A Shakedown on the Juan

March means the sanctioned trip to the Juan. A shake-down, really—full of nagging questions: Do I still know how to fish? Do I still remember how to tie a blood knot, or even a March, the sanctioned trip to the Juan. A shake-down trip with questions like: do I still know how to fish? Do I still know how to tie a blood knot—or even a double surgeon’s knot?

Winter had gone on far too long, and all the nearby water was still iced over. Plus, my attitude about trudging through snow to find the ice shelf in the sun for a few presentations had changed. Ten years ago, I would have done it—and did often—but now the thought seemed like a pain in the ass. Call me jaded or lazy; I’ll agree to both. The reality is things have changed. I now have another human wanting my attention—one whose age makes our interactions truly meaningful and impressionable.

Plus, someday my son and I will want to shake off winter together and do that trudge for the ice shelf. Then he can decide how long he wants to put up with it.

James and I met at our usual spot, rigged our rods, and geared up for San Juan Water Aerobics. There’s a lot of wading unless you float. We don’t float.

Intel had it rumored that the large flood gates would be opened soon, but no date was set. First look at the river? Too late. It had happened the night before. Shockingly, clarity wasn’t too bad for so much water—not gin-clear, but not chocolate milk either.

This is size 22-and-smaller midge land, so I set up a drop-shot leader with an indicator at the 24” mark. First sling up the pool, pause, second same as the first, and so on until delirium set in. James started getting antsy, muttering my exact thoughts… WTF!

Tethering our lines, we had to figure some things out. It was going to be a long weekend, and getting skunked was not the plan. We turned over rocks, skimmed the water. Usually, the Juan leaves a huge deposit of spent midges on your waders—a good sign of what the fish are eating. The bugs were there, the depth was right… still the same. WTF.

The first day was cardio with a dry net and a bad attitude. Over dinner, we brainstormed, beat ourselves up trying to read the situation. We overheard a guy mention green leeches up in the quality water—almost unheard of. We asked him; he was baffled too. After beers and debate, we agreed on a theory. Handshakes, hefty bar tab, and intent for the next day.

Morning came too early with heavy frost. Cold March morning, sunlight felt like eternity away. We sized up tippet, dug out green leeches, and put on indicators. Contradiction? Yes—but growth often is. Dead drifting leeches.

Are you still reading, or have you gone back to Euro-nymphing? “Brad, don’t Euro!”

With low visibility, high flow, and a river where fish usually look up, the only consistent food in the water column was algae—tons of algae loaded with nymphs clinging for life. Fish went after these green clumps, shaking the bugs out for a simple meal. In a river with a consistent food source, I observed lazy fish adapting—and so did we (insert lazy here if you know the Juan).

We skipped T Hole. I felt sorry for the guides desperately trying to get clients on fish, faces showing the lack of results, totally not their fault. T Hole looked like a parking lot of drift boats. One guy ash his cigarette, the boat next to him swatted at it—absurd. Constant yelling over the water about lack of etiquette. Sorry, dude, etiquette left the boat today. I don’t float the Juan. Anchored boats all day? Instagram fodder, not me. Catch a few and move on so others might experience it. I start to feel bad for the fish after a few in the same spot. Net one or two and move the fuck on—that’s the game.

It was different. Swinging leeches is fun, but keeping them in a dead drift felt odd. I wanted to tug the line, short or long pulls—but it worked. Strike seen, not felt. A zap of electricity. Dead drift leech produced. A pause, a twitch, sudden disappearance of the indicator—a rush. Better than being skunked and eroding self-esteem.

We fished that way the next few days and did well. I liked the browns’ takes better than the rainbows’, but that’s just preference.

Takeaway: just because it should be doesn’t mean it is. Felt like when I started fly fishing—anything goes, ignorance is bliss. Maybe I’m a blight on the fly fishing community, but this is the Rockies, not the East or across the pond. Get my drift?

Fish on.