The Luckiest Man Alive

By
George Oliver Rogers
They say it is better to be lucky than good. Sometimes it is clear
that I am a perfect example of that sentiment I have a great life, a
wonderful loving spouse, friends and family, and blessings too numerous
to elaborate. I truly have a lot for which to be thankful. Just how lucky I
am was brought home in spades on a recent fishing trip on the Cache la
Poudre. To begin with the Poudre is designated a National Wild and Scenic
River by the National Parks Service. It has also been set aside by the
Colorado Division of Wildlife as Wild Trout Water, which can mean over
fished, but in this case means a healthy fishery of native Brown,
Cutthroat, Brook, and Rainbow trout.
I had been fishing for several days on the Cache la Poudre. For the
first few days of the trip I fished the lower part of the river along the
Poudre Canyon Highway out of Fort Collins. On these first days I had
been anxious to get my line wet and fished a stretch of pools that
present themselves just after the Poudre Canyon Highway crosses the
river to the south side, at about 5300 feet elevation. This sweet little
string of pools and rapids are home to a number of Browns and a few
Rainbow. If you get on the river early enough or late enough in the day,
the fishing can be quite good. The only down side of this stretch of river
is that it also serves numerous tubers and kayakers. The tubers and
kayakers are generally courteous and friendly, but they disturb the water
nonetheless, not to mention my tranquil emersion in a truly sterling
example of nature. Each day I used the arrival of the first tubers as a sign
that the morning fish was over. A drive back into town or a lunch, a little
birding and nap can easily fill the time until the sun leaves the canyon, and
cool water drives the tubers out of the water and the fish settle down for
a significant evening rise.
On this particular day I got a late start, probably due to excessive
amounts of food and drink consumed the evening before or some innate
laziness associated with being on vacation. Given the late start, I decided
to explore the fishing a bit further up river. I drove up the canyon
highway until suddenly the road separates significantly from the river and
the canyon broadens out into a high altitude mountain meadow at about
7000 feet. Not wanting to be too far away from the river I quickly turned
around and headed back to the comfort of the canyon. Not wanting to
tread on private land I did not want to traipse across land with cabins

nearby, but as I was heading back down river I noticed a turn out and a
trail across the meadow. So I decided to stop and feed my adventurous
spirit.
I walked over to the river to determine the extent and nature of
fishing at this part of the river. I noticed a couple of nice deep pools with
some swifter water in between. The water was deep and swift so there
would be no wading, but there are a couple of nice rocks and no people to
disturb my fishing (or pull me out if I fell in and got in trouble). I decided
it best to stay out of the water.
Back at the car I decided to leave my waders, no point in tempting
fate, and just take my vest including a water bottle, flies and tippet, and
rod. The short walk to the river was rewarded with a vacant stretch of
river that would not be impacted by alternative uses. As I arrived at the
first pool I noticed a Brown trout rolling on the far side of the river in the
slack water. It reminded me of the evening before when I was
approaching the end of fishing. A Banded Kingfisher was sitting just
above an eddy, eating cadis that happened to float on the surface like
candy. I watched for a few minutes and the grace and beauty of the bird,
first one and then another. Suddenly I realized, he is eating cadis off the
surface. I quickly tied on a #16 Elk Hair Cadis I had tied for the trip. The
cast was a bit tricky, not so much in getting the fly to land in the right
spot, but holding it there across the swiftest water without going for a
swim presented mending issues. I finally made the right cast and got the
mend to hold I there among the back eddies and it was rewarded with a
nice, but small rainbow taking the treat. The skunk smell finally left the
air and darkness seemed to come all to quickly. That elk hair cadis had
been luck for me the night before, why not try it a few times this
morning? On the third cast the Brown turned on it, probably more to bat
it away than to take it, but it got my attention!
I spent the next twenty minutes trying various approaches and flies
to turn that initial roll into a catch and release. Suffice it to say in the
first half hour I had the smell of fish on my hands and the air was
somehow fresher. But the initial rise was over so I started to experiment
with a variety of small Prince nymphs, Pheasant Tails and Zugs. On about
the third fly change I was running short on tippet so the change required
a bit deeper dig into my vest, which was by now laying on a rock. Who
knew how warm it could get when your feet were not in snowmelt water.
In the deeper search for a pattern to attract some attention I brought out
the box of steelhead flies left in my vest from the prior falls expedition
on the Rogue River. As I finished tying on the fly I saw a Brown roll near

