Rivers and Mountains

[Phil Lilley]

Rivers and Mountains

By Ken Morrow. 2007.

What is it about a small stream tucked inside a canyon high in the Rocky Mountains that can fool me into thinking no other man has even had the good fortune to experience it before? Why I am I compelled to use the word “experience” instead of “see” when I ask that question? Why do the mountains make me feel smaller and less significant in the universe? But most importantly, why does this diminishing of ego make me feel so much more alive and at peace with my own existence? Rivers and mountains have always held the mystical elixir which heals my soul.

I honestly do not know if it is the rareness of the air or the awesome majesty of the dramatic landscape; whether it might be the smell of the fresh breeze picking up the scent of the evergreens and carrying it to me to sample; or if it is just the stunning vastness of it all that both melts the tension from my body like warm water melts ice from a windshield and simultaneously charges my consciousness with freshly animated enthusiasm. I have pondered these things many times over the years since I first visited The Rockies, and I have never gotten any closer to singling out the answer. I have grown content to believe that it is the special combination of all of these things which is unique to the Southern Rockies of Southern Colorado and Northern New Mexico that beckons me like the siren’s song calls to the seaman and remakes me again and again just as the sea does for those born to sail her waters. It is there among the rugged peaks and canyon streams with the smell of smoldering pinon in my nostrils that I feel most alive and most at home…even though I have never lived there. So it was with great anticipation that I drove into Colorado from the Southeast out of the Oklahoma panhandle early in the morning of the next to last day of September.

We were heading up to Lake City, Colorado, just in time for the end of the tourist season and beginning of the Brown Trout run in the Lake Fork of the Gunnison. Perfect timing. Along the way, we marveled at the brilliant fall colors in La Veta Pass west of Walsenburg. There was already some early snow on the peaks. And the vibrancy and array of bold colors on the dramatic mountain slopes contrasting against a bright blue sky was breathtaking. I was excited about showing these sights to my wife for the first time as I was about seeing them again myself.

As our old Mitsubishi Montero carried us westward along the US highway, we watched the San Luis Valley and the Sangre de Cristo mountain range rise along the perimeter of this vast agricultural plain to form a magical horizon. When we pulled in to Southfork, we needed to stop for gas before turning north on CO149. The Rio Grande flows through the small town of Southfork, which has grown into quite the fly-fishing Mecca over the past decade. From the gas station on the highway, I could see a brand new fly shop in a log building across the highway. My wife noticed me spying the shop over the hood of the Montero and asked me I wanted to stop by there before we drove north. I smiled as we went into the gas station to pay. We drove across the street to find the shop closed with a sign in the door that said “Gone Fishing.” So we pointed the SUV northward and upward toward Creede.

The stretch of CO149 from Southfork to Creede runs right along the bank of the Rio Grande. It is truly one of the most beautiful stretches of road in the United States. In my mind, it rivals the Pacific Coast Highway from Monterey to San Luis Obispo. We only saw a few fly fishermen out plying the waters for Browns in the afternoon sun. This was a good sign. In the peak of season, the public accesses along this stretch of highway can get a bit on the busy side. Apparently, most of the tourists were already gone. But the trout were still there. I just knew it.

The other side of Creede, the highway begins to climb inexorably into one of the highest mountain passes in Colorado at about 13,000 feet above sea level. Pack horse outfits and dude ranches have popped up like mushrooms around Creede, especially to the north of town toward the high plains between the valley and the pass. Creede is famous for guest ranches and a nationally acclaimed repertoire theater company.

On top of the pass, the snow was deeper and not so patchy. But the roads were clear and the snow was melting. This is one of those passes where you really do have to be out by mid-October if you want to get out before the following May. And this fact keeps our destination small and off the beaten track. We paused near the top at a scenic overlook of the headwaters of the Rio Grande to take some pictures. And then we began our descent into the tiny tourist town of Lake City.

