The Canyon Rings Eternal

Day 1: The Canyon Rings Eternal

After some thought and a variety of personal reasons I decided to combine my whole trip to Gunnison to be described as one day of reflection. Each day in the mighty canyon seemed to blend easily into the next, every morning represented a step forward in my experience as an outdoorsman and some painful lessons as a fisherman, not to mention the overwhelming nature within the canyon; all four days blended into one day as far as I’m concerned.

I decided to begin this journey of fly fishing adventures out on the Western slope of Colorado, known for some of the most legendary fly fishing one could hope to find. This “day” will encapsulate the four days of fishing on multiple rivers near Gunnison. I arrived yesterday and scouted a few different spots that will fit into the time I have out here. Upon arriving a fear inspired awe began to overwhelm my senses. I was astonished by the immense canyon cliffs and permanence of the rocks that lay before me. A rough reminder of ou r seemingly short span on the planet when one considers just how ancient the world around us is. The sight of the canyon left me with some question marks that were worth deeply considering. As if the canyon was mocking me, saying, “Are you really stupid enough to enter alone?” But after some consideration and peering I decided resolutely this is a challenge that I could not deny myself at this point. The hand had already been dealt and now was a moment to play the cards and not to fold. I will be able to get a quick half hour or so of fishing in tonight at a spot only a few minutes away but will hit the ground running tomorrow.

Despite the intimidating nature and legend of the canyon I still managed to underestimate it on my first attempt which chalks today up as an utter failure. The first reminder that an outdoorsman should always be prepared to get an all too gut wrenching lesson in humility from nature. The fear and solitude within a risky site with no trails is a reminder that when doing a solo trip that one’s risk is multiplied by an incalculable number. The scree was falling under my feet and the first time I’ve seen a rattlesnake swimming across the river as swiftly as a trout might was enough to start placing doubts inside my head. One wrong step in this canyon might do me in. The danger of one mis-step that leads to a fall, one turn in the wrong direction and who knows when you’ll wander your way back. The less so common but still important to be mindful of is the danger of an interaction with any sort of wildlife. I was prepared with my Wilderness First Responder license, the solo medical kit in my pack, and had created a check in and itinerary that I shared with a friend. So then I ask myself how did I still manage to make the rookie mistake of being under packed, skin and toes exposed as if I was going to wet wade in such an environment? A thought of grand arrogance set me back a few hours as I had to hike back out to my car where all my proper equipment was. Perhaps it was that not being here before I still hadn’t comprehended what I was walking myself into. The canyon will force you to ask yourself a series of serious questions that create an honest dialogue with yourself. Am I capable? What mitigation plans do I have in place? What is it that I’m hoping to accomplish here?

This morning the canyon had beat me, mostly on account of my own arrogance. Later today I will set out once more with a fully prepared pack and gear and the confidence that I will tackle whatever the canyon throws my way. One thing is certain; the beauty that exists here is remarkable. An illusion exists at a distance of a peaceful sanctuary as nature often does from a distance. Every once in a while you need a swift reminder that as you adventure into nature you enter into the fight of life and death, that every decision made is of the utmost importance. But its beauty does have the ultimate restorative power that enlivens the senses and tests the spirit. Today my mind lost the battle but my spirit is only further encouraged. In a few hours I’ll set back out and try my line again. Can one blame a man to be so intimidated by rocks that are over a billion years old? But the reminder that warnings exist for a reason; it is not so you don’t do the things you’re after, but rather take the proper steps to ensure your safety and enjoy your love but still make it home.

As I ventured again and again into the shaded canyon walls my thoughts and heart pondered the passing tempo of all things; but the river and the rock seem to be ever stable in the ever passing way of life. The speed of which living organisms come and go. Gone in the blink of an eye in the grand scheme of things. Then to look at these sheer cliffs know they're older than my comprehension of time is astonishing. And how many canyons that formed millions of years ago; casting here may be the closest one could get to reaching into the land of eternity. The rock and the river breed life, the life that always comes to pass and go around again, but the river has and will continue to provide the source for life, the canyon rock as old as time provides the landscape for the river to cut, and underneath the rock?

So I ventured as deep as I could into the canyon walls already in a state of awe wading and walking through some of the steepest, most jagged cliffs I’ve experienced. The scarring formed by the heat and pressure to then be cut by water, how much scarring has this canyon seen throughout its ancient history. Only something that has achieved such permanence could bear the cutting power the river, time, and whatever else this valley must’ve endured. It's as if each rock contains its own mystery, every bend waiting to reveal some new miscalculated aspect I’ve created in my imagination. So on I went until the walls that surrounded me seemed at least to be 90 degrees on either side and the river far too high for me to be able to wade any further. Suddenly the anxiety of choices and things that could go wrong were replaced by one single option that sent a comforting warmth throughout my body. Turnaround, start fishing upstream, and fish every part of the river that you can reach.

