BIRD ON A WIRE

A GUIDE’S LIFE • BY HAYDEN MELLSOP

Bird On A Wire

The tarp draped off the back of my pickup is sagging under the weight of still-falling snow. I stand and prod it in several places, and the snow makes a scraping sound as it slides to the ground. Nearby, several bluebirds huddle together on fence wire, twitching and shaking regularly to de-ice their wings. In the far-off stands a small cabin. Smoke rises from its chimney and quickly blends with the grey overcast, and I feel a twinge of envy.

My only fire comes in the form of a bottle of Scotch, and I take another sip and resume my writing. The pen moves sluggishly across the paper. Last night before the storm settled in, a couple of coyotes passed through camp. One sounded close, just beyond the confines of the tarp. It called in a series of low, guttural grunts, as if working up towards a sneeze that never eventuated. Further off, its mate responded with a high-pitched, mournful yip-yip-howl, as if urging the first to forget the stringy gringo and continue on up the valley toward home. I wonder where they are now, and hope they are warm in their den.

I contemplate crawling back into mine - two sleeping bags and an air mattress in the truck bed - but decide against. Instead, I stand, don an extra jacket, then step from beneath the shelter of the tarp. At my appearance the bluebirds take to the wing and vanish from sight across the meadow. By the position of the sun - a pale disc in the grey overhead, I guess the time at early afternoon. To stretch cramped muscles, I walk from camp a short distance to where the stream flows beneath a bridge. The water runs ink-dark and sluggish, and I imagine more than hear the soft hiss of the snowflakes as they dissolve into the water.

I think about breaking camp, but am unsure of the road conditions beyond - twenty miles of dirt to the nearest blacktop - and decide to stay put and ride it out. Suddenly, the cloud layer to the west lifts to reveal the facade of a long, angled buttress shrouded in tendrils of mist that gather about its flanks, its appearance like a giant locomotive sitting at a platform, shedding steam. A few minutes later the snow peters out and a watery sun breaks through. A gathering breeze pushes diminishing clouds to the east, and within a half hour pale blue dominates the sky.

Back beneath the tarp, I pull on waders and squeeze into icy boots, then climb over the fence recently occupied by the bluebirds. By now the wind has increased in intensity, pinching at any exposed skin. Briefly I wonder what I am doing here at all, then banish such thoughts and walk down the small bluff and across a patch of marshy ground, covered in quickly-melting snow, to the stream. I hang back from the bank a respectable distance to avoid spooking any fish that may have ventured out to warm their backs in the sunlight. I stand, breathe, and look around. I am alone in the mountains on a cold fall day, next to a meandering stream. The water flows low and clear in the sunlight. Patches of weed undulate in the slower, shallower reaches.

It is difficult to tell who is less impressed with my first cast—myself, or the two brook trout that scatter as, over-compensating for the wind, I bury the fly and a few feet of line into the shallows below the first pool with an undignified splat.

The interplay between light and wind is such that when one is in my favor, the other seems to work against me. I decide to cover ground,

only pausing at places where I think I have a reasonable chance of an accurate cast. I come upon a corner pool where I see a fish tailing in the fan. The wind is such that I aim my cast five yards upstream of where I want the fly to land, yet still it gets blown across the pool and into the grass overhanging the far bank. I break off the fly while attempting to retrieve it, tie on another with pinched fingers, and try again. This time there is a brief lull in the wind, and the fly lands where intended. A fish rises to the fly, I time my hook set nicely, and quickly land and release a chubby brook trout. The day feels complete.

I continue upstream for another half hour, picking and choosing likely spots, see and spook a few fish, but catch no more. The wind continues to make each cast a lottery. I decide to retreat to camp, strip off my waders and add a couple of insulating layers, and sit outside in the last of the sunlight sipping a cocktail. Clear skies promise a cold night ahead, perhaps a frozen stream in the morning, but if out here is good enough for coyotes, it is good enough for me. About The Author Hayden Mellsop is an expat New Zealander living in the mountain town of Salida, Colorado, on the banks of the Arkansas River. As well as being a semi-retired fly fishing guide, he juggles helping his wife raise two teenage daughters, along with a career in real estate. Hayden Mellsop Fly fishing guide. Real Estate guide. Recreation, residential, retirement, investment.