The Century Day - Fly Fishing in Telluride

Remi Warren’s podcast plays through the speakers of my truck. Miles go by, rivers are crossed, and critters scatter across the landscape. The 5 hour drive from Steamboat to Telluride is peaceful. I’ve never much minded road-trips. The winter after turning 16, I was quickly handed the keys and told I’d be the one driving to Colorado from then on. This quick jaunt across the state rolls like a breeze.

I let my windows down, and enjoy the warm air flowing through my truck. “It’s going to be a good week” I think to myself.

The hours drift on by and I find myself cruising into Montrose in the early afternoon. My friend James’ flight has just landed, so I head to the airport and scoop him while we wait for the rest of our party. We kill time by heading to the local sporting goods store, and luck out in finding the valve I need for the raft. It’s not long before Hunter lands and we’re off.

The hour drive from Montrose is filled with conversation, in stark contrast to the silence I had wrapped myself in earlier. I appreciate it though. These are people I enjoy being around, and the company is welcome. We arrive in Mountain Village before dinner and are quickly put to work making dinner after meeting everyone. The spread makes for a feast and we head to bed after some games and plan for our next day.

As the dawn arrives, our basement cave treats us to only the faintest light, but our enthusiasm for the day wakes us all without trouble. A cup of coffee and some eggs fuel us up for the trek ahead. We bid the others farewell, and James, Hunter, and I load up in my truck and make for the San Miguel. The cool morning air invites a parade of bugs to the river, and we note the similarities to our setups. Having only fished Telluride once before, I keep things pretty simple and tie on my tried and true hopper dropper rig.

The first hole we come across presents a fallen fir tree that shadows 5 ft of cold deep water. I take a shot and land near the edge of the pool. A flash from the depths sucks down the hopper and swims to safety. My line, now taut, fights back, and the battle is on. It’s short lived though. The prince nymph I have tied to the bend of the hopper catches a branch and the fish shakes itself loose. Mildly disappointed, I laugh off the loss and begin to untangle my bird's nest of a line tied into the tree. The day has begun, and fish are here.

Hunter passes me and makes a try at the next bend. He’s quickly greeted with a feisty little brown trout and puts us on the board. High-fives are passed around and we all continue upstream. We walk a ways, passing areas of revegetation and bank restoration. About a quarter mile from the road, we find ourselves at what seems to be the work of a beaver. This “pond” connects back to the river and we each manage to pull out a brookie from right below the confluence. I venture up the dam, and locate numerous brook trout. After quickly landing two, I wave the other guys up to me. Hunter obliges, but James focuses on a ripple that looks promising.

Each cast in this newly created body of water yields fruitful results. We manage to double up over and over and our laughter erupts from the pure euphoria these little fish treat us to. Our continued success feels too good to be true, and we eventually decide to move onward to let them rest. Hunter takes off after James, and I climb down a different dam into a small stream. Spanning only 3 feet at its widest point, I watch as fish flee upstream in this well protected and undiscovered pocket of water.

From atop the bank, I lay down a cast to the other side and am greeted with a take from an slender brown trout pushing 16 inches. The second species of my day is a welcomed addition to my mental creel.

I return her to the river and tally a count. It’s not often a day yields 20+ fish, let alone over 50. Not wanting to be caught up in the numbers, I tie on a new fly.

Each step along the bank sends a swarm of grasshoppers up the stream. The ones that fail to make it are quickly intercepted mid-current by hungry brook & brown trout. With delicate presentation, my fly imitating the tan critters leaping around me, lands underneath the overhanging grass which holds back erosion. In an instant, a blur of deep gray stirs the water and pushes a wake towards my line. As the fly disappears under the water, I lift my rod and hold on as the wake darts upstream.

This was clearly an impressive fish. Line starts to depart from my reel and I race in the direction of the torrent. For the first time today, my 3 weight felt outgunned and I knew my line wouldn’t hold up if the fish made it to safety. Unable to muscle it out, I continued my sprint upstream. Tripping over logs, shrubs, and small boulders, I know I am losing the fight. I jump down onto a patch of gravel and manage to steer the brown back towards me. With net in hand, I reach out and attempt the snag. It swims by and the fight continues. This is the best location for me, so instead of moving back down the creek, I stand my ground and pray to God my 5x holds. Sneaking beneath the bank, the trout chances a rest and I take my shot to bring it back toward my net. This time, I’m more ready and am quick to scoop and score.

I am absolutely pumped. The adrenaline settles in my bloodstream and my heart returns to a regular rhythm. This fish fought valiantly and I want to return it safely to its home waters without too much stress. After removing the hook from its jaw, I lift it from the net and attempt to snap a pic, but the fish has other plans. Writhing about, it slips from my hand and escapes to the cold creek waters once again. I suppose it’s only fair that it had the last laugh. The day’s adventure carries on while my mind lingers on that fish.

Each new bend of the creek presents opportunities, and nearly every single one of them I am able to capitalize on. The tally grows ever higher, and the sun follows suit. Realizing I haven't heard from either of my companions for quite some time, I give them a ring and find they’ve had nearly as productive a day. I venture onwards and leave my creek that has proved so full of life. The main arm of the San Miguel is just in the distance.

Enveloped by tall conifers and cottonwoods, the San Miguel has widened at this point. The waters are deeper and the river bed more settled. I bump into an angler and we chat about the diversity of the river. He’s caught nearly every species including browns, brookies, rainbows, and even a few elusive cutthroat. Having never caught a true cutthroat, I am thrilled at the thought of reeling one in this trip. We talk a little while longer before I bid him farewell and continue up the river. I fish a few spots along the way, managing a few brookies and a pair of brown trout, but it’s not long before Hunter and James round the bend.

Making their way over, I reel up my line, loop the leader over the end of my rod and hook my fly to the second guide. I am content. Together, we recount the details of the day, and make our way back to the truck, realizing that we’ve likely tallied close to a hundred fish. Nonetheless, I still pause to catch a few more fish along the way to break up the hike, but we more or less race home in search of a meal. The century day comes to an end, and it’s one for the books, but I can’t help but find myself still thinking about the cutthroat that eluded me.

#thisisit