When a recent family event necessitated an impromptu trip back to New Zealand, a day on the Mohaka was my number one recreational priority. I managed to hook up with Steve, a friend who’s been fishing and hunting the central North Island for the best part of three decades. In that time of guiding the rich and famous he’s walked away from helicopter crashes, dodged the slings and arrows of outraged husbands, caught more fish than is decent, and like most guides probably drank enough to kill several small elephants in the process.

It had been over five years since I’d had oars and feet planted in a New Zealand river, and in terms of my fishing technique, it showed. Despite knowing better, it always seems to take a while to reintroduce myself to the realities of New Zealand fishing. You tend to not get too many opportunities, so a fish missed as the result of a clumsy cast or mistimed hook set or too tight a rein always leaves you pondering, wondering: will the river will give you another chance, or has she shut the door on your face and turned the key? Gentle Colorado-style hook sets get treated with head shaking disdain, while attempting to arrest that first charging run with a drag set too tight results in bent hooks and the kind of language that would make a sailor blush.

Fortunately this day, the Mohaka was a patient mistress. My first fumblings were tolerated, and after taking a break for lunch and a beer, I got my mojo working at last. The reward for me was a couple of lovely fish, a rainbow and a brown, a day spent on a special river in perfect company, and the commitment to ensure that it is not another five years hence before I again get to immerse myself in the sights, sounds and smells of one of the most special places on Earth.

“Nah, it’s nice down here – barely a breeze, and the sun’s shining.” Pink lives on the river in Howard, in many ways something of a parallel universe to Salida, separated not by a wafer thin membrane, but a few miles of blacktop. “We’ll float from my place to Vallie Bridge. Should only take a couple of hours.”

Not for the first time, my wife regarded me that look that is equal parts amusement and pity as I announced my plans for the afternoon. “You’re doing what?” I shrugged,and seeking respite from her gaze, headed for the refuge of the garage to dig out my waders and gear. The day before, I’d biked Cottonwood , sections of the trail blanketed in six inches of snow, so how bad could it be?

As it turned out, Pink was right. While an occasional wind gust rattled through the cottonwoods, sending dead leaves scratching and scurrying across the ground, the sun rode high over the clouds on the peaks, bathing the river in a late fall glow.

As we pushed away from shore, it occurred to me that this was the first time I’d floated the river in November. Does an aging memory play tricks, or is November the new October, weather-wise? Either way, it was great to be out there again, feeling the motion of the river beneath the boat, trying to guess where a hungry fish might reside on such an afternoon.

While the activity wasn’t prolific, we each felt the weight of a fish on the end of the line, enough stragglers camped along the edges of eddies and riffles to make the afternoon worthwhile, a success by any measure. All in all, you’ve got to love living in a place where, even when there is snow on the ground, you can mountain bike one day, and float fish the next. Thanks for the call Pink.

Half the fun of these kinds of trips lies in the anticipation, poring over maps, tracing contour lines and drainages, looking for places where the rivers and roads go their separate ways. Hence our decision to largely forego the more well-documented fishing opportunities on the main stem of the White, and focus on the tributaries.

Many things about the conditions reminded me of the New Zealand backcountry. Spruce and scrub oak grew thick down to the river’s edge, necessitating multiple stream crossings and in-river wading, the water cold and gin-clear. The substrate, a mottled mix of greys, browns and reds provided the perfect camouflage for a fish that wants to remain hidden. And not another soul to be seen.

The constant gradient of the river meant quality holding water was relatively sparse. We stalked our way carefully upriver, taking turns casting to the likely spots – the inside of a bend, the eddy behind a larger boulder mid-stream, the quiet of an occasional deep pool. These places were few and far between – sometimes we’d wade a quarter of a mile or more between casts. Caveman had his game on more than me, at least doubling my catch and break-off rate. Yet each night we’d regain camp, weary, thirsty and hungry, and there was no debate about whether we should move on to greener pastures, friendlier water.

