Zen Juan

Zen Juan

Often when I think of places that I’ve been I relate the last time I was at a certain place to who I was with and what was going on in my life at the time. Sometimes returning somewhere after a long period of time is difficult even years after perhaps because the last great trip may have been with somebody you loved whom is no longer with you. 

I had longed for a return trip to the San Juan River in North Western New Mexico for a long time. This used to be an annual pilgrimage for me in my younger years. As some know I fly fished quite a bit in the mid to late 90’s. This was when I fell in love with the sport. My first fly fishing experience was on this river in February of 1995. That first day was magical, serene and a 15+ fish day my very first time out. I remember being amazed that this rig with size 22 flies and a goofy piece of yarn would produce over and over again all throughout the day. And what the hell did this micro shot really do? It didn’t make sense at all that such a small weight would make any difference at all.

I was ruined thinking that all rivers would produce fish this easily and would be this forgiving. Boy did I learn fast when returning home to try out my new skills on the Arkansas River below the Dam. Not only were there less fish in 1995 but if you managed to have a good day fly-fishing usually an average fish was in the 10-12 inch range with an occasional resident hog. Boy things have changed as we now have one of the best tail waters that I have ever fished anywhere.

The learning curve was steep for the next few months as I ventured north to the South Platte and fished for the ever hyper picky and spooky Cheeseman Canyon Rainbows whom if they did take a fly would aim straight for the boulders and break rigs in a flash. I was amazed these fish knew the boulders were their friends. Finally after a few months I learned how to catch fish in Cheeseman and I sincerely believe if one can catch fish consistently on this piece of water one can catch fish anywhere. This theory has proven true so far.

Fast forward to March 8, 2013- After a long discussion about potential weather coming in and nearly 22 Years to the week of my first San Juan trip my two best fishing buddies and I ventured to North Western New Mexico to fish the San Juan River. I really didn’t know what to expect as I hadn’t fished this water in 14 years.  Clint and Remo who are 12-14 years my junior had never fished the Juan and were super stoked as they had heard so much about the fishery. After arriving and checking into our room at Abe’s we had dinner at a Bar and Grill right on the river anxious to get out on the water in the morning. Though the snow flew for most of the night and there was some anxiety about our return trip all of us were excited for the opportunity to fish this legendary water. Upon returning to our room Remo and I enjoyed a bottle of Fireball Whiskey while standing in the snow outside the room while Clint who is our resident techy set up our fly boxes on the window sill with his latest developed fly patterns custom tied just for this trip.

Upon waking up the next morning and venturing outside to get a breath of air and checking the weather I amused my cohorts as I climbed back into bed and spent some time in my mind. As a Personal Development Coach I needed my time to visualize. In my mind’s eye I observed myself setting the hook crisply and on time 25 times before getting up and into the shower. As some know studies have been conducted showing how effective visualization is in improving performance. Besides It’s a good feeling to watch yourself hooking up with fish after fish after fish even if it comes via a brief day dream.

At approximately 9:00 am after rigging up we were in the water and begun our journey in the infamous Kiddie hole which is appropriately named. Within the first 15 casts Remo was into his first two San Juan Rainbows. After making a few adjustments and changing angles I landed my first fish of the day. We took a different approach than any other I had taken on this water before and concentrated and small holes and creases throughout the various runs and structure. One particular run we found was loaded with fish and Remo spotted a 20” Bow feeding in a tough lie with multiple rocks obstructing a good drift. We took turns fishing to this fish and oddly enough I never got a fly drifted to this fish because I kept hooking up with other smaller fish before my fly ever got to this 20” beauty. I caught four fish trying to get a drift over to this brute. The last time this happened Remo jumped in just after I released a nice 14” bow, my eyes were on this brute as I imagined where his flies might be in relation to the drift. Just as I thought the flies might be in range the big male turned his head a couple of inches and opened his hooked jaws. I swear I didn’t see Remo’s strike indicator even twitch in the slightest but “Dude” was in the zone and made the sweetest hook-up I have ever seen and the fight was on. We all had several hook ups that I swear were pure Zen because we were all on cruise control and couldn’t even explain why the hook was set.

Clint is the finisher of our group, I’ve fished with him more than any other partner that I have ever had. Traditionally he isn’t the first one into a fish but this kid makes the best adjustments based on what he is seeing that I’ve seen anywhere. He is meticulous with his fly selection and rigs. The “Mad Scientist” will make adjustments with weight and fly selection until he finds the sweet spot. Let me tell you once he fine tunes his set up I’ve seen him do some amazing things with great consistency during the average day on the river. This particular day was one where he started slow and had a couple mishaps with leaky waders and a nasty fall in which he cut his hand pretty bad.

Ironically my visualization technique panned out and I caught 25 fish before 3 o’clock, 25 visuals and 25 fish later I was smoked and opted for a nap on the bank with Clint fishing just feet away. To give an example of the finisher that Clint is I had probably a 20 fish head start in our friendly game of numbers but when all was said and done (by the time my nap was over) he had totaled more than 30 fish. I’ve seen him do this over and over again. When most guys are heading to the car in a snow storm this dude is still fine tuning and has had some amazing days fishing because of his determination and brain power.

