Runoff finally started almost a month later than normal. With no snow down low to melt, we had to wait for what little was up high to make its way down into the canyons and valleys, muddying up the water and turning my local creek into a roiling mess. It’s fishable at these flows —a heavy nymph rig tossed near the edges usually produces a few trout—but the sight of brown water and rapids where there’s normally gentle runs turned me off the creek. I wanted clear water and fish rising to dry flies.
So I drove further up the mountain, looking for water that would provide the kind of fishing I needed after a rough week.
Moose were out in bunches, munching on freshly-greened willows. A few elk meandered through a meadow, and I had to stop a few times for clusters of mule deer to cross the road, too. The wildlife was putting on a show, and I halfheartedly wished I hadn’t left the camera at home.
Once I’d crested the pass at 9,000 feet, I started studying the small creeks on either side of the road. They were high, tea-colored, but not muddy. If these creeks were in decent shape, the one I had in mind likely would be, too. For a moment, I entertained the idea of a short hike to some lakes, but a glance towards the east and a looming wall of clouds quickly put an end to that idea. I’d rather fish in the relative shelter of a creek canyon, where I could stay out of the wind, and if I was lucky, the rain, too.
I turned off the asphalt and onto dirt, spooking another moose from the willows off to my right. This area is lousy with moose, especially early in the season. I’ve not had one charge me – yet – and they seem fairly docile. Once, a couple of years ago, I turned the corner while wading a nearby stream and almost walked into a cow moose and her two calves drinking from the pool I wanted to fish. They flicked their ears at me, snorted, then went back to drinking and rooting around for grass. I could have touched the cow moose with my fly rod if I wanted; they were that close.
The dirt road wound through willows before diving into the lodgepole forest, where I took a familiar turnoff into a meadow where the stream slows down, flattens out, and turns into some of the best dry fly water in the whole mountain range. I jumped out of the truck and walked to the creek before rigging up, though. I wanted to make sure the water was in good shape before going through all the trouble of getting ready to fish.
This creek was high, tea-colored, and a bit fast, but I could still see fish darting back and forth in the calm water near the banks. One even rose at the head of the run. It wasn’t exactly what I envisioned, but it was good enough. I went back to the truck, only to realize I’d left my 4-weight reel at home. I had a 3-weight reel, but only had a 4, 5, and 7-weight rod in the truck.
Grumbling about not using the rig that would have been perfect for the conditions, I rigged up the 5-weight with a small hopper on top and a larger perdigon as the dropper.
My first few casts were clunky, and spooked every self-respecting trout within spitting distance. I hadn’t been on the water for a while due to moving and work, and up until this week became too much to bear, I didn’t think I’d fish until after we finished unloading the moving truck in a week.
Eventually, I managed a decent cast, tucking the dry-dropper rig up against the far bank, where a decent brown promptly ate the hopper without a second thought. The fish up here rarely top 10 inches, but this trout was in good shape, still in its parr marks, and happy to swim back into the icy water.
I fished the rest of the meadow, then followed a feeder creek into a narrow grove of aspens, where I spooked a brookie that was easily over 10 inches. Eventually, that creek petered out into seeps from the spongy forest floor, so I backtracked and kept working the main creek, fishing up into the pocket water. The fish were stacked on the seams and in the slow water, but still wanted a good drift.
In one spot, the water was clear enough that I could watch the fish dart out from in front of a submerged boulder to eat my drifting nymph. In another, two fish fought over my dry fly before both gave up.
At one point, the creek split around an old lodgepole with half its root pan exposed. I thought I saw something big move in there when I drifted my rig past, but all that came to hand were the six-inch brookies that clean up whatever the larger fish ignore.
It felt like I’d only been fishing for 20 minutes, but a glance at my phone told me I’d been on the water for two hours. If I wanted to get home in time to help out with my daughter’s bedtime, I didn’t have time to explore what was around the next bend, part of the creek I haven’t fished yet. Promising that I’d come back to see what that part of the river held, I started the surprisingly long haul back to the truck. Between the trees, where the sunlight is sparse, deep snowdrifts still blocked my way.
I saw another five moose on the drive out, including one bull with its budding horns wrapped tightly in velvet. A herd of elk milled around at the junction of the dirt and asphalt roads. The cows picked their heads up to sniff the air in my direction, while the only bull, its antlers in velvet too, kept its head down and continued munching the grass.
As I drove back down the mountain towards home, I crossed a bridge over the first creek I saw that day. It was higher and muddier than when I’d passed it a few hours ago.
It won’t be in good enough shape to fish for a few weeks, I thought. I’ll wait until it’s perfect.
And in a fit of irony, that made me realize something: I’d almost passed on fishing at all today. The creeks were high, the water wasn’t clear, and I only caught one fish on a dry fly. I had this idea, this image of perfection in my mind, of how I wanted the day to play out. Because things didn’t measure up to those expectations, I almost traded an afternoon on the water for a long drive in the truck.
How often do we build things up to be perfect, or expect perfection? From our fly selection, to our drifts, to our hook sets and fish fights? And how often do things actually work out that way?
I can count on one finger the number of “perfect” days I’ve had on the water, and even that day has an asterisk next to it. I spent the day fishing from a float tube on an alpine lake full of cutthroat and brookies. I hooked every fish that ate my flies, didn’t tangle my rig once, and never had to make a fly change. But all I caught that day were smaller cutthroat, compared to the pair of three-pound brookies my buddy reeled in.
I think, too often, we get upset when a day on the water doesn’t live up to whatever expectations we had. And I think we put too much focus on achieving “perfection” in our fly fishing. Nothing in nature is perfect, so why would we expect our drifts to be that way? Often, close to perfect is good enough, and sometimes, we need a gentle reminder of that.
Last Updated on June 2, 2026 by Max Inchausti