Eagle, Colorado

Spooky Trout and Heavy Pressure

Sunday Night

The lock rolled over, and just like that my house wasn’t “mine” anymore. Sure, in the legal sense I still had an obligation through the 7th should things go full “action movie” bad, but for now we had relinquished our house over to the buyers and it was time to move on. No debris and keep the memories thank you very much. While I felt a fleeting sense of loyalty to the garden, this largely felt less like losing a home, and more like validation that my little family could and would be dynamic if given the chance. 

We had recently decided to move to Tacoma, Washington after my wife had the job offer of a lifetime. She would go from doing psychometry in a dull department, to working as a kind of “sports psychology resource” for an extremely high performing military organization. Once we had our family huddle and decided moving west was the right move—the real work started. We finished flooring, painted walls, caulked trim, took care of cabin projects, signed contracts, and worked like crazy to ultimately pull off a tight timeline across multiple states. But, with great efforts come great strain, and I could tell the wheels were starting to come off my metaphorical bus. 

“So why not take a trip in Dad’s truck?” The idea came along like a new love, slowly then all at once. I already had to get my truck across the United States. I had been aching to get out West and see what the rivers were like out there. And, to top it all off, I am what most would describe as “higher maintenance” when it comes to my fly gear and staying organized. But aside from the obvious and pragmatic problems this little trip might solve, I had been wanting to go out West in the truck my father had left after his passing in 2019. Dad had always lusted for adventure in a way that only Robert Muir could understand—and sidelined many of those ambitions to provide for my brother and I. This seemed like the adventure we always should have taken, but never had “time for”.

Dana signed off with literally no hesitation because she’s a gangster, and it was settled that I would road trip to Tacoma. Instead of rushing from place to place—America would be the proving ground for lessons learned on the Au Sable. First up was Colorado’s Eagle River.

Monday Morning

After a good night of rest at the home of my lone subscriber (thanks Chad), my F150 growled to life on Carrolton street with the intent to ramble and more of an outline than a plan. I knew that it was 18 hours to Eagle, Colorado from Indianapolis—and after two months of nonstop chaos that seemed good enough to me. One last heavy sigh, and a glance at the area that had been home for 31 years, before putting the car in drive and easing into the next chapter. 

Illinois looked a lot like what someone would imagine “the parts of Illinois that aren’t Chicago” would look like. It’s nothing personal, but I grew up in Indiana. The romance of flyover states is largely lost on me. From there came the cheap gas of Missouri and some rather bland details that wrapped up the transition into Kansas. 

The flint hills were a cool treat, wicked inclines that somehow blended into the dreamy expanse of rolling territory is striking in a hard to describe way—it almost seems like an out of body experience while you’re moving through them at highway speed. However, the best part is always rolling into Colorado. For some reason it’s just the acknowledgement that “The hard part is over”. After 31 days straight of living Army 24/7, packing like my life depended on it, painting walls, solving problems, doing drone work—to cross into an area with no obligations or accountability is a blissful release. 

Rolling plains turned into rolling hills, gas got incredibly expensive, and Denver appeared. After 16 hours of driving, I would be able to celebrate with a beer and sleep at a cousins house knowing the good part would be coming tomorrow. 

Tuesday Morning

The first morning of a day on the river usually just has a different energy. I wouldn’t call it the twisted stomach anticipation that comes from a big exam or meeting, but the buzz of possibility and adventure is always there once the river is near. Drives seem to take 15 minutes longer, gear becomes suddenly harder to find, and Murphy’s law is lurking close by ready to remind everyone who’s in charge after all. But after saying goodbyes to the Heller family and plugging coordinates into my phone, I turned the truck over and eased into the open arms of Americas high country. 

And if you’ve never made the drive, just give up on photos right away. Seriously, as a suggestion, understand that no lens technology or snap filter can communicate the sense of scale and self that comes from looking at a range of white caps. Highways, cities, populations, dynasties, the human race—the entirety of our experience as a species has been reacting and adapting to the geography largely shaped by these tectonic wonders. In an era where nothing is above cancellation and perception becomes reality—the rocky mountains exist as they are and beg to be nothing else. Their rules are something more ancient and hallowed than the rest of the world and will continue to be when the last member of the human race has passed on.

 It’s hard to be arrogant staring at something that can kill you with a weather change. But eventually the two hour jaunt was over. 

Shop

After navigating through the passes with your brakes hopefully intact, my first stop would be at Vail Valley Anglers. Set into an urban strip mall, you’re definitely not getting a “by the river” fly shop experience like Gates. This is definitely a shop designed for those with a little extra cheddar to burn on R.L. Winston Rods or Abel reels. Fine products, but a little bit out of the advisable price range for the average angler. For those without kids or a little extra dangle in their pocket however, they do produce an excellent dry fly experience when paired with the right line, but more technical gear talk will be coming in later articles.