As far as any fisherman is concerned this is the true beginning of any fishing trip because until your fly is dancing on the water, you are only hiking with added disadvantages. It was still early enough in the morning that I felt comfortable throwing all of my dry flies at the water with hopes that a trout may rise. The depth of the canyon was still providing much shade from the early morning sun on the rise and I’d seen a few trout feeding off the top of the water. On some reading I’d done before heading up I remembered that caddis flies were among some of the top hitting dry flies so without a doubt in my head I started the day with a size 12 elk hair caddis. After a bit of a windy morning I settled into a nice rhythm working the river back upstream fishing every boulder, pool, and foam stream I could find. The pleasure of watching your line unravel seeing the last loop catapult the caddis ever so gently on top of your desired placement is one of the great satisfactions that come with the art of casting. Despite my own confidence in this presentation I must add humbly that it didn’t change any of my results thus far. I was getting skunked on every inch. Did I bring the wrong flies? I recalled one man I saw before setting out for the day telling me the fluffier and furrier the better. Then comes the question of trust.

I also wondered if the trout just like this canyon possess these same mystical qualities that will always elude us. That like the rock they too are layered throughout time that create behavior patterns and behavioral mysterious alike. I knew this because the reason I wasn’t landing any of the trout was certainly not due to a lack in their presence. Was I careful enough with my shadow? Did I slap my fly down too hard on the water and spook them away? Or was the presentation and my fly choice one of unappetizing concern to them? Sometimes it seems as if trout are just as picky about what they want as people can be.

As the sun was revolving high into the sky at this point I’d come across a giant boulder with a stunning view in all directions; to only entice me more it sat dead in the middle of the stream. So I decided it was time to take a simple lunch break. At first, I debated the many aspects that could’ve been leading to my recent set of failures, but confused as ever having thrown more fly patterns early in the day than I’d probably ever thrown in a day left me feeling stumped. This gorge that seemed to split the whole earth was beating me down one step at a time. Then I reminded myself I did lose two to some bad knots which either meant I need to continue to practice this or as we all know, not all knots are always reliable in the world of fishing, but a stern reminder to make sure each one was tied properly and lubricated before being tightened. So as I laid back on this rock that seemed to be made for laying your head back on a bit of a gradient provided a most magnificent view that sent me into reverie.

I dreamt of the feel of the mountain, rod, timing, the fish, and wondered about what drove me out here. Fly fishing has a certain moment of eternity to it. The only place I’ve found a greater sense of is while hunting. Everything boils down to just one of these moments, when the trout finds your fly appetizing, and you lift the rod to set the hook with impeccable timing, and begin imagining how much of a hog you might be reeling in. Especially when you see the trout rising up to take the bite. The magic of the rise, the ripples in the water, the heat mirage bouncing off the water, what a magnificent thrill it is. Then to remind myself how close I’d been a few times so far in the trip was discouraging. To think of my arm throwing itself back to lodge the hook in place only to watch the fish return back to the depths with my fly gone is a moment of hope and despair intertwined in a momentary dance that ended as soon as it began.

The sun was now blazing down the middle of the canyon which in this high desert country is enough to make you dream of the frigid cold of the tundra. I decided to take my hat and fill it to the brim with the cool clear water flowing from the river and give myself the closest thing I could get to a shower, dumping the water over my head and down my back time and again. Then I splashed a few handfuls onto my face and the back of my neck. Which also provides a great opportunity to enliven your senses and provide a fresh burst of energy that happens when that cool mountain water hits your skin after being slow cooked by the sun high altitude. And I decided to sit awhile longer figuring no fish would be biting in this intense heat anyways continuing to watch the pools, the ripples, the rock, and the sky all merging into one keen sight for me to behold. There I was beginning another sweet reverie, though this one I will not include as to keep from boring the audience to death.

Eventually I got around to eating the most delectable treat one can imagine on the mountain; a salami, ham, and cheese sandwich that had been in my pack for quite a few hours now. It was time to tie on another pattern and begin the beginning of the end of this fly fishing adventure. As I rose I took one deep sigh with the canyon and knew at that moment it had earned a sacred place in my heart. The last of my trip was no different. New pattern, new cast, mend the line, no fish. I did get one last glimmer of hope at the last spot I fished before leaving. I saw the most beautiful cutbow trout I had the pleasure of laying eyes on since I’d been in the canyon. A pinkish red line that cut through the gill and bright pink stripe going down its long body; this trout, though I know not how long it was, could certainly be classified as a toad. A most beautiful toad. Seeing its pink stripe rise time and time again right next to my cast was all the temptation I needed to stay longer than I planned. Eventually I got a bite and again it was lost. It was time for my trip to Gunnison to end.

So before I packed I packed it all in to leave again. I peered one more time to try and grasp the complexity of this canyon. This place that bested me at every bend, every loop of my line, each and every presentation of my flies. Though a big smile revealed itself on my face; I knew already that I needed to begin planning a return trip to this majestic place. Sometimes a true test is accepting defeat with a grin and feeling reinvigorated by its challenge, a timeless and most awesome test.