Colorado Fly Fishing Adventure, Day 1

After driving without breaks from Annapolis, Maryland to Denver, Colorado, I crashed on the couch in my host family’s basement. There's nothing better than 27 hours in a car to remind you of the benefit of a good shower and daily stretching exercises. But, a day after the long car ride I was again driving up US25 to Rocky Mountain National Park where my Colorado fishing trip would begin.

Now, getting to the point where I was back in the car driving was an event in itself. My whole reason for coming to Colorado was the wedding of my friends, Rob and Rachel. They asked me to be a groomsman and perform a song in the ceremony, and with the early thought of a fishing tripping in the back of my mind, the answer was an easy “yes.” …and I guess I would have said yes anyways… I mean, they are my friends.

Before jumping into my Pontiac G5 rental that Monday (a car which made me feel like I was going through an early mid-life crisis), I had to step inside the walls of Bath and Body Works to help Rob pick out a birthday present for his fiancé.

Now, I have a hierarchical theory about male “uncomfortability.” It goes something like this: The most uncomfortable store for a man is Victoria’s Secret. I mean, that’s one of those stores (though, like the Law, necessary and good) from which I have to turn my head away when strolling by. All the storefront imagery provided includes a lot of bosom and a little of clothing. Not good for a Christian man trying his best to keep a pure mind. I’ve yet to step foot in one, and I dread the day my wife asks me to go and buy a bra. Yuck. But the next closest tier of uncomfortability is occupied by Bath and Body Works. All men can do is walk into that store and stare. Scents? What the heck do we as human beings need scents for… unless we’re hunting deer. Now, I need to preface this by saying, I’m looking forward to the day I lose all my hair and resort to using only a bar of soap for a full-body cleansing. But when you walk into Bath and Body Works, we men come to find out these creatures called women are adding soap upon lotion, scent upon smell. (You mean their skin doesn’t naturally smell like fields of roses?!!?)

So, like the majority of men in the world, I walked in with Rob and stared at the walls of bath soap and other miscellaneous scented products. The lady helping us, wearing the store-wide color of choice—light blue (another indicator men are not welcome), pointed us to several different choices, and Rob ended up choosing some Japanese Cherry scent over a fruity-almost-candy-store scent. And with that trial endured, I was in my car driving.

Estes Park at two o’clock was bustling. No. Bustling is an understatement. The amount of foot and tire traffic was absurd. It took me what felt like hours to make left-hand turns, park, and cross streets. But, I kept reminding myself: soon I’ll be knee-deep in cold clear river water. I stepped into Kirk’s Fly Shop for some friendly advice, and made sure to buy a few flies as an act of gratitude. (Take note fly fisherman of the world! Buying a few courtesy flies is like leaving a tip…. do it!) My original plans were to fish the Big Thompson, Cache la Poudre, and Colorado rivers inside the park. But, it was late in the day and all the campsites in the park were occupied. So, Michael at Kirks directed me to the Big Thompson River below the dam, where I might hook into a nice sized brown or rainbow.

I drove down Route 34 a few miles, and pulled off the side of the road in a spot I felt was distant enough from the surrounding private property. As the I’m-about-to-fly-fish excitement built, I threw on my boots, harnessed my chest pack and jumped into the river.

The whole evening I saw only a few flies coming off the river—a caddis here, a stonefly there. Working with Michael’s advice, I started with a blue winged olive, and caught a brown within the first few minutes of fishing. Shortly afterward I switched between a royal wulff and caddis, hooking a handful of trout before the mountains encroached upon the Sun’s course.

What I’ve failed to mention is that during my Estes Park adventure I came to realize I had no place to rest my weary head. Both the visitor center in town and the ranger at Beaver Meadows informed me that the campsites were all full. So, I was in a bit of a pinch. Where would I sleep the night? I contemplated renting a room, but then I remembered I’m a poor graduate student. So, following the advice of the park ranger (lesson learned: always ask advice from a park ranger), I found a spot off of route Devil’s Gulch Road on the other side of Glen Haven and camped. Left sleepless by the worries of getting chased away by the police or eaten by a bear, I awoke the next morning at 5:45 to begin again, but this time I was heading into the Park.