Lemon Heads

October—autumn—golden aspen reveal jagged spruce, willow, and cottonwood already showing their change. Dampness hangs in the air. The sun’s warmth seems not so everlasting and much more appreciated as the days are noticeably shorter, which gives me a sense of urgency. Urgency that the green grass at my feet will soon be covered in white. Above 9,000 ft, the peaks already show what’s to come. And with the white comes the dark.

An anticipated time of predictions was lofting above my head as I packed my gear. What rods and what reels, what line—floating or sinking. Going through fly boxes, editing for the game I seek. I snickered at my dry-fly box specific to a certain river for a certain time. Oh, how I remember, and oh, how I wish—but I’m also comforted by the thought that I’ll be there eight months from now. Future. Smile.

I was looking for streamers.

I’ve learned not to have a dedicated box for streamers. I learned the hard way by leaving that certain box in the truck or cabin, only to be under-gunned when I really needed 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 my intuition and my knowledge of this unique situation. I know it’s always about timing, which is about conditions—which include many factors like temperature, flow, and spawning habits. And if one is off, there is a delay. A delay only in the eyes of the hunter, not the hunted. The hunted have no clue about anything else and operate on a much larger “clock” than the one hunters use. Putting myself in the prey’s world seems like not a bad deal. It happens when it happens. At my grandfather’s wake, my grandmother stood up and said, “Time is man-made. It is irrelevant to any other living thing on earth. We are the only creatures to subscribe.”

As I left the blacktop to meet the gravel, my heart skipped a beat. This was the first glimpse of the water I’d had, and I realized it had been two years since I’d seen this place. I have a history with this area. It’s truly special to me for numerous reasons, going back what seems like a lifetime ago.

It was mid-afternoon, and the water was low. I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face as I drove north. The aspens were electric gold, and mist hung along the upper ridges on both the east and west sides. A flat gray cloud cover amplified the red soil. I cracked the window and let the wind hit my face. I inhaled deeply, filling my lungs with everything familiar, and I didn’t feel like a stranger at all.

This was an intel mission, so noting the river and where the headwater met the lake was a priority—and wow, it was low. I’d never fished it this low before, but I knew where the shelf was, and it was right there. It gets deep fast at the junction, so this would be interesting.

I parked well north of the area. I had other plans while I was there as well. This was the first time bringing my son here, so my fatherly pride was definitely brewing. I put him in his favorite green rain jacket and tried to explain that his shorts might be a bit cool for the day. He disagreed and rejected the pants I tried to entice him with. So be it—I guess a three-year-old knows best.

We climbed out of the truck and headed down the rocky embankment into the meadow, following a game trail along the river. The water was gin-clear, and the granite cobble vibrated in reds, blacks, and whites. I stared for a moment, and like a clap of thunder overhead, every memory came down on me at once. It was the familiarity of every tree, every rock outcropping, every bush—but this time shared with my son and my wife.

We ventured to the river’s edge, and that’s where I showed my son how to skip rocks. He loved the ker-plunk of his rocks disappearing into the moving water but was in disbelief when I skipped one across the river to the opposite gravel bank.“Do it again,” he said.

So I dug around and found one for him to try. Ker-plunk it went, but he didn’t seem to mind. We wandered farther downstream, floating sticks like boats being cast offshore. It was truly a good time.

The clouds thickened and ushered in a drizzle. The breeze picked up as we neared the truck. My son loved every moment and narrated each second as he experienced it. May that attitude never be jaded.

5 a.m. came fast. The latest weather report projected heavy rain early in the day and continuing through the night. If I was going to get any fishing in, it had to be early. The coffee pot chimed “done” as I made breakfast and checked my pack for enough granola bars to hold me over for however long I’d be out there.

I found my turnout and parked. My first step out of the truck was met with that smell in the air—fresh, cool mountain air with a hint of rain and aspen leaves starting to expire. A kind of earthy smell that I like. I started my walk in and felt good, doing a mental check-in on my head and body. It was going to be a “however long” day, and I didn’t want any spoils.

I admit I had a shit-eating grin as I walked the trail, and I knew it. I knew what I was getting into, what might—or might not—happen, and I was game for all of it. I did think about the last time I was here and the circumstances and outcome. Hooking into a 34-inch brown on a 4wt with 6x wasn’t ideal and certainly wasn’t planned, but it was executed well enough to net, beach, kiss, revive, and watch that hog swim away like nothing ever happened. Galvanized in my mind forever—and probably forgotten instantly by the fish. Funny that way: one critter’s horror and disbelief, another’s joy for a lifetime. Ponder that. I still am.

Still, I’m a bit superstitious in that way. I try not to relive or even think about those experiences when heading out on another trip. I try to stay present and take it as it comes—or if it comes at all.

The walk in isn’t a simple hop out of the truck and into the water. It’s a commitment—about a mile. A mile of lake bottom and ankle-deep mud that smells like, well, lake mud. Lucky for me, the sun wasn’t even close to coming up yet, so the flies weren’t out. Still about zero-dark-thirty.

I crossed the headwater and scouted the glassy water as best I could on my way to the mouth. The shelf I was hoping for was there. Walking out in the dark is a bit dodgy—the bottom is soft, and that ledge gives no warning. This is where a beaver stick comes in handy, and yes, I remembered to grab one on the way out.

Once I found my spot, I took a moment to take it all in. Geese and ravens waking up in the distance. The sound of the headwater off to my left and the flat calm in front of me. It was blue light when I started stripping line. It had been a while since I’d had room for a proper double haul, so what better time to practice—epic flubs included.

The first few casts are always about questions. Questions about the rig. About depth and fly selection. About who might be stirring—and the best one—where they might be.

After the fly hit the water, I started counting before mending. Nothing had broken the surface yet, so everyone was down below. It didn’t take long to find the party. A couple of mends in and—slam. A wake-up call while trying to get the fish on the reel. Spunky, so I let him run. Deep water without debris or structure, so the game was on.

I kept anticipating the pause—my cue to gain line—but it didn’t come. So I applied the brakes, forcing at least a reprieve. After a strong run into deep water, I’d had enough. I committed, and the fish finally came close enough for the net. When I got my first look, I didn’t recognize the species. I was expecting a rainbow or a brown, but it was a kokanee—slightly kyped jaw, still silvery green. I was early. The kokanee hadn’t even begun their run or color change yet. After a fight like that, I didn’t care if the big hogs trailing the spawn were still deep and waiting.

I had to snap a net photo before releasing the torpedo back into its domain. Perplexed but fully committed, I hoped more would indulge me. I pitched out another squirrel leech and worked on tightening up my double haul.

A few browns and rainbows came to the net after—always a confidence booster. The rain settled in, and I felt the pull of family. My mind shifted from hunter to father. They’d be awake by now, and I wanted to be there, too. But selfishly—not without one more kokanee.

My wish came true a few casts later. Same kind of take, same kind of fight, same thrill that never gets old.

To my surprise, my family headed out early to meet me. It was the perfect chance to put my 5wt in my son’s hands, a leech in the water.

Fish on—