Maintaining the semi-nomadic tradition, I hit the road again for Rocky Ford Creek.
It's another bright and mild February day. I carry my jacket to the river bank but will fish in shirtsleeves again. I'm in a rare mood: I feel like fishing nymphs under an indicator.
Fish are much in evidence, some right at my feet. I give in to temptation once and dangle a nymph in front of them. I know what will happen because it's happened before. It happens. They ignore the fly, the shadows, the line, me. I'm invisible.
I cast to mid-channel and take pleasure in long, slow drifts. I change nymphs now and then. I even try a #20 Trico spinner, and a #20 emerger. I get a nice pull on a pheasant tail nymph, but then lose the fly in the cattails. I have smaller PT's but the fish don't seem to want them.Out of nowhere I think of bloodworms. I have a simple long-shanked nymph of red floss. I send it out. It gets a bump or two. I let it drift.
That's what I was missing. I feel complete again. I continue to fish as the lowering sun bronzes the landscape. I wouldn't mind another big fish, but do I really need one? No. I am fully satisfied.
The sun dips behind the ridge and the breeze quickly grows chilly. I put on my jacket and take off the indicator. I tie on a stimulator.
As dusk settles in I cast and strip. The exercise feels good. I get some good follows and close calls. Then I hook a little guy.
That's a nice period on the story of the day, a story of a big, beautiful trout that will swim in my memory for a long time to come.