the surface in the pool just a short cast away over relatively calm water.
In my rush to make my next attempt I failed to notice my stripped line
was wrapped around my steelhead fly box. Along with an artful cast to
the exact place in the ripple just above where I had seen the Brown roll,
my steelhead-flies launched themselves into the middle of the deepest
most swift current just out of reach. I quickly retrieved the line and made
two attempts to hook the wayward fly box-- to no avail. I ran down river,
leaving my rod and gear behind like scattered debris behind an open
garbage truck. Unfortunately the river is deep and the current quickly
took the errant fly box out of sight.
Dejected, I walked back to my gear kicking myself for being so
dumb. But no point in sawing sawdust, that ship had sailed. May as well
fish a bit and try that now coveted fly I just tied on. The fly soon began
to produce strikes and the lost fly box submerged in my thoughts almost
as fast as it had in the river. But still it haunted me. How could I be so
dumb as to even bring that box to this river? There certainly are no
steelhead in the Poudre! And the hooks were probably too big for most
trout to even attempt. What would I tell my dear friend Joe who had
given me the patterns for several great steelhead flies, including a Royal
Coachman, which I figured I could find a pattern for, a Black Hackled
Peacock with a red tail, a Prince Soft Hackle Flashback tied with Grey
Squirrel hair, and an Obs Special that includes parts of several flies that a
mutual friend of ours found to produce well over the years. All now lost
to my ultra-stupidity. Another strike or two and the fishing of the
moment overcame the dejection of my own errant ways.
After catching a few Browns, the pain was beginning to subside
when an afternoon thunderstorm rolled in. Having left my rain jacket in
the car, which was now about a half mile away, I figured I had two
choices, I could either get ready to hunker down and ride out the storm,
or I could high-tail it to the car and hope to cross the high mountain
meadow with a nine-foot graphite lightning rod (by Sage) in my hand and
hope to get there before the storm arrived. Lucky for me I made it to the
car with at least a minute to spare before the sky opened up and it
poured. I laid the vest in the trunk and broke the rod into two more or
less equal parts (full disassembly would have to wait) and laid it on the
vest. I jumped into the drivers seat as the rain began to beat on the roof
of the rental car. I sat there secure in the thought that I could eat my
lunch, which consisted of a single golden delicious apple I had left on the
passenger seat, and easily ride out the storm.

I sat there eating my apple and my thoughts quickly turned back to

the fly box. How would I re-create the patterns my friend Joe had so
generously shared with me? How could I possibly explain to a true
sportsman like Joe how completely stupid I had been to even take that
box to the river? Just how stupid could I be? It was a rhetorical question
that did little for my ego or my image of myself as a fly fisherman. The
rain continued for a while and my efforts to nap evaded me as my
thoughts kept turning back to lost fly box. Spilt milk! I decided to head
back to town and call it a day, but as I turned the car around and headed
down river I decided that perhaps I would stop at the first sign of a
fishermen down stream and ask if they had by chance seen a fly box
floating down the river. It would be awkward, but I was not likely to see
any of them again so I really did not have much to loose beyond some
momentary dignity. So I drove down into the canyon, but found no
fishermen for quite some time. Having traveled three miles, now four and
then nearly five miles down stream, just as I was beginning to reach the
conclusion that it was pointless to stop, a fishermans car appeared.
Okay parking was on my side of the road; stopping would be easy; why
not.
As I stopped and got out of the car, three cars passed in the
opposite direction. I crossed the road and stood on the thin strip
between the road and the river. An elderly gentleman was fishing just
down stream from me. He was wearing old-fashioned hip waders and had
his back to me. I was certain that between the river and the cars on the
road he could not hear me and remained unaware of my presence. How
could I approach him without scaring him? The last thing I would want is
for him to loose his balance an fall in the river. How could I approach
without getting hooked by his back cast? I stalled for as long as I could,
probably to protect my ego from the surefire grin that would cross his
face. Suddenly, a movement in the river beside me attracted my
attention. There it was! My fly box floating down the river! I jumped onto
the road and ran downriver to a logjam at the lower edge of the deep
holes the gentleman was fishing, probably 200 feet below him. I carefully
picked my way out on the logjam, being aware of the potential danger
such structures can bear. Alas it was gone again. Where could it have
gone? I jumped down and searched the downriver side of the logjam; it
had not come through. I got back up on the logjam and began to search
down the front side of the structure, foot-by-foot, inch-by-inch. As I
reached the area of strongest current, there it was about six inches deep
stuck on a log. I reached down at full stretch, and pulled it to safety. All

the flies were wet but in tact. As I made my way back to the car I
noticed the elderly gentleman was back at his car too. We made simple
conversation and talked of the fish we had caught, and the big ones that
got away. There was that one awkward moment when he asked me if I
saw that guy running down the road. Safe and secure in knowledge that
I am the luckiest man alive, I simply responded honestly, Nope, I didnt
see that.