I cannot think of more beautiful place I have fished, and the lure of what was up around the next bend kept calling us back each day. On the last evening, getting back to camp as the sun dipped below the ridgeline, we encountered a cowboy, saddling up a pack horse for a trip into an elk camp.

“How’s the fishing?” he asked

“Slow, but man, it’s beautiful up there,” I replied.

“How far up did you get?”

“About seven miles.”

“Doesn’t get good ’till about ten.”

I’ll take him at his word, but that’ll have to wait for next year.

High country fishing near Salida, Colorado. from Hayden Mellsop on Vimeo.

This particular stream is the outflow of a lake, meandering through a meadow laden with willows and wildlife – I’ve encountered fox, elk, beaver and deer. Half the stretch I fish, about a mile and a half in total, flows through private land. The first time I asked for permission, the rancher looked at me in surprise. After a few seconds of silence, during which I wondered if I’d managed to offend him, he replied “Sure. Its just, no one’s ever asked before.” Now we have an understanding. He knows my truck, and once in a while he finds a twelve pack on his doorstep.

There’s lots to like about fishing small streams. For starters, its easy to figure out where the fish are likely to lie – anywhere. While the bigger ones will naturally gravitate to the best places – insides of bends, undercut banks – the smaller ones don’t need much shelter to hide behind. A small rock in the middle of a riffle, a little pocket against the bank will suffice. You can pretty much cast anywhere you need to, and a single dry fly will usually suffice. In fact, often it is the only way you can fish. The need to tuck your fly under overhanging willows or cut banks often precludes a dropper, prone as it is to tangling and snagging. Fish that live this high, in these harsh surroundings, can’t afford to be as selective as their big river cousins. Get a good drift, and they’ll pretty much rise to anything you throw out there.

Another thing to like is the surprise of the catch. It could be a brown, it could be a rainbow, it could be a brookie, it could be a cutt. It could be four inches long, it could be fourteen. There’s the enthusiasm with which these fish patrol their domain, feeding aggressively on whatever floats by. Big or small, once hooked, they will head for the nearest logjam, rootball or undercut. Battling a small fish with a two weight rod on a stream ten feet wide is in many ways as exciting and challenging as a sixteener on the Arkansas.

And last but not least, there is the overarching peacefulness of the surroundings. Far from any highways, the mountains are closer, the smells and sounds of the forest more prevalent, the air clearer and cleaner.

Its almost time to say adieu to the high country for another year. Hopefully I’ll have time for one more trip up there before it is too late. Temperatures are dropping below freezing each night, the ground is carpeted in yellows and golds, and it won’t belong until the fish are living under ice, theirs a world of darkness and torpor, until spring sets them free once more.

The sky was an jumbled patchwork of blue and grey, the whiff of moisture in the air. The sun, angling low, reflected silver metallic off the river’s surface. Looking downstream, I watched a group of six merganzas working their way steadily upstream toward us. Keeping to the shallows, they swam with their heads submerged, every few seconds popping up to take air, shaking the water from their crests, before resuming their breakfast quest. Occasionally they would dive from view to re-emerge twenty or thirty feet away, seemingly moving as effortlessly underwater as they did on top.

Approaching the boat, they gave us a wide, respectful berth, murmuring softly among themselves, continuing upriver. They had the look of siblings, doubtless hatchlings this spring, now grown and turned loose into the wide world. Taking the skills learned from their devoted, now departed mother, those that manage to survive the coming winter will no doubt return next spring, to sire and raise young of their own.

Fall is the season for melancholy – how quickly summer passes. This part of the river, a couple of weeks ago a hive of energy and activity, was now quiet, deserted, at least of human activity. The first hint of gold was evident amongst the trees and bushes lining the river, and a slight chill permeated the air. It felt good to be able to float this far up river so late in the season, on account of the higher than normal flows.

