Quiet Pecos

Funny to look back at the last several years and take note of where I’ve fished. Some places I’ve fished more than others, some have been blown off, while others have come back as mainstays. Just like the rivers I’ve gotten to know and witnessed through their subtle changes, I admit I’ve also watched myself change—or better yet, realized it in past tense.

I did have to go up a size in boots this year… or last. I can’t remember exactly when. Was it due to age and feet having a tendency to spread out? Or my toenail fungus that has totally fucked up my feet? Note here: no one ever told me to put socks on under my wading boots. I figured neoprene booties built into my waders—why socks? That seemed weird. I never wore underwear under my wetsuit… same same.

A year of sockless, sweaty feet—fishing on average three to four days a week—gave me wicked athlete’s foot. For a while, I thought my waders were leaking. The amount of liquid pouring out of the feet suggested as much, until I realized it was sweat—foot juice—and my poor hooves had been marinading. That, in turn, went to my nails, and the rest is self-explanatory, needing no visuals except the phrase snail shell.

There are several miles of the Pecos River that are very fishy. Elevation and stocking play a role, as do the more remote sections that require a good hike and also yield wild browns and, occasionally, the state fish—New Mexico cutthroat—rising to a well-presented dry fly. It’s a popular river, with some bait sections and mostly catch-and-release water, thankfully. Locals could pound this river into scarcity if it weren’t monitored.

In my exploration, I’ve found a sweet little area that suits me well at this point. A little more seclusion. A little more hike. A little more remote and a bit quieter. There are rumors of a cinnamon-colored black bear—I’ve only seen fresh scat so far, no nose-to-nose encounter yet. I’ve been startled by rutting elk just beyond the willows, snorting, clashing racks, and bugling at close and personal distances. I think it’s my kind of place.

Strangely enough, I’ve started catching what I believe to be the same fish. The usual spots have produced every time, and what appears to be the same holding fish. It helps that these fish are larger than the random catches elsewhere. This is where size does matter.

The first time I caught Dave, I was fishing just downstream from a tasty run where I had put a client. I was talking up the technique of dead-drifting the short run, getting him to feel the different depths and currents within it. I set up in the tailout to keep an eye on him and correct when needed. We’d had a bit of rain a few days earlier, and I knew the fish would likely be in the runs feeding on all the fresh bugs coming down.

My client hooked into a nice pan-sized brown from the far side of the run and swung the fish around to the top of the pool where I stood with the net. After a pic, a grin, and a handshake, I convinced him to get back into the run and start again. He hadn’t beaten the water to a froth yet, and I wanted him to really dial in his drift before we moved on.

To my surprise, I made a nice plop at the top of the pool—or the start of the tailout—right at the drop-off… and SLAM. My 3wt arced like it was maxed out, but my reel didn’t move. I’d drifted through there before and didn’t recall any terminal structure. I glanced at my client—he was just fine in his own world, working a nice dead drift.

I dipped my rod tip to prod the situation, and the fish woke up from his sulk. Fury followed, but I kept him in the pool and he stayed low. I backed up onto a sandbar when my client caught wind of what was happening. A little guilt crept in when he let loose some impressive profanities about the look of my 3wt. That’s when I knew he was into it with me—thankfully.

I took the opportunity to narrate my moves and had every intention of handing him the rod, but his lack of confidence navigating the squishy sandbar kept him at bay, observing instead. After getting the fish to the net, I moved over so he could take a look at this rather large rainbow. I handed him the net for the release. His grin was infectious.

Months later, I was back at the same spot doing recon for an upcoming guided trip, along with a solo fishing day for myself. I walked up to the tailout again and thought, why not. Two drifts through the sweet section and my 3wt was bent into that same stressed-out bow. Same fight. Same result at the net. I smirked after the release and thought, well, maybe the same fish.

Autumn had just revealed itself here on the river. Cottonwoods were electric gold, vines bright crimson, grass still green, and the sky gray. A nice nip in the air kept us moving throughout the day. My client was a beginner, and I was working with him on mastering the five-yard hurl-and-plop. With rain again, I knew the fish would be in the runs. All morning he was successful where I placed him, getting “on the board” early, boosting both our confidence.

Then we came to the spot.

I put him in the pool just below the tailout, which he could easily reach—just like I’d been preaching all morning. He promptly hooked the willows behind us and insisted on figuring out the tangle himself, telling me to give the pool a shot. Honestly, I was reluctant, but I took it. Sure as shit, Dave was there, eating my pheasant tail.

I had my client put the rod down and carefully make his way over as I handed him mine. I let him play it out under instruction all the way to the net. Pictures, high fives, and a hell yeah finished the moment as we crawled up onto the bank. His mind was blown by a 20-inch rainbow in such an unsuspecting spot.

I grinned and said, “Well, that’s just Dave.”

I smiled to the pool as we moved upstream.

Fish on.