Otherwise there’s a decent selection of SPF shirts, hats, neck gaiters, gloves, and just about anything else that the discerning angler might need to optimize their kit for the area. There’s also a classy assortment of branded Yeti equipment and engraved leather flasks. Entirely unnecessary? Yes. A nice memento for an area you’ll surely want to come back and visit later on? Absolutely yes. Because it does get cold in those early mornings and a little Breckenridge bourbon or red beer never hurt anyone.

Unruly spending aside, the guides in shop are extremely personable and helpful. They were able to clarify the right leader, tippit and fly rig combination; spending as much time as I wanted going more in depth on current best practice.

Flies/ Rod/ Line

As per usual, the move for the day in late August seemed to be a dry dropper rig. The shop recommended a 5x leader running to a piece of 6x tippit with a particularly meaty foam hopper rounding things off. Not to rag on Colorado, but I just did not find a grasshopper I liked in that state, so I generally just relied more on the attractor side and hoped that my dropper would be doing most of the work on the day. After all, Vail had been unusually warm like the rest of the west this year. On my three-foot dropper, I used an emerging nymph pattern with a size 16 hook, black bead head and olive body. With a reduced bead head, and the overall open nature of the eagle that day, I further added a zebra midge about 10 inches below my nymph. Black or purple was predominant coloration on the menu that day. 

The Spot

Horn Ranch Conservation Easment Parking Lot

24219 US-6, Edwards, CO 81632

Pulling into the public land, you’ll want to take note that the south side of the road is reserved for a large local ranch. Be sure to park on the north side of the road and avoid the hassle either way. To be exact, you’ll want to enter from the northeast side of the river. This offers the best walk to riffles upstream, a trouty rock bank across the river, and public access moving south along public land. It is well marked, and when looking at an overhead map with north facing up things make much more sense. The river is incredibly beautiful for being so near a busy highway, with sweeping rust red mountains flanking the pristine riverbank. Primarily scrub brush and shrubs, the area surrounding the river resembles a western movie more than the sweeping Aspens of nearby. 

If we start with the furthest east portion of the river, riffles make up a river about twenty to thirty meters across, with a medium current and slippery film over the rocky bottom. Tactics aside, this riffle area is prime time for highway fishermen with spin reels and treble hooks. The best luck with a dry fly or nymph in my experience here is to target “trouty” portions of the bank that have more trees overhanging. I was able to see a couple of monsters waiting for an early morning streamer on one side, while the incredibly easy access makes the “bike path” side poor fishing.  

Next, the rip rap outer bank. As said previously, these are some hardened fish. They will not be captured easily, and a solid hang is required. Be sure to focus on mending line well, and pay attention to not let the dry fly/ indicator drag. One or two of these, and it’s best to let the area rest and allow the trout to shuffle around. But, with the right toss into deeper and colder pockets, persistence will be rewarded. My suggestion would be to bring three or four pre-tied dry droppers and several nymphs with the expectation some of them will be sacrificed to the river. Euro nymphing is worth a try if more rational tactics fail. 

The Report 

My coolest moment of the day, and biggest snafu, came within five minutes of approaching the river. I had just pulled off and gone through the ritual process of setting up gear. Travel rods were put together, my leader was checked, tippet was tied, the flies were carefully selected, and after way too much bullshit here I was ready to put everything I knew to practice.

Scouting for bubble lines along the bank, I saw what looked to be an alpine rainbow sipping small white caddis out of a bubble line. My heart skipped a beat and started a soft thumping that made every sense heighten. After having spent so much time driving, preparing, checking baits, tying line, coordinating places to stay—here it was. Lazily eating lunch next to one of the most popular pull offs in Eagle and smack dab in my face, it’s almost melodic rocking back and fourth seemed otherworldly. 

“I’ll sneak behind its back and crab walk down. That way I can cast in front of him and see if they’re into the dry or wet flies today” I thought, somehow forgetting that my first cast of the day usually is way more Donnie Whalberg than Mark Whalberg. My line had a far higher chance of smacking the water, making a racket, and generally terrifying any salmonid creature that would otherwise be attracted to my bait, but hope springs eternal. 

I crouched down, I stalked close, I prepared to strip line—I noticed my reel was backwards. Murphy and his bastard law had struck again in the wake of my excitement, but at the end of the day it’s still better than patching drywall.

For more on my first big strike in Colorado, and a deep dive into Leadville’s “Arkansas” river, check again next week for Part 2.