High in SNP & Wary of Bear

Wary of bear, a reasonable product  of an earlier encounter, James and I crackled through crusty spring snow descending physically and spiritually into the realm of gurgling water, mountain trout and serenity.    

During a stop James mentioned that during a visit to Orvis Mark had asked him what he liked so much about fly fishing.  A few switchbacks later, in the woods an instant response isn’t needed, James noted it was a simple question, without a simple answer.  I reflected on this for close to an hour as we descended deeper into the hollow and our own thoughts.  It hit me while I was climbing a small waterfall, old knees straining against weight and waders, trying not to slide into the frigid water.  For me fly fishing is a portal, a looking-glass to boyhood joy; the confluence of adventure, simplicity, peace, and excitement.    This may not be the perfect answer, but for today it’s close.  

I’d had my eye on this day for a week as a mid-60s forecast held the rare promise winter dry fly action.  I’d planned to hike down the run 15-minutes further than I’d been before, but I was seduced and slid, yes literally slid, mud and all, into the water at the same place I had before.  

This would be my second adventure through his gorgeous stretch.  As I watched James enjoy lunch and ply the pool below me my thermometer settled at 39.8 degrees a few inches below the water..brr.   Just north of 40, brookies become more active and with air temperature in the mid 50’s and climbing I rigged a parachute adams and a pheasant tail and began working the water. 

 I figured I’d have success with the dropper, but hoped for a surface strike.  On my third cast into a run shielded by a moss wall on one side and idyllic cobble bed on the other a good sized brookie came 90% out of the water apparently elated to see a hunk-o-mayfly drift by.   He struck again on the next cast, Shamu'ing out of the water and then a 4-incher latched onto my dropper and spooked the narrow run.  A great day high in the mountains had begun.   

We had the most consistent action in the top of runs just out of the frothy seams where the trout lay in wait for food, but by FAR the most fun was casting to top of runs, tending and mending and waiting in giddy anticipation for a surface strike.     

The trout who struck on the surface were a year group older/bigger that the dropper-trout and bent my 1-wt, the inverse of the grin on my face.   James who started with a double dropper under an indicator quickly moved over to a Mr. Radidan spinner followed by a #16 nymph with good success.  

 The river warmed to 41.6 degrees by 1300, the bite improved every hour. We leap-frogged until 1430 trading pools and spotting for each other.   We marveled at the speckled finery of these aggressive winter trout and tried not to lose sight of how lucky we were to be with them on such a special day.