As we moved downriver, the sky changed its patchwork to a solid overcast, the peaks to the west dark under the lowering sky. The fishing improved the further we floated into the canyon, the fish active on the surface, busy taking dry flies with abandon, driven no doubt by sensing the need to fatten for the oncoming spawn, then winter. We lunched on a gravel bar, enjoying the silence and climbed to the top of some nearby boulders for a birds eye view of our surroundings. A movement caught my attention below. A great horned owl, apparently as startled by our presence as we of hers, lifted off from among the rocks along the rivers edge and flew silently to the cliffs, landing a safe distance away to observe the interlopers, dark eyes in a full-moon face.

Late afternoon, hitting the take out, the rain began to fall. Thickening all day, unable to contain their load any longer, the clouds released their precious moisture onto the valley floor. It was the perfect ending to a perfect day. Driving back to civilization, I put my finger on why the mood of the day had been so singular. For a stretch of the river that in the summer can see in excess of 400 boats and several thousand people, we had seen not another soul all day. Only once previous can I recall this happening.

It was without doubt the most beautiful day I have spent on the Arkansas. It was mid-May, 1994, and a couple of guys had booked a rowing instructional. Despite heavy cloud blanketing the mountains, and the forecast for snow later in the day, they wanted to go. By the time we reached the entrance to the canyon, fat flakes fluttered down on a monochromatic world, settling the landscape, dissolving into the river with a constant soft, audible hiss. Our world was cloaked in white, the rocks in the river islands of pearl and grey against the iron green of the river. Not a creature stirred, not a breath of wind ruffled the river’s surface. By the time we reached the take out, and the grateful warmth of our vehicle, a foot of snow carpeted the canyon, and icicles hung from the boat’s rigging. I felt we had been blessed, privilege to a scene, a side of the river, not normally shared.

Back at the shop this recent time, we learned the river level had been dropping throughout the day. Come morning, it would be too low to run. It had been a perfect day, a farewell to summer, and time to leave the canyon and its inhabitants to settle in to their approaching winter slumber.

Missed Fishing, Missed Fish from Hayden Mellsop on Vimeo.

The lady I was guiding, Samantha, was having difficulty getting the timing of her hook set right. The situation wasn’t helped by the speed with which the fish were hitting the flies on the surface. When a caddis hatches, it rises from the bottom of the river, often riding an air bubble to the top, wings fully developed and ready to fly. Breaking through the surface film, it is off, like a rat out of an aquaduct, to quote Brian’s mother.

The fish know this, and know too that if they want to have caddis for dinner, they’d better be quick. Accordingly, you have to adjust your reaction time to the rhythm of the fish. Having missed several takes, in exasperation Samantha turned to me, handing me the rod. “You do it, show me how.”

It was then I went 0 for 9 over the next five minutes. Handing the rod back to her, I shrugged and suggested the river was telling us to break for a beer rather than let the humiliation continue.

This time of the year, the takes tend to be a little more languid. Fish are seeing and feeding on a lot of terrestrials. The conveyor belt passing over their heads carries lots of hoppers, beetles and ants, creatures not meant to be in the water, usually inept and helpless when they are. Fish know they have more time, so leisurely inspect their prey before committing or refusing.

In this situation, the challenge lies in not setting the hook too early, thereby pulling the fly away from a still open mouth. You get to watch the fish rise up to inspect the fly, sometimes drifting downstream with it, nudging it, before taking or refusing. The bigger the fish, the more time they tend to take. You need to discipline yourself to wait.

In New Zealand, it’s called the “God Save The Queen” rule. Downunder, until they sense something is wrong with their world, the big fish do everything slowly and with deliberation. No calorie of energy is expended unnecessarily. A fish rising to a dry fly will sometimes inspect it for five or ten seconds of more before deciding to take or refuse. I’ve seen them open their mouths around a fly, then drift backwards downriver for several yards, mulling their options, before backing away and returning to their station.

When they do take, it is usually so slow and deliberate that the fisherman, knees shaking in anticipation, must discipline him or herself to wait until the fish is back below the surface, mouth firmly shut, before reacting. Hence the mantra “God Save The Queen” before setting the hook.