To say the least there were enough eager and cooperative fish for all of us and it was great to be back on the river where it all started for me. My soul and spirit were recharged on this trip in so many ways. That is one thing we often take for granted, fly fishing with any success is very demanding and takes a person “fully present”. When we are present we can operate at our personal best in all areas of our lives. I find shelter and refuge while fly fishing where hours go by and I realize that I haven’t thought about any challenge or problem. The mind deserves a break and what way to give it some rest. This was the first of hopefully 4 road trips this year. Zen Juan it was good to see you again old friend.
Be good to yourself! e-

Humble Beginnings and the Dark Ages

 “Shall we begin like "David Copperfield"? I am born...I grew up. Or shall we begin when I was born to darkness, as I call it”. Famous words of Louie de Pointe du Lac, introducing himself in Anne Rice’s “Interview with the Vampire”.  Now that was a “cool” vampire, not like the metrosexual modern day version we can’t seem to escape. Well as you already can tell I am a nerd, you can catch me at some of those midnight showings at the movies and reading all the classic books(that every highschool student dreads) for fun. Although, It was not always like that, I had my wild days just like anyone else, maybe more so than some, but those stories are for another time. Where am I going with this? Let’s get back on track. Just like Louie, Let’s begin when I was born into my fishing life, or born into the “light”. Much like the the life cycle of the bugs we try so hard to imitate, I have grown and evolved throughout my years on the water, in someways I have digressed, but one thing is certain, “change” has always been constant. Like most people, I started fishing at a young age, maybe 5 or 6. I was armed with a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles “pole”, repetitively chucking neon colored marshmallows from a lawn chair on the shore of a nearby lake.  The bait made my fingers reek of a funky garlic, that even as a kid, I knew just wasn’t quite right. I call these years “the dark ages”.  I couldn’t tell you my first fish or much about my fishing adventures during that time, but what I do remember changed my life and led me on my current path, right down to this moment, as I sit here writing. It was a mild summer day at “San Isabel”,a small lake, nestled in the mountains near Colorado City, a short trip from where I grew up. I sat back on my chair and eagerly waited for that small twitch of my “pole”, something, anything, that showed signs of intelligence on the other end. Those moments came, and although few and far in between, I loved every second of it.  Even as a young tyke, I remember always trying to be aware of my surroundings, I had a hard time concentrating and staying on track and often found myself enthralled in what was going on around me instead of the task at hand.  As I sat there, I watched others all around me; to my left was a group of men toting boxes of gear, which seemed to be filled with a never-ending supply of neon colored jars and to my right I observed a woman struggling to stick an almost elusive night crawler on a hook, not unlike threading a sewing needle.  Occasionally, I would catch a conversation between some of them, One man would mutter “What color are they biting on?” to which the other would reply “Salmon eggs”. Which in turn made me think, Salmon?  There is Salmon in here? Wait, what’s a Salmon? I don’t even know what a Salmon is.  Then I would really lose track, just in the process of learning the rules of phonics, I was perplexed, S-A-MM-in, Sam-on, Salmon? Why is there an “L” in salmon, Just when I had this spelling thing all figured out, now there is silent letters? There I go getting off track. Focus. Anyway, as I observed the scene around me, I heard another guy giving directions to a group on how to catch fish, or as he called it using his “secret bait to slay trout”, which I can only guess was some sort of homemade concoction.  As I looked at all the different people around everyone seemed to be sitting in chairs like me watching their “poles”. Some had more than one pole and others had bells hanging off of them but in general everyone seemed to be doing the same thing. One other thing was apparent, no one seemed to be having any more success than the next. All except one man.  He was standing out in the water, dressed in a pair of canvas waders and a cowboy hat, He carried no tackle box, no stringer for fish. He wore a vest and seemed to methodically wave around a “pole”.  This wasn’t just any regular “pole”, it was twice as long as any on the lake and seemed to bend like a noodle.  It was unlike anything I had ever witnessed. He looked like an artist painting the beautiful mountain landscape behind him. Every four or five times he laid his line on the water, I would catch a glimpse of a silver flash just below the surface followed by a splash only to see his “pole” come to life dancing back and forth: a fish, The whole process happened so fast my brain had trouble processing.  How did he do it? What kind of sorcery was this?! He seemed to have the reflexes of a ninja, much like the movies of Bruce Lee, that I watched with my father.

      I watched as he did it over and over and so did everyone else, their faces looked sick with frustration.  All the while, he had no expression on his face at all, in fact it seemed as if he was not aware of anyone or anything else, not the rumbling of the plane passing by overhead or the clunk of the kids throwing rocks into the water, nothing.  Everything he did seemed so natural, his “pole” almost seemed to be an extension of his arm. A feeling came over me, a realization even at a young age, that’s how I wanted to be.  I HAD to learn to do that.  I continued to watched in amazement as he went through his casting motions, the line seemed to dance in the air, so powerful, yet as the line touched the water there was barely a ripple. The man was an artist, truly a master of his craft.  The man was my grandfather.