Royal Wulff

Introduction to the Gunnison River


The drive out to the Gunnison takes you by a farm where a billboard with a picture of a large crane with a frog hanging out of its mouth rises above the landscape. The caption reads, "Hang in there, never give up!" Farming is a tough business, and this billboard embodies the resolute spirit of people who live in this area. Delta, the hometown I almost grew up in, has an economy that has traditionally been agriculturally based, but is changing somewhat as our world becomes more flat. My mother and father were born and raised there and left to go to college and then live the life of a transient military family. We lived in South Carolina, Oklahoma, Hawaii, Alabama and Utah during my childhood - but we always came back to Delta, Colorado where my grandparents lived, two aunts, an uncle and a smattering of cousins and second cousins continued to live.

Delta is the place I think of when I think of home -- a place you really don't think too much about until you've been gone a while. I have many fond memories of this place especially with my grandparents who have since passed away. And about the time my Grandma Nita left us (she fell off a roof with a chainsaw in her hand) was about the time we started exploring the treasure chest of the fly fishing gold located in the Gunnison River. I think it was that year, a year of grieving and heartbreak that we came to realize what type of treasure lay in our own backyard.

The headwaters start high above Gunnison, Colorado and this majestic river collects tributaries, flows into Blue Mesa Reservoir, and releases through the Black Canyon before it gets to Delta. It eventually meets the Colorado River to start its sojourn to the Pacific Ocean, while many communities pilfer its resources along the way.

I can remember sitting on the front porch of my Grandparents house, drinking wine, and smoking a good cigar while watching the snapshot flashes of distant thunderstorms with my Grandpa Lyman. He was quite the raconteur and knew Delta and the surrounding region well. He would tell me that the storms we were watching were hovering over the Black Canyon just southwest of the Elk Mountains, rugged country with landscape rougher than a scarred prize fighter's face and deep granite canyons with a wonderful sliver of water gestating Rainbow and Brown trout. Little did I know, while bait fishing the surrounding lakes in the area, a gold medal fishery was less than an hour's drive away, with fishing pressure slighter than a small child holding your hand.

The Rainbow trout are healthier than Olympic athletes and feistier than a woman drinking tequila. Let's just say these fish fight and fight hard at any size. My first experience of this sinfully tasteful piece of water was with guide Matt Owens from Cedaredge - one of the best guides I've ever had the pleasure of fishing with. I took my girlfriend at the time - Shannon - who has since become my wife and mother of our three children - young children who already know what "Sofa Pillow" means and that Pteronarcys begins with a "P".

At the time, my prior fly fishing experience had been fairly limited, primarily relegated to the San Miguel River over near Telluride. The good thing about the San Miguel is that you become a good caster or you don't catch many fish. I had become fairly adroit at slinging lead and fluffy pieces of yarn to pocket water guarded by pine trees (pine trees are notorious for removing flies from your tippet) where short minuet drifts meant quick stripping coupled with precision accuracy casting, all in a river more slippery than the slopes at the bottom of Coonskin Lift.

I was essentially a virgin in the entomology department but could cast, mend and drift pretty well. Matt has been chronicling the Gunnison for almost twenty years now and is an expert on the aquatic insect life inhabiting the river. And trust me; he knows where the trout are, at all times of the year and what the "fly du jour" is at any particular moment. And when I fished with him, he didn't just know the spot where trout were holding, but the exact depth where these creatures would be receptive to a fly. Matt asked me, "What's the difference between a good fly fisherman and a great fly fisherman? I said, "I have no idea?" He said confidently, "One weight!"

Matt put me on fish early and the first strike was aggressive, distinct and wonderful. However, I had underestimated this Herculean trout and the piscatorial wonder I had just hooked was off within the first ten seconds. But I had had my first taste of hooking Gunnison trout and like wine, it is a taste I will never forget nor ever go without in my lifetime. I went on to hook twenty or so fish that day and landed close to a dozen. The Gunny, as I affectionately call her, had entered my veins like heroin to an addict, and I would never recover. Just like the memories of sitting with my Grandparents on their front porch, when I think of the Gunny I feel a pleasant euphoria come over me and slip into a silent lucidity that can only be understood by other addicts of the Gunnison River ---- and I wonder ---- do people still sit on their front porches anymore?