All of this is a rather round about way of saying that on the day in question, it took me a little while to get my mojo working. For the first twenty minutes or so, and at regular intervals thereafter, I couldn’t hook a fish to save myself. I’ll put it down to lack of match practice – my other job has kept me from the river for most of this summer, which given the state of the economy over the last few years is a good thing, I guess – and keep telling myself that it just wouldn’t be as much fun if you hooked them all.

I’d checked the flow gauge that morning, and knew that the level had dropped to around 2000 cfs. Still pretty high for float fishing, but after the extended runoff, the river was finally clear, and the fish were bound to be hungry.

Back In The Saddle from Hayden Mellsop on Vimeo.

“I’d love to, but I’ve gotta work today. Maybe later in the week.” I silently cursed in equal measure the laws of economics, and the Puritans and their damned work ethic.

“What time do you finish? I’ll meet you at Salida East,” came the reply.

I thought for about three seconds: wife and kids out of town, no domestic duties, lawns are mowed, cat has food. “Good idea. See you at four.”

Anglers normally expect to lose the best part of the month of June to high water, but not since 1995, to my recollection, have levels stayed so high for so long. So the sight of the river finally clearing and dropping had me happy as a clam. I threw my gear into the back of the car and headed to the office, hoping that no one would walk in the door at 3:55 wanting to buy a house.

Luck held, and by 4:15 my rod was rigged, I had a cold beer in my hand, and it was time find out how often I could cast close enough to the bank, and how hungry the fish really were. The answers to those questions proved to be: sometimes, and pretty.

The tough part about float fishing at these levels is trying to get a drift of over five seconds duration. The river is moving so fast, and the fish holding so tight to the edges, that often there isn’t even time to mend before the current has taken hold of your line and dragged the fly out from the narrow strip of slow water along the bank. A fast action rod is a real plus, the ability to deliver the fly where you want it quickly really helps.

At least it isn’t rocket science figuring out where the feeding fish are holding. They are riding out the deluge in whatever slack water they can find, hanging on to the willows and brush piles along the bank, mixed in with all the Nalgene bottles, baseball caps and tevas, testament to several weeks of high water rafting carnage upstream. You’ve got to be prepared to cast your fly in there after them, and not be afraid to lose a few in the process.

Trying to slow the boat down isn’t easy either. On the oars, you’ve got to pick your battles, knowing when to put the brakes on for the slower water, and when to let the current take you where and when it wants.

As the river continues to drop, I’d expect the conditions to get easier, and the fishing to get better and better. We caught a decent number of fish, turned a few more, and got spanked by several. All in all a great day, with the prospect of many more on the horizon.

Most people go there this time of the year, for the famed stonefly hatch. It’s hard to argue with the logic of that. After months of winter and spring spent fishing tiny flies and fine tippet, it’s great to tie five feet of ought x tippet onto your line and throw dry flies the size of hummingbirds to wanton fish. You can’t blame the fish for getting enthusiastic also. They’ve spent the same number of months dining on the equivalent of brown rice and bean sprouts, and suddenly the river is filled with cheeseburgers.

Although river conditions had meant the trip was up in the air until just a few days prior, our timing turned out to be perfect. The stoneflies were hatching throughout the canyon, crawling from the river to shed their skins at night, then taking to wing in search of a mate in the morning as the sun warmed the canyon air.

We fished dries to hungry fish for all three days. We caught multiple over twenty inches. We got sore shoulders from casting and rowing, and sore heads from bourbon. We slept under incredible starry skies and awoke to cool canyon breezes.

Towards the end of the trip, as we floated out of the granite canyon and into the sandstone country beyond, lit up in brilliant hues of pink, red and yellow by the late evening sun, I asked Cliff his impressions of his first experience of the place.

“I’m not sure if I can put it into words. I’ll show my friends the photos, but I really don’t think I can adequately describe this.” He massaged his tired casting shoulder. “I guess I’ll just have to tell them they need to get down here themselves.”