Lake City sits in a small valley at about 7,000 feet above sea level, surrounded by soaring mountain peaks so close that you can watch the wildlife scampering around near the summits. The town still has the appearance, layout, and tone of a silver rush town in the nineteenth century. Really only the vehicles, stop signs, and lighted business signage tells you that you haven’t just found the land that time forgot. About one third of the way from the edge of town to our destination at the center of town, we had to stop to allow a herd of mule deer to cross the road near the creek that runs through the center of town near its confluence with the Lake Fork of the Gunnison. My city-born European wife was delighted and amazed. She had been counting Pronghorns from the Oklahoma panhandle across southeastern Colorado. But a herd of mule deer three feet in front of the grill of our SUV was almost more than she could bear. Bear? I’ll come back to that in a minute.

When I first visited Lake City as a boy, the population of the largest town in the most sparsely populated county in America was about 300 people. The city limit sign informed me that had not changed in over two decades. But as we checked into the Town Square Cabins, I learned that Lake City now had two types of residents: full-time residents and season residents. The seasonal residents doubled the population of the town from May through September. Most owned second homes along the river or small high mountain ranches they used as summer retreats. Some of these folks even owned several tourist-related businesses in the community. There were far more restaurants and shops open nowadays than there had been some twenty-five years earlier on my last trip.

We had our run of the place. We picked a one bedroom cabin with a kitchen for $49 per night. Driving around to park right outside of our cabin, I pointed out the two cabins I had stayed in here as a boy. And that’s when it happened. My wife was looking through the papers we received at check-in. And one of them was a bear warning.

“There are bears here! You didn’t tell me they had bears!” she exclaimed.

I laughed, and asked, “Oh, I didn’t mention that?”

“No, I would have remembered something like that, honey. You definitely didn’t mention any bears running around town! This says we have to keep our doors and windows locked and not to leave any food in the car.”

I smiled and said as calmly as I could, “That’s right. And if we do those things, you have nothing to worry about. The bears are just curious and looking for food that they smell. They have very good noses. So you don’t want to leave any food, soaps, or perfume-smelling stuff unattended. They will wreck a car or a home trying to get to it. But you do NOT have to worry about being attacked by a bear.”

That seemed to make sense and be okay with her. As we unloaded the Montero she asked, “So, do you think we might get to SEE a bear?”

I told her that it was unlikely, but possible. And she seemed to calm down and get about the business of unpacking for our stay.

Our cabin was very cozy and had all of the conveniences we would want for the long weekend we planned to spend in Lake City. The plan was for her to photograph nature and the town’s nineteenth century architecture while I stalked the banks of the high mountain streams for wild trout. We had our trusty, faithful Weimaraner with us. And he was just happy to be out of the back of the truck. Smoky Joe loves to travel, but two days of hard driving had him ready to stretch his legs on Terra Firma before settling down for a nap on something soft that didn’t vibrate or bounce. We got unpacked in time for dinner.

We freshened up and headed out on foot (you don’t need to drive anywhere in an Old West town of 300 people) for an Italian restaurant of good repute just down the street. A&A Pasta Factory is owned and operated by an Italian immigrant who specializes in northern Italian peasant dishes. Perfect! We are both huge fans of that regional cuisine. And the restaurant lived up to expectations. The proprietor, Angelo, picked a very nice red wine to compliment our meal. The weak spot in the meal was definitely the dessert. He drowned the made-from-scratch Tira Misu in Frangelica. The alcohol was overpowering. But the Canoli I ordered for dessert was the best I have ever had. Restaurant prices in Lake City are high. If you plan a trip up there, you need to take that into consideration. Eating out twice a day for two will cost you at least $100 per day. This one meal cost us that much with wine and dessert. At the end of September, just about the only choices for eateries left in town are that pricey. It is a long trip by truck from the nearest meaningful airport up to Lake City. And it is very slow going for an eighteen wheeler. Grocery prices reflect this logistical reality of life in Hinsdale County.

The Town Square Cabins consists of several cabins that will sleep dozens of people in the aggregate and a gas station and convenience store. It is located on about a half acre parcel right on the corner of the city park and CO149 – right in the heart of town. The cabins are ancient little log structures complete with uneven floors and flower boxes on the window sills. They are always very clean and fully functional. And they are very economically priced. Management is entirely a family affair. And they go out of their way to make your stay with them pleasant. And bears in the middle of town actually are very rare.

