ONLY FOOLS AND BEARS

A GUIDE’S LIFE • BY HAYDEN MELLSOP

Only Fools and Bears

Ilooked down in surprise at my thumb, bleeding profusely from a clean slice across the top. I had been struggling to gain enough dexterity in my hands to get my nippers to cut a slender piece of tippet, unaware of how cold I had become over the preceding two hours spent standing in the river. While I felt no pain, the flow of blood managed to complicate an already delicate task, given the cold, low light, and my general clumsiness.

A hundred yards away in the back of my truck was a first aid kit, but I knew once I left the river, I’d likely not return, and fish were rising. I shook blood off my hand, selected a small dry, and fumbled my way through several attempts at a clinch knot, a usual fewseconds procedure taking the best part of two minutes. Despite the discomfort, I determined to catch a fish on a dry fly before calling it a day.

“Shoulda been here a couple of days ago, before the front,” the guy in the fly shop had said earlier in the day. “This’ll have put the fish down for the season. You might be able to dredge a couple off the bottom, but no way will they come up for a dry. Besides, everybody’s hunting now, not fishing.”

“That’s why we’re here,” said Kev, my fishing buddy.

We paid for out-of-state licenses, bought a few flies, thanked him for his time, and headed for the door. A job at the local chamber of commerce did not seem to be in the cards.

We followed an access sign just outside of town that led to the river. A concrete boat ramp ran down to the water’s edge. For half the distance to the far bank, the river ran ankle-deep and gin-clear before darkening into a trench that curved upstream in a gentle arc. Multiple boulders—some submerged, others protruding above the surface—were scattered along the trench and formed the far bank. Tasty looking water, we agreed, but how many other anglers over the season had already cast flies to what were surely by now fish as jaded as the guy in the shop?

A gentle rain began to fall, turning briefly to snow, then back to rain, before clouds lifted half-heartedly to reveal distant mountains covered in snow-dusted pine. We layered up beneath our waders and headed for the river.

“There has to be a big one down there somewhere,” remarked Kev, rigging a couple of nymphs and adding some split shot onto his line. I followed suit, minus the split shot, deciding to fish the tail of the trench where the current broadened and shallowed towards the next riffle. A missed strike and a rig lost on a snag was all I had to show for a half hour of effort before a yell from upstream told me Kev had located his big fish, a cuttbow that did its best to fill his net. I battled on, crossing the river to work up the far bank amongst the boulders, losing two more rigs for the reward of a chubby rainbow hooked down deep. My new

fishing pack refused to sit comfortably, swinging off my hip as I moved from boulder to boulder, causing balance issues and almost pitching me into the water.

I continued another quarter mile upstream for no reward, then decided to wave the white flag and head for the truck. Perhaps the guy at the shop was correct. Wading back across the shallows toward the boat ramp, I heard a gentle slurp. I stopped and turned. Thirty seconds later, I saw a rise, then another. Small fish, but feeding off the surface. A last shot at redemption, a last salvage of the day, at least from an angling point of view.

Whatever hatch the fish were rising to, the bugs were small, too small for me to see on the water. Same with the fly I had selected. Ordinarily I’d tie a larger one on first as a spotter, but given my clumsiness and sliced thumb, I kept it simple and settled for a single.

Playing zone defense, setting the hook anytime a fish rose in proximity to where I thought my fly floated, I shivered thought the next ten minutes until finally, success.

I hooked and released a diminutive cuttbow, then immediately headed for shore, chilled to the bone but satisfied.

“What do you think about a motel for the night?” suggested Kev. Until now, we’d been camping by the side of whichever river we were fishing that day. He brooked no argument from me. Only fools and bears would choose to fish, let alone sleep out, in this kind of weather. 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.