Another View of Cross Mountain...If You Squint You Can See the Bear, Mountain Lion and Sasquatch!

It’s called the mountain biker inventory…when you momentarily sit after a crash determining what still works and what didn’t. I could see. I had ten fingers and toes and all my limbs still attached. There was no blood. I knew that I had either broken my collar bone or at best case dislocated the shoulder. I had some movement and didn’t feel any protrusions, but it did hurt. About that time the adrenaline really kicked in and I told my son I could ride back to the cabin. We walked the bikes down the trail to the valley road where I gingerly rode the mile back to the cabin.

 

My Fractured Clavicle

From there ranch staff took Julie and me to the Grand Junction ER. Grand Junction wasn’t originally on our itinerary so that was a plus in the site seeing category. X-rays revealed a pretty good break, but the doctor…knowing I was on vacation…said, “We’ll put you in a sling and on pain meds to keep you comfortable. Since you are left-handed, I don’t see why you can’t keep fly fishing while you are here, but no more biking, no horseback riding or whitewater rafting.”

 

And fly fish I did.

Way Out West - The Prolog

We made it to The High Lonesome Ranch

And so it begins…a tale about an epic trip.  A trip with enough ups and downs and wild curves that will make you think we were riding a roller coaster the whole time. This 10-day Colorado Rocky Mountain trip had us dodging wildfires, fly fishing for big trout, shooting clays, eating great food, drinking local brews, white water rafting, horseback riding and even a trip to the ER.

Where to start?  How about the wildfires?  First, let me offer my condolences to those that lost property and even life to those record wildfires. For weeks I had been following the news and wondered whether the wildfires would impact our travel.  At one point I even felt guilty because my connection to the fires was a vacation. The best justification? The state was losing tourist dollars and at the time there were no major fires near The High Lonesome Ranch. We were encouraged to go and spend our tourist dollars...a very, small action to a natural tragedy.

So…about a week before I contacted the ranch and simply asked, “Would the current wildfires hinder our travel to Denver or the drive to De Beque?”

The answer, “no.”

Friday before we left, I pulled up the internet to check on the progress of the Colorado wildfires.  Even though the fires I knew about were not going to affect our travel, I was rooting for the fire fighters to contain them to limit further loss.

But what popped up on my screen, was not believable at first.  There was a new headline, “Wildfire Near De Beque Grows to 12,000 Acres.”  Not only was this a new fire, but as it turns out it was just 10 miles from the ranch.  Down went my emotions, screaming the whole way. I texted my wife the news…then called the ranch.

Fortunately for us and of course the people of De Beque and the ranch staff, the fire fighters contained the flank headed towards the small town.  The ranch was in a completely different canyon, and given the conditions the fire was nearly impossible to spread that direction. So with a little less uncertainty we boarded a plane the next day and flew into Denver.

The following day we loaded up the rental vehicle and drove west. As we exited I-70 in De Beque we could see smoke rising in the distance. While still burning the fire was being contained.

God bless those that battled those blazes.

The High Lonesome Blues

I haven’t posted anything in awhile, mainly because we were busy traveling, playing some cool gigs, attending my niece’s wedding, my son’s high school graduation and his Eagle Court of Honor.  I spent the spring fly fishing locally and shedding a few pounds as I shredded some local single track.  All this as we prepared for our big trip way out west.  The highlight of our trip west was a week at The High Lonesome Ranch near De Beque, Colorado.  I’ll be sharing some of our adventures there over the next few days and weeks…in stages, just like the Tour de France.  Of course, now that we are back, I sure do miss that place, so much so that I’m sufferin’ the High Lonesome Blues. 

The High Lonesome Blues
by Tbone Hackett

 

Feelin’ out of breath, heart pounding way too fast
Not sure how much longer my nerves will last
These danged ole’ blues got me wound up tight
I need a Rocky Mountain high to get myself right.

That’s why I’m gonna take a little jaunt
To the High Lonesome Ranch, as wild as you want.

Aunt Linda makes sure you start the day out right
Shannon and John find you trout that’ll bite
Follow that up with a round of clays
Nothing like some shootin’ to chase them blues away.

That’s why I’m gonna take a little jaunt
To the High Lonesome Ranch, as wild as you want.

As the day ends, settle into The Homestead cabin
While Mark plans out tomorrow’s fun action
Amber, Scott and the rest of the staff
Make you feel at home, make you laugh.

That’s why I’m gonna take a little jaunt
To the High Lonesome Ranch, as wild as you want.