We turned in early, succumbing to the rarified air and the long journey. And the next morning we headed down the street to the Lake City Bakery, a small Czech bakery on the southern end of town on CO149. Then we trekked back through town to the Mocha Moose coffee house for coffee and high-speed Internet. The last time I was in Lake City they had one AM radio station and no television. Now they had a coffee house with high-speed Internet! Some progress truly is a good thing. I had already corresponded with the the owner of Dan’s Fly Shop. So I knew better than to fish before 11 AM. For me, that’s perfect. I like lazy mornings and fishing from noon until dusk…especially on vacation.

Next, I headed down to Dan’s Fly Shop, which is not far from the bakery. But nothing except for the bakery in Lake City opens until about 10 AM. And I do mean “about.” Regardless of what the signs say, you can give or take an hour either way. I spent some time getting my bearings on the maps of the local streams they provided and discussing fly patterns and tactics for this time of year. I bought a new hat and rented some hip boots because chest waders are unnecessary. And afternoon temperatures were still climbing to near 80 degrees for a few hours. Well, that and they were only $5 per day. I also purchased a few dry flies that are highly recommended for those streams and that I do not tie myself. And then I headed out in search of wild high-mountain trout!

I fished that afternoon north of town about ten minutes up CO149 in a narrow canyon through which runs the Lake Fork of the Gunnison. All afternoon, I heard exactly three cars and one big truck go by on the highway and saw two couples who were fly-fishing. This was exactly what I had driven across three states for! I caught one Rainbow about fourteen inches long on size 16 Pheasant Tail Nymph drifted through a deep cut of a bend below a cliff face that just had to hold fish. And I landed one Brown that measured 16” about 300 yards downstream from there in a swirling deep pocket among boulders. In that same hole, I later hooked a monster of a Brown that I simply could not get out of the current on 5X tippet. He broke me off on a large rock. Every experience of that day is burned into my memory. It was the stuff great stories are made of.

One of the great things about fishing these high mountain freestone rivers is that you often have to walk almost a mile between stretches of holding water. You get a lot of good exercise. But the walking is fairly easy when compared to walking streams in the Ozarks, Smokies, or Adirondacks further east. There are no old fences to cross, trafficked roadways to walk down the edges of, or No Trespassing signs interrupting public access. Well, there are a few of the latter these days, but not many. Fly-fishing for trout in the Rockies is more like bird hunting than it is like fishing in the Midwest or South. You walk and walk until you find game-holding habitat. Then you hunt/fish that piece of habitat until you catch a fish. If you’re lucky, you might catch two. But then you need to move on and find another spot because any fish still holding there are now put down. They simply won’t bite for the next half hour or so. So the quest for undisturbed fish continues. It is fly-fishing for trout in its purest form. I returned home just after dark sunburned, tired, and completely satisfied.

That night we ate at a Steakhouse right across from our cabin off of the city park. Again, it was a very good meal, but pretty pricey. We decided to forego the wine to save some money. I think we passed on dessert that night also, but that wasn’t about budgets. We then walked around the corner to a little joint called Mammy’s Whiskey Bar. We had been told that this was “the local joint.” We walked in and ordered drinks. My standard is bourbon and coke. We sat down at an open table and immediately noticed a No Smoking sign on each booth. Uh-oh! I’m sorry, but I just can’t relax with a bourbon in a place called Mammy’s Whiskey Bar without a cigarette. It’s just not possible. We actually found it funny. The bartender asked if we wanted another drink and I explained, after consulting my better half who also smokes, that we just couldn’t deal with the no smoking thing. Everyone in the bar piped up and said they completely agreed with us, but they explained that the good folks of Denver and Aspen had passed a new state law that made it illegal to even smoke within 20’ or so of a DOOR to any establishment that sells food…at all…of any kind…at any time of day. In fact, if you smoke and head for Colorado, take your tobacco products with you! We could not find Marlboro Medium 100’s anywhere in Colorado. Cigarettes period were hard to locate and very expensive. As the Colorado old-timers say, “Too many Californians have moved here and turned Colorado into what they left behind in California.”

