Lemon Heads

October, autumn, golden aspens reveal jagged spruce, willow, and cottonwood already showing their change. Dampness hangs in the air, the sun’s warmth feels less everlasting, more appreciated as the days shorten—a sense of urgency settles in. Urgency that the green grass at my feet will soon be covered in white. Above 9,000 ft, the peaks already hint at what’s to come. And with the white comes the dark.

An anticipated time of predictions floated above me as I packed my gear. What rods, what reels, what line—floating or sinking? I went through fly boxes, editing for the game I sought. I snickered at my dry-fly box, specific for a certain river at a certain time. Oh, how I remember. Oh, how I wish. But I’m comforted by knowing I’ll be here eight months from now. Smile.

I was looking for streamers.

I’ve learned NOT to have a dedicated streamer box. Learned the hard way, leaving it in the truck or cabin only to be under-gunned when I really need the furry, feathery, flashy meatball to do the job. You can’t entice a predator with a pheasant tail.

My intel went quiet several months ago, and rather than pursue it, I went with intuition and knowledge of the situation. Timing is everything—conditions, temperature, flow, spawning habits. If one is off, there’s a delay. A delay only in the eyes of a hunter, not the hunted. The hunted have no clue and just go by a larger “clock” than the one we use. Putting myself in the prey’s world seems like a good deal. It happens when it happens. My grandfather’s wake comes to mind—my grandmother stood and said, “Time is man-made. It’s irrelevant to any other living thing on earth. We are the only creatures to subscribe.”

As I left the blacktop for the gravel, my heart skipped. First glance at the water in two years, and memories surged. This place is special. Mid-afternoon, water low. A grin wouldn’t leave my face as I drove north. Aspens electric gold, mist strung through upper ridges. Flat gray clouds amplified the red soil. I cracked the window, inhaled, filled my lungs with all that was familiar. Not a stranger here.

This was the intel mission—note the river, where the headwater met the lake. Low water, but the shelf was right there. Deep and deep fast at the junction. Interesting.

I parked way north. This was also the first time taking my son here, so father pride brewed. I put him in his favorite green rain jacket, suggested pants for the cool day. He disagreed. Three-year-olds know best.

We climbed down the rocky embankment to the meadow, following the game trail along the river. Water gin-clear, granite cobble vibrant in reds, blacks, whites. I paused. Memories hit me like a clap of thunder. Familiar trees, rocks, bushes—but this time shared with my son and wife.

At the river’s edge, I showed him how to skip rocks. Ker-plunk as they disappeared into moving water. He was amazed when I skipped a rock across to the other bank. “Do it again,” he said. We floated sticks like boats, wandered downriver. A truly good time.

Clouds thickened, drizzle began, breeze picked up. My son narrated every moment. Let that attitude never be jaded.

5 a.m. came fast. Weather report: heavy rain early, continuing through night. If I wanted fish, I needed early. Coffee chimed “done,” breakfast made, pack checked—granola bars stocked.

Turnout found, truck parked. First step met that smell: fresh mountain air, hint of rain, aspen leaves decaying—a dirt smell I like. Mental check-in: head, body. Today: “however long.”

I had a “shit-eaten grin” walking the trail. I knew what I was getting into, what might or might not happen, and I was game. Thoughts of the last time here surfaced—hooking a 34” brown on a 4wt with 6x wasn’t ideal, not planned, but executed enough to net, kiss, revive, and watch it swim away. Forever galvanized in my mind. Fish oblivious. Funny that way.

Superstitious, I avoid reliving experiences. Be present. Take it as it comes—or if it comes at all.

The walk isn’t hop-out-of-the-truck-to-water. About a mile. Lake bottom, ankle-deep mud, smells like lake mud. Sun not up, flies absent, still zero-dark-thirty.

Crossed the headwater, scouted glassy water, shelf in sight. Walking in dark is dodgy—soft bottom, ledges hidden. Beaver stick handy. Found one.

Took a minute. Geese, ravens waking, sound of headwater left, flat calm in front. Blue light before casting. Double haul practice—epic flubs.

First casts always questions: rig, depth, fly selection, who’s stirring. Fly hit water, counted, then mend. Nothing yet. A couple mends in—slam. Wake-up call. Spunky, deep water, no debris. Anticipated pause, didn’t come. Applied brakes, forced reprieve. Good run, fish finally near net.

First look: not what I expected. Kokanee—slight kipped jaw, silvery green. Early, hadn’t run or changed color. Fight worth it anyway.

Net pic, release. Pitched another squirrel leech, worked on double haul. Few browns and rainbows came after—conference booster. Rain settled, mind shifted to family. My son awake soon—I wanted to be there. But selfishly, one more Kokanee.

Wish granted a few casts later. Same take, same thrill. Son joined later, 5wt in hand, leech in water.

Fish on.