Seventy-five degrees at 9:30 am, I watch dumbfounded as the pair from the truck next to ours gear up from head to toe. Giddyup-ed, extending though technicolor SPF head-dresses. This is small water by Colorado standards, knee deep crossings at best as it winds around porcupine-infested brush. They must be on a weight loss program. Nothing but t-shirts, tattered pants, and stinky socks here, because that is all we thought to pack.
It is not uncrowded, and we look entirely out of place for the apparent product catalog shoot. Little pink and white and yellow globes dot the water’s surface. We chart a course upstream, opting for boisterous raunch, voluminous degrading banter reserved only for long-term friendships. It serves the purpose: leering and head shakes signal we will have quite few turns ahead to ourselves.
A half-dollar-sized green insect with an upturned abdomen latches onto the left lens. Oh my goodness. I coax it onto my thumb while scrambling for the camera, but it is in a hurry. My compadre quickly aces his dropper; yours truly swore them off long ago. We proceed thereafter side-by-side, in unison, debating which line, seam, and fast riffle to target next. Working as a team, taking turns moving aquatic denizens on nearly every cast.
Another group now within ear and eyeshot, flipping chenille worms, observes the highly organized chaos and immediately packs it up. What would would possess them to bobber fish I wonder, when drakes pepper the sky? Knowing the answer, yet a fleeting thought; we soon pull several fish from the run they were just camped out on.
Every fish in the river was looking up, yet nary a two-legged creature rose to the occasion. Except one motley crew that is, and inside of four hours we’ve had our fill. Back at base camp we prepare a meal fit for kings, while watching, through the kitchen window, as a trophy buck in-training beats us to dinner.
MG signing off (without offering a clue as to where this unlikely hatch occurred, and feeling not one iota of guilt for it either)