Now it’s back to the real world, how long will I last
Before I’m out of breath, heart pounding way to fast?
No time to travel to my Rocky Mountain High
Unless I sprout wings and learn to fly.

So In my mind I’m takin’ a little jaunt
To the High Lonesome Ranch, as wild as you want.

Is it me?

I Love Red Breasts...sunfish that is!

Looking back on the last 12 months, it turns out that I have spent more time fly fishing and mountain biking by myself than with my buds.  I wondered why no one wants to go with me.  True…I am picky about who I spend time with in the woods.  If we hike five miles into a mountain stream, I want to know you can carry my sorry ass out to the car should I turn my ankle.  I want to know that you’ll fish as long as I do.  I want to know that you can change your own flat tire.  I want to know that you prefer Fat Tire over Bud Light.  So if I’m picky and spending most of my fishing and biking alone, that begs the question, 

“Is it me?”

I recently pondered that very question as I strung up my five weight and headed to the Eno River…by myself.  I don’t have many free Saturday’s due to my scouting stuff so I relish days I can fish.  I emailed a good fishing buddy and he called me…said he was headed to one of our favorite trout streams in the mountains but didn’t think I could go due to family obligations.  I said, “hell yes I can go…just let me clear it with my better half.”  When I called him back to let him know I was good to go, he told me that another person that previously couldn’t go, now wanted to and this stream just doesn’t handle three anglers.  I knew that and backed out quickly so that my buddy wouldn’t be caught between a rock and a tough drift.  He was appreciative.  So as I hiked alone to the Eno that morning, I thought, “dang, that was a nice thing I did.”

And it was.

I do a lot of unselfishing things but yet…especially within my fly fishing circles…I have a reputation of being, I don’t know…an asshole?!

A Monster Shell Cracker

By now I reached the river, and spent the next six hours fishing waters I love.  I had a good day piscatorially speaking. I managed to complete the Eno grand slam which includes a coveted Roanoke bass, gorgeous red breasted sunfish, a lean and mean river largemouth, and of course a big ‘ole horny head…a fine river chub that exceeded 14 inches!  Certainly my mojo and karma didn’t mind fishing with me.  I even managed a whopper of a shell cracker sunfish.

Yet fly fishing was second string on this day…trying to figure out why I was fly fishing alone yet again was foremost on my mind.  I couldn’t shake the question, 

“Is it me?”

I sat down on a rock near a really neat shoal on the river.  It’s an old mill site.  The Eno is littered with old mill sites…truly the community’s life blood of that time…now the life blood that keeps me goin’.  The Eno is an intimate river and some of its sections I know better than anyone, yet I could spend the rest of my life exploring them.  Fortunately, nature changes her…like many rivers it is a dynamic living thing, as fickle as any woman and just as sexy.

A Favorite Spot on the Eno River

I spend a lot of time fly fishing her…maybe that’s why I fish alone.  No one likes a fly fishing “orgy” unless you are fishing the Roanoke River spring shad and/or striped bass fishing run or our famed fall false albacore blitz on the North Carolina Crystal Coast.  Hell, I could fish those fisheries by myself and never be alone!

Interestingly, in my scouting circles I am almost revered, but I am no different at scout events than I am fly fishing or mountain biking (ok…except for the four letter words and beer drinking which are both frowned upon at scouts of course).  My point being, I am the same person no matter what hobby or interest I pursue, yet when it comes to fly fishing especially, I fish alone.

Maybe it’s my choice…or maybe it’s me.  After spending that fine spring Saturday on the Eno all by myself I have to admit…I am a damn good fly caster and not shy about showing my skills…I can talk a lot (although no more than my accusers)…and I did hog all the best spots on the river that day just for myself.

This Bass Took Me Under a Log

But I won’t mention the trash I picked up, or how I assisted a river land owner make sure the stream buffer was protected the week before, or the Saturday I spent at a recent earth fair promoting protection of the river, or the injured mountain biker I recently helped on the trail, or the scouting family I helped during a time of need, or the countless hours I’ve spent trying to instill a conservation ethic in the scouting youth of our area.  Nope…those don’t convince anyone to go fishing with me.

Even I’m not convinced…after spending that six hours on the Eno, listening to me talk non-stop, having to laugh at my dumb jokes, watching me make better casts…casts that resulted in more caught fish, listening to me gloat all the way back to my truck, getting a lecture about my strong conservation ethic, and being forced to drink a really good micro-brew when I got home, I realized something…

Damn, “I guess it is me!”