Kym regarded me over the top of her beer. “There are fish there?”

“Kinda. Carp.”

Even her sunglasses couldn’t hide the look of amusement in her eyes. “Poor thing. You must be desperate.”

Through no fault of their own, carp don’t enjoy the best reputation. Understandable when you’re the cellar dweller, the janitor of your domain, picking over everyone else’s left-overs. Yet the last few years have seen a change in attitude to carp among fly fisherman – some even openly admit to deliberately targeting them. They grow big and strong, and if you close your eyes and imagine real hard, you can almost tell yourself you’re bonefishing.

When Pinky suggested we go carping, I thought what the hell. He, Caveman and Bill had been down to the lakes a few days previous, enjoying great success. It’d been a month since I’d had a rod in my hand, and with snowmelt and runoff everywhere I wasn’t about to turn down an opportunity to fish.

Crossing over Poncha Pass, you enter a different world. The San Luis Valley, the largest alpine valley in the world, opens out before you, the highway running south straight as an arrow, through Old Mexico. People here still scratch a living out of the earth as they have done for centuries, Utes, Hispanics and Anglos. It is a place where for less than the price of a new pick-up, a person can buy a big square of land to get away from it all. You just need to make peace with the wind, dust, heat and cold, and have an affinity for miles of greasewood and rabbitbrush.

Rigging our rods lakeside, I took in the view. The Sangres stretched north to south as far as the eye could see. Drought has dropped the lake level to where you can wade from one side to the other, a half mile or more, without getting in over your hips. The mud on the shoreline has been baked to a parched crust, the lake’s waters a milky brown, tinged blue under the cloudless sky. There is something serene, something other worldly, about the place. It has juju, a presence. It’s one of the few places in the world where you stand an equal chance of catching a fish, or getting abducted by an alien.

Subsurface, the lake’s inhabitants dwell in a world of murky twilight to pitch black. Visibility is little more than six inches. Stepping out into the water takes faith – it’s like stepping out into a cloud. There is no measure for depth, the smooth, muddy lake bed reassuring you to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

With no structure to cast to, no current save that generated by the fickleness of the wind, you look for “nervous water” to betray the possibility of a fish – somewhere your gut tells you there is activity – bubbles on the surface, a dark splotch or swirl in the milky gloom, a shadow near the surface, perhaps real, perhaps a trick of wind and light. If ever a setting typifies the optimism of fly fishing, this is it. Cast retrieve, cast retrieve, move a little, scan the water, cast retrieve. You fall into a kind of self hypnosis. There’s plenty of time to let your mind wander.

Random thoughts flit through your head: what happened to that girl you had your first crush on in middle school? What is it about politicians and their penises? Why is part of the lake’s surface is rippled by wind, but not moving closer? Then a tug on the end of your line wakes you from your reverie. You feel your fly come loose from whatever it was chewing on it, and let out an expletive heard across the other side of the lake. Spanked again, dammit. Concentrate.

By the end of the day, gorgeous and cloudless, I’d walked about two miles back and forth across the lake, on my feet for six hours, all for four strikes and no hook ups. Pinky fared about the same, while Caveman carried the banner with a fish landed and several more broken off. With a couple of hours of video footage of me staring around and casting to nothing, I had to pirate these photos of the previous trip from Pinky. Despite the lack of success, I’d go back in a heartbeat.

I’ve been on the river most days this past month, and have seen one day when there were caddis hatching in decent numbers, and fish feeding on them. Here we go, I thought, even proudly posting on Facebook that the hatch was underway. Since then, barely a thing. The odd caddis skittering about in the wind, the odd fish munching on one. In years gone by, they have hatched in incredible numbers, millions rising from the surface of the river like snow flakes in reverse. There is little you can do in such situations but pull the boat over to the side of the river and marvel at nature’s bounty and intricacy.

