I Discovered the San Juan

I Discovered the San Juan

The Delaware River Owns My Soul, The San Juan Is Where You'll Find My Ass

One of the under reported joys of consulting is travel.  I travel to locations that are rarely on even the longest list of exotic locations, but I travel none the less.  In my field, I travel to places where people have been impacted by natural disasters, and do what I can to help them recover and plan for the next event. People, believe me, there is always a next event.  It’s not a bad gig and I have been to 38 of the 50 states and I get a good taste of the local culture.  I have learned to appreciate Shrimp and Grits in Orangeville TX, enjoyed beer with salt and olives in Fargo North Dakota, and I found poutine made with fresh cheese curds in Madison to be worth the pain induced by my lactose intolerance. 

Sometimes, I get lucky.

I did some work in Aztec New Mexico, which is a fine community not far from the Four Corners Region.  If you are really super curious about what I do, you can pop some popcorn and watch the video here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mksx0YBoz40 Yes that’s me, in Aztec, NM.

Like many communities, Aztec has had some flooding issues; unlike many communities, Aztec is just a New Mexico stone’s throw from the San Juan River. The River which I discovered on client visit, in all fairness the San Juan was discovered by someone else several thousand years ago, re discovered and renamed by someone else entirely several hundred years ago. (Our aboriginal Americans were not big on Roman Catholic Saints) The river runs from Colorado, is dammed a few times, joins the now tainted Animas River and then flows west.  None-the-less, I discovered the river for myself in the summer of 2016. 

The river is a tail water of the Navajo Lake and flows over cobblestone and limestone bedrock.  The water coming from the dam is a chilly 45 to 48 degrees year round and is tempered only slightly by the New Mexico sun. Due to outstanding water quality and abundant limestone, the river supports a ton of aquatic insects, and upward of 5000 trout per mile.  The braided tail water is beautiful with clear waters and green, beaver filled lowlands abutting red and white cliffs.  The overlooking cliffs protect this place from the outside world and channel the sounds of the river as it goes about its work cutting the canyon deeper.  The first few miles of the river downstream of the dam are “quality Waters” where a fly fisherman may cast for monster trout and then return the fish to a lax day of sipping bugs from the water column.

Some coworkers also discovered this river with me, and deserve due credit, but will not find it here.  I discovered the river. 

We had visited clients in the morning and found time to fish in the afternoon before taking the beautiful drive back to Albuquerque.  After a Blake’s green Chile cheeseburger (GCC) and the necessary prerequisite stop at the Local Fly Store, we found a place to park and prepare.  Unaware of what was ahead of us, my companions and I dressed in waders and gear in the parking lot.  We shared a few sips from a bottle as we tried to figure out the advice the fly shop proprietor gave us.  “How the hell do you tie two flies to the same leader?” Was the general frame of the conversation with more colorful language thrown in, as you might expect from grown men in plastic pants. 

Eventually decisions were made and we worked our way to the river trail. The canyon walls on our left and right dropped straight down and formed a small dry meadow. The river was masked by tall reeds and some small cottonwoods, maintained by the beavers.  In the span of a few hundred yards there were 3 distinct biomes. When we could see the water we were impressed by its size and quality.  The water clarity was so good you were fooled, water that looked ankle deep was knee deep, and we soon learned all of it held fish.

Once in the water I watched as my experienced companions began casting and working toward the far eddy seem.  A nearby pool was anchored to a small island by series of bounders which looked like excellent trout habitat.  After all, the trout we were used to catching hide in the stream banks in the middle of the day.  I kept my distance and watched, hoping to learn a thing or two.  I had yet to cast a fly rod and didn’t want my newbie bungling to ruin the water for others.  I stood mid-stream in a low riffle about shin deep. I chose this spot since it looked like no right minded fish would inhabit it, wide open, shallow and without an eddy. I stood and watched and began to make a few feeble casts, mirroring my friends. 

Promptly my back-cast caught the collar of my shirt. A gust of wind, timed perfectly, finished the job by tangling the now slack line around me and my equipment.  There I stood, mid-stream wrapped in fluorocarbon and hooked.  I spastically fumbled with my gear, clipped and retied the tippet, and generally floundered about. Flustered and slightly embarrassed, I became aware that there was a trout, a large trout, comfortably holding court in the wake my legs made in the current. I slowed the pace of my spasms hoping the submarine trout would stick around long enough to see what I had to offer. After all, this was no place for a trout of that size, it was broad daylight and I was by no means stealthy, he should be 4 miles from me, scared hiding.

Just as I finished recovering my composure, and retying the terminal tackle, I watched my submarine swerve left. I was stunned, as if he knew I was ready to fish, he turned and left my wake.  As I walked away, my feet disturbed the mossy bottom the submarine returned and began feeding on the benthic bugs I had kicked into the water column.  Completely unconcerned, he mouthed the moss and alternately sipped bugs from the surface and middle of the water column.  A few times his open mouth would breach the surface like the shark in jaws. Soon the fish was joined by others and they began to compete for the water closest to my feet. Lunging forward to eat the bugs, then darting to the side as a competitor approached, aggressively defending each space. I had never seen anything like this before and excitedly shouted to my companion….who likely had his own fleet of fish in his wake, but lacked the polarized glasses to see them.

I stood and watched the fish for some time, moving my feet just enough to keep the gravy train rolling for my aquatic friends.  Simply amazing to watch these fish, David Attenborough began a narration between my ears and I forgot for a while I was there to catch these beasts.  Reality set in and I realized I had an excellent laboratory at my feet.  I could drift fly after fly in font of these fish and see the fish react. I didn’t even have to cast, and moreover even if the fish didn’t strike it was an awesome thing to watch.

I grew up casting for trout on a small stream, worms, minnows, and eggs as bait.  I size 10 hook was as small as I was accustomed to.  When the guys at the fly shop handed me specks of dust in size 24 and smaller I was incredulous but bought them just the same.  To be safe I also bought some flies I could see, in case the local experts were jerking me around.  When I faced this fleet of submarines I could not believe that such a large fish would be interested in a fly I could barely see.  I drifted San Juan worms, Parachutes and even Wooly buggers at the fish and slowly worked my way to the smaller flies.  Eventually I reluctantly tied on the dust specks and hit pay dirt.  (I don’t remember the official name of the fly that worked, I called it cricket poop.) Sometimes it pays to actually listen to the old guys at the fly shop.

I saw the fish turn and flash in the sun before I noticed the strike indicator move. I yelled “Fish On” instinctively as soon as the fish was hooked.  Later learning this was an unnecessary foul for the quiet and dignified San Juan. The fish quickly left my wake and headed upstream, pulling drag, he jumped and turned and sulked for a short while before making his last run.  I worked the fish to shore before netting him for a few pictures.  A beautiful Rainbow trout hooked just barely in the corner of his mouth.  I didn’t measure him but I think he was about 12 inches long and fat.  As I write this the perma-grin returns.  He was not a large fish but beautiful in a beautiful stream.  You always remember your first; today the second fish was even bigger.  Caught and released in the same manner.

I showed my fishing companions the fly I used and gave them the spot in the stream.  

I left satisfied.  The river now calls me.  I have since learned the fish I caught are not remarkable by San Juan standards. I know all days on the river aren’t this perfect, I know that eventually casting technique and experience will need to be honed.  But for now, memories of the 2 San Juan Rainbow trout I caught that day, in perfect conditions, under a beautiful sky, is all I need.