 

 

Fly Fishing

Fly fishing, in my opinion, is like no other sport. As a former avid and respectable golfer, I have traded an old passion for a new one, although I still play golf and sometimes wonder why. Probably because golf is more a social sport and one that is more easily accessible. Fly fishing is not a social sport and not typically an easy thing to do, unless you live on a river. Fly fishing takes my mind off life, work, and relationships like nothing else. Unlike golf, when you make a bad cast in fly fishing, you can immediately recast and try to redeem yourself. When you hit a bad shot in golf you can't reload immediately. It is usually several minutes before you get to hit again. In addition, a real bad shot can stay with you throughout the round and into the nineteenth hole. Golf would be a lot less stressful if you could re-hit a shot quickly and not have it effect your score. A bad cast is forgotten the second you recast and has a negligible effect on your day. That's the beauty of fly fishing, it isn't so much the end result, but the process.

In fly fishing, there are no rules or penalties. I take that back. I did speak with a guide on the Gunnison River who gave his clients a rule for fishing from the raft before they went out. The first cast to hit him meant a fifteen minute timeout for the individual responsible. The second time the guide was hit, the client was done fishing for the day. A fairly harsh penalty in my opinion. Other than that, I know of no other penalties as it relates to fly fishing. In addition, fly fishing isn't as competitive as golf. Money isn't typically wagered and you usually want everyone to have some luck. I've been in several golf matches on the eighteenth hole, with a lot of money on the line, toes curled, hoping my opponent would miss his ten footer so I wouldn't have to go to Hip National Bank because of my suspect play. A great day fly fishing is when everyone catches good fish with me catching the biggest one of course!

It seems like with fly fishing your always doing something. Casting, changing flies, wading to a good lie, changing the length of your tippet, watching the insects and occasionally fighting a wily trout. There are so many variables, somewhat like golf. Some days they really matter and other days you can slap any old fly with a poor drift and still manage to catch some fish. However, those days are few and far between. It's kind of like working on a jig saw puzzle, you keep trying to piece it together and after enough pieces are together, the process becomes easier. Most of the time, the amount of weight, the length of your tippet, the type of fly, your drift, your hookup, the type of water you select, all have a major impact on the amount of fish you catch.

Fly fishing combines skill, finesse, art, technique, science, experience and luck. All of which are extremely important. The skill of playing a large heavy trout on light tackle. The finesse of landing a dry fly on a minute piece of pocket water for a two-second drift. The art of tying bugs that emulate the local insects of a particular river while putting your own personal touch on it. The technique of making a double hull cast or large mend over a turbulent current. The science of recognizing the entomology of a hatch. The experience of fishing a particular place numerous times and being able to predict with a large degree of accuracy when a fish is going to hit. The luck of taking a breather while your line is down river with your fly bouncing off the water and some large, dumb rainbow decides to hook itself up.

All of these are essential in the fly fishing process. It's amazing how much more productive a fisherman is when he or she combines most or all of the aforementioned ingredients. Just the time and discipline it takes to learn to fish a particular river is a study in itself. Where the fish lie, the types of flies to use, the type of water that is the most productive, and where the best lunch spot sits are all important. The subtleties of a river are infinite and most of them are infinitesimal, and seemingly, they all make a difference.

To me, fly fishing is much more than a skill or a science. It is a passion! A quest that will go unfulfilled in my lifetime. However, it is an opportunity to have a multitude of experiences in beautiful places with interesting people. In addition, an absolutely unrivaled way to spend quality time with my family, particularly my dad and brother, who share this passion with me. There is no replacement for sitting around a camp fire, cold brewski in hand, pontificating on the former days events, typically not knowing what the hell I'm talking about and occasionally checking the coals on the Dutch Oven. As Porsche once said in an add campaign, "There is no Substitute". There is no better feeling than after a hard day's fishing, the sun still warm on your skin and the anticipation of tomorrow because of the ability to apply the previous day's lessons.

The worst day fishing has always been better than doing nothing at all. As long as no one drowns. I'd could use the old cliche that the worst day fishing is better than the best day working or golfing, but I've had some exceptional days both at work and on the golf course and those days were more enjoyable than a day where I've pounded miles of water only to get a few weak strikes. Making large amounts of money and birdies is fun, real fun! So don't let anyone kid you, catching fish is more fun than not catching fish. And the bigger and the prettier the fish the better. Plus you need to throw in the aspect that catching a "hard to catch fish" is more fun than catching fish that would eat your sneaker if you threw it onto the water. But, I have always had fun and felt a sense of accomplishment on days when I haven't caught many fish. I guess if people caught fish all the time they would call it catching and not fishing. As John Geirach says, "The fishing is always good, just sometimes the catching is a little slow."

