Quiet Pecos

Funny to look back at the last several years and take note of where I’ve fished. Some rivers I’ve fished more than others. Some I’ve blown off, while others came back as mainstays. Just like the rivers I’ve gotten to know and witnessed their subtle changes, I also admit to witnessing myself going through changes—or better, realizing them in past tense.

I had to go up a size in boots this year or last. Can’t remember exactly when. Was it age, feet spreading out? Or toenail fungus that has totally messed up my feet? Note: no one ever told me to put socks on under wading boots. I figured, neoprene booties built in—why socks? Weird. Never wore underwear under my wetsuit… same same.

A year of sockless, sweaty feet fishing 3–4 days a week gave me wicked athlete’s foot. I thought my waders were leaking. The amount of liquid pouring out of the feet suggested so—until I realized it was sweat, foot juice, and my poor hooves had been marinading. That went to my nails… self-explanatory, just think “snail shell.”

There are several miles of the Pecos River that are very fishy. Elevation and stocking play a role, as do more remote sections that require a good hike, yielding wild browns and occasionally the state fish, NM Cutthroat, to a nice dry-fly presentation. Popular river, some bait, mostly catch-and-release sections—thankfully. Locals could pound this water into scarcity if not monitored.

In my exploration, I’ve found a sweet little area that suits me well now. More seclusion, more hike, more remote, quieter. Rumors of a cinnamon-colored black bear—only fresh scat so far, no nose-to-nose encounters yet. Alarmed by rutting elk just beyond the willows, snorting, clashing racks, bugling up close. I think it’s my kind of place.

Strangely, I’ve started catching what I think are the same fish. The usual spots produce every time, larger than random catches elsewhere. First time I caught Dave, I was fishing just down from a tasty run I put a client on. Talking up the technique of dead-drifting the short run, helping him feel different depths and currents. I set up in the tailout, keeping an eye to correct when needed.

Rain a few days prior meant fish would be in the runs feeding on fresh bugs. My client hooked a nice pan-sized brown from the far side. We netted, snapped a pic, handshake, then back to the run. He hadn’t beaten the water to a froth yet—I wanted him to get his drift down with confidence.

Then—plop! At the top of the pool, start of the tailout… SLAM! My 3wt arced like maxed out, reel didn’t move. Drifted here before, no terminal structure I recall. Glanced at my client—he was fine, in his own world, working a dead drift. Dipped rod tip, fish woke from sulk, stayed low in the pool. I backed up to a sandbar. Client caught wind, a little guilt as he cursed at the 3wt. Good—he was into it.

Narrated my moves, intended to hand over the rod, but sandbar and lack of confidence kept him observing. After netting, he got the net for release—grin infectious.

Months later, same place, recon for upcoming guided trip and solo fishing. Tailout again. Two drifts through the sweet section, 3wt back in that stressed-out bow. Same fight, success at net. Smirked, thought, “Well, just maybe the same fish.”

Autumn revealed itself on the river. Cottonwoods electric gold, vines bright crimson, grass green, sky gray. Nippy air kept us moving. Client was a beginner, mastering the 5-yard hurl and plop. Rain again—fish in the runs. Morning successful, confidence boosted.

Then we came to the spot. Pool below tailout, easy reach. He hooked the willows, insisted on trying the pool. Reluctantly, I let him. Sure enough, Dave was there at my pheasant tail. I handed him my rod, instructed all the way to the net. Pics, high-fives, “Hell yeah!” Mind blown—20” rainbow in an unsuspecting spot. Grinned, whispered, “That’s just Dave.”

Fish on.