The next morning, we just headed back to the Mocha Moose. In the course of our conversations with locals that morning, we became aware of the local political and economic tension Lake City is now grappling with. Growing pains. It seems that a bunch of religious conservatives have moved into town and are trying to turn the place into a Puritanical retreat. Historically, the residents of Lake City are mostly frontiersmen, hippies, and bikers. And they aren’t taking to well to the constant litany of religiously-motivated proposed city ordinances, or to the active recruitment of other outsiders to move into Lake City to stack the vote. I found this very interesting in light of all of the subtle remarks and conversations we had already overheard. In a very small town, very small things are extremely noticeable. But it certainly wasn’t an oppressive or intrusive political atmosphere in the town. It was merely a subtle subtext we had been clued in to because we of the types of questions we were asking and conversations we were having.

That afternoon, my wife decided to come with me up to Capitol City, a sort of state park type of area up the Alpine Loop at about 12,000 feet. It is a weird little place with an interesting history at the end of a road that runs through a couple of old silver mines. This is the headwaters of Henson Creek – the creek along which the mule deer had crossed in front of us as we entered town. A huge waterfall cascades out of the side of a gigantic mountain and creates a small stream that meanders into a high mountain meadow. These meanders were dammed by beavers, and small beaver ponds were formed in a chain across the meadow. Living in these ponds are native Brookies! In the fall, they simply cannot resist a size 12 brown Parachute Adams. They hit it as soon as it drops to the surface of the water. If they haven’t risen to it within 15-20 seconds, it’s time to cast again because the fish you were casting to have moved on. The ponds are small enough that a modest caster like me can stand back from the edge and cast all the way across them. And the water is gin-clear and almost still. Finesse is key here. But the reward of native trout at 13,000 feet above sea level in the most sparsely populated county in the US is worth the effort. The entire afternoon that I played with those Brookies, I never heard an airplane, a vehicle, or another human voice. There are a few millionaires’ fishing cabins up there now, but their inhabitants were already gone for the season. These homes have to generate their own power and are environmentally self-contained. There isn’t so much as a power or phone line within ten miles of the place. And the road is gravel. The only things you hear are the water, the wind in the Aspens and Pines, and your fly line. It is, to me, fly-fishing Heaven. Those trout are very quick. And they are smaller than the fish I’m used to catching. A 2wt would be fine and only my choice because of the wind. The first few fish I hooked I was too heavy-handed with on my 4wt and didn’t get them landed. I caught one Brookie that was just over 12” long. The rest ranged from 6” to 8” in length. But, honestly, size was completely irrelevant. That glorious afternoon was all about experiencing raw nature as God had made it. It was a day I will not soon forget. Nor will I wait another twenty years to experience another like it.

That night, we discovered that all of the restaurants except the two we had already eaten at were closed for the season. There were only two places in town other than those two where we could get food: the grocery store and the convenience store at our cabins. The owner of our cabins was going to start serving breakfast the next morning for the hunters in town. She did it because there was a demand for it and no one else would step up to take care of the hunters. So we decided to leave the next morning and head south for Taos, New Mexico, and the Fall Arts Festival. This stop on our journey had been primarily for me. The next leg belonged to my beloved wife.

This is me on the porch of Dan’s Fly Shop Sunday morning just before leaving town. I had just returned the hip waders I had rented from them for the weekend. The place was closed. Notice the rental rods hanging outside on the porch with no one around? That is typical in Lake City. Everyone sees everything and nobody is worried much about crime. It is a wonderful trip back to a kinder, simpler time in American life. And Dan’s Fly Shop is as good as they get.

[SilverMallard]

That last pic on the bottom is of me and the dog scouting Henson Creek at Capitol City. The creek flows from right to left through the picture behind that line of brush in the background. I am standing in the meadow I described in the article. The beaver ponds were behind me and to the left edge of the photo.

[ozark trout fisher]

I know this is way after the fact, but great writing.

[KCRIVERRAT]

Enjoyed your article Silver Mallard. Spent time in Lake City six years ago and the area is absolutely beautiful. Fished Henson Cr. and the Lake Fork before it runs into Lake San Cristabol. I've since found out I have a second cousin who owns and operates a restaurant there but I can't remember the name. Wife and I are going back in '09. Again, thanks for the story and pics...