Easter 2001 Rio Cebolla and San Juan

Transvestites, Crowds and Giant Fish. Sounds like the name of a new John Gierach novel doesn’t it? May be so but it accurately describes my experience at the San Juan River this year.

Spring Break in New Mexico is fast becoming a tradition. I get to spend a week with my folks at their home at the base of the Sandia Mountains and do almost as much fishing as I can stand to boot. Not a bad deal in my book.

 This trip was a mixed bag, filled with disappointment, amusement, surprise, perplexment, and simple unadulterated fun. 

The fishing portion of my trip began with an attempt to fish the meadow section of the Rio Cebolla. I’d been introduced to this section of the river last year by my fishing host cum guide- Ken. Of the half dozen or so places he had shown me, this was the one that I wanted to return to most. It was a shortish drive from my parents, was in a beautiful location and purported to contain Rio Grande Cutthroat trout. I eagerly anticipated catching one of these pale yellow natives.

My father allowed me to baptize his year old SUV in what was probably it’s first off road adventure. As he and I bumped and bounced our way down the severely rutted fire road, I remarked that the ride was surprisingly similar to that of my Toyota sedan- minus that annoying shearing sound my Corolla sometimes makes. 

From Fenton Lake. In the Jemez mountains, route 126 follows the Rio Cebolla until it’s intersection with fire road 376. At that point it heads south and eventually flows though a beautiful meadow. I hadn’t counted on the FR376 being closed but it was. A combination of greater snow fall this year and an earlier Easter conspired to keep us from our destinations. Presumably the road was still water logged from the melting snow that still littered the ground in spots. I understand the need for erosion control in such situations, so we simply turned around and headed back out.

We stopped on a short hill and then stopped again at the bridge of another closed road.  It was an obvious bait spot. The water meandered very slowly under the bridge to a tree at the lip of a small pool. I peered carefully from the bridge into the water and spotted a fish. I thought to myself, “If I can see ‘em, I can catch him.” I circled around to base of the pool and shot my Royal Wulff just above the lip. The fly sliced to the right of my intended target...way right. Regardless, the drift was good and I was surprised when a larger, unseen fish savagely lashed at the fly. One of the things I love about high country fly fishing is that the fish don’t fool around. No sooner had this plump, 10 inch rainbow engulfed my fly when it dove straight for cover. My thin 7.5ft 4wt doubled over as I fought to keep it from tangling in the surrounding cover.

One cast, one fish