I started fly fishing seriously in 1992, in Telluride, Colorado. Subsequently, I have spent many hours throwing a fake food source for trout into the water. I've had some mild successes and a few minor mishaps like sinking a boat or taking a swim down stream. But in the big picture of life, I have been successful as a fly fisherman. I have been the recipient of numerous great experiences, all of which help me be who I am today. Someone once told me that today you are the sum total of all of your thoughts to date. Well, I am lucky to have some of those person defining thoughts derived from the great fly fishing adventures that I have encountered. I'm not sure what the meaning of life is, and I will probably never know, but I think it has something to do with floating a Royal Wolf into a tight lie, hooking up with a nice rainbow and drinking a brewski by the campfire that evening with the people you love while the Dutch Oven exudes aromas from heaven….

 

Thoughts From The Rio

As we slowly meandered our way up Engineer Pass, I couldn't help but think about why we do these trips and why Trout, Floyd and Scrap all enjoy them as much as I do. I was riding by myself, as was Scrap while Trout and Floyd were driving together. The weather was perfect, seventy degrees, slight breeze and not a cloud in the sky. I could hear the sound of rock crunching beneath my tires as more music floated out of my speakers. I was sipping a smoothie and going slow as to not create too much fizz in my beer.

Maybe my cowboy hat was on too tight, but for whatever reason the philosophical thoughts were entering my mind as fast as the music from my CD collection. Why did we go on these trips? Why did we fly fish in the first place? Why didn't we do it more often? Why couldn't I just go on sabbatical and fly fish my way throughout the country? Lots of questions with answers floating in and out as fast as the questions.

We reached the top of Engineer Pass, half way through our twenty-seven mile trek. A perfect spot for a pee break and a photo opportunity. 12,800 feet above sea level. The meadows looked like a green sea of grass and I thought how tough the winters must be at this altitude. Although the snowmobiling must be good. The bald peaks reminded me of mars with red coloration fading to cream and not a speck of vegetation. We stretched our legs, cracked a new freshie and continued our journey over the majestic San Juans toward the isolated mountain town of Lake City. Traversing the high, rough mountain roads is not conducive to moving fast as our average speed was between five and fifteen miles per hour. We were a long way from any potential campsites, but I didn't mind. Plenty of time for introspection….

I'm not sure why we fly fish. I guess because it's so different than any other type of recreational activity that I enjoy. As Haig Brown quoted in his book "A River Never Sleeps" "We don't know why we fly fish except that it makes us think and feel and because we like it." And that's about it. It is an exquisite blending of function and artistry. Year to year, stream to stream, it's a magnificent obsession as trout rise from your mind, far from the river's edge. In true sport such as fly-fishing, there is no failure, only varying degrees of success.

There is just something magical about the whole experience. The scenery, the inner peace it brings each of us. It's each individual activity and I'm sure it's the sum of all of the parts. The feel of the line slipping through your hands, flying out of your reel as water whisks away, back into the place is was just stolen. The sun warms the back of your neck as the cool water meanders around your legs, gurgling as it passes. And out of the corner of your eye you think you see a flash, although when you look to where you think you saw it, all you see is water. A wry grin hits your face as you put some gink on your delicate presentation and you eyeball the same spot where you saw the flash a minute ago knowing a well placed cast just might confirm your suspicions. Stripping line out and monitoring your back cast, there's a slight acceleration of your heartbeat, as you know the moment of truth is getting closer. Your fly lands softly about three feet above the spot where you think something may happen, so you mend your line to insure a natural drift over the target area. And then it happens. Out of nowhere, but exactly where you thought it would happen. A colorful motion ripples the surface as a cotton white mouth approaches an insect made of chicken feathers, peacock, calf hair and red thread. The quick lift of your fly rod is interrupted because there's weight on the end of your line and then a second of silence. Then the fight begins, typically with a jump so as to make sure you've seen your quarry in the event you lose it. Sure we land a few and lose a few, but that's not the point. The point is that we're there, in the zone, protected from all of the other crap in the world for a few precious seconds. And we love it.….