All this is not to say that the fishing, per se, has been lousy. Quite the contrary. The odd day excepted, the fishing has been consistently good. If your aim was to catch a fish on a dry fly, however, you may be disappointed. Which is your problem, and yours alone. Its a reminder that ultimately, each day we take what the river gives us.

But I still would like to know: what has happened to the caddis? Are they going to hatch later? Were last years males all firing blanks? Have they been taken up in some kind of heavenly insect rapture? Even the swallows seem to be in on the act. Usually, this time of the year, their nests under bridges are teaming with life and new hatchlings. So far, they have been strangely empty, as if they know something we don’t.

So from now on, when people ask me what’s going on, after this spring, I’m just going to shrug. Don’t ask me, I’m only a human.

Thus said Rat, in the process opening a whole new world of possibilities to the the workaholic Mole. The fact that there was no point to the day, no destination or purpose, was the point.

So it should be. While we might hit the river with various excuses to justify it – friends in town, unexpected day off, need to try out the new fly rod, find out what the fish are up to for my guide trip tomorrow – the reality is that we really, or should be, doing it for the intangibles it provides.

The other day, boat parked out of a cold rain under a bridge, we sat for a couple of minutes and watched. A dipper moved in and out of the rocks along the shore bank searching for food, then filled the air with song more melodious than seemed possible to emanate from such a small creature. To whom or what she was singing was left unknown, but the gift of the song still richly reverberates.

On a recent float trip, I rowed the boat to the side of the river, seeking respite in the lee of a cliff from the constant wind, pushing us unwillingly downstream. At such times you are thankful for small mercies, namely that it was not, at least, blowing upstream. Mayflies had been hatching all afternoon, but getting blown off the water, their upright wings serving as unwitting spinnakers. In the lee, there was some shelter, and we watched as they bobbed and pirouetted down the eddy lines, running the gamut of the fish eagerly rising to them where they could.

The fish themselves were holding a couple of feet below the surface, unconcerned at our presence some twenty feet away, rising unhurried and fluid to the mayflies as they drifted. Do the mayflies sense the danger, I wondered, or do they float on, unaware of the predators watching, and the randomness of their circumstance?

It’s probably not a good thing for a guide to respond with “Who cares?” when asked “How’s the fishing?” But reality is that the fishing is always good. It’s only ever the catching that varies, and as Rat so succinctly observed:

“Nothing seems really to matter, that’s the charm of it. Whether you get away, or whether you don’t; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you’re always busy, and you never do anything in particular.”

Untitled from Hayden Mellsop on Vimeo.

Blue-wings are mayflies, and make up the second most important part of an Arkansas River trout’s diet, after caddis. Up close, blue-wings are a beautiful insect, delicate and short-lived. While some species may live for up to a year subsurface as nymphs, once they hatch into adults, the clock is ticking. The adult has no mouth parts with which to eat and sustain itself, so their life span in usually little more than twenty four hours. As you might imagine, they are on a mission.

That mission is to find a mate, do the business and lay eggs back in the river for the next generation before departing this mortal coil. There is no time for drawn out courtship rituals here – think spring break at Cancun or Ibiza.

Generally, blue-wings prefer to hatch on cooler, cloudy days. Once breaking through the surface film, they have to wait anywhere from thirty seconds to a few minutes while their wings inflate and dry out. It is at this time that they are most vulnerable, and as they hatch and float helplessly down the river, trout will line up along the foam lines and eddy lines to languidly sip them down.

Lately, we haven’t been having enough cooler, cloudy days, but they have been hatching anyway – when you’ve gotta go, you’ve gotta go, I guess. On this day that Caveman, Pinky and I floated, we had what you would call a typical blue wing kind of day. In the morning, small nymphs were working best, like pheasant tails and juju baetis. Once the adult blue-wings started to appear on the surface, we switched to dry flies and had a great couple of hours of top water action.

I’d also like to add that anyone can catch a trout on this river. It takes real skill and technique, however, to hook a sucker fish, let alone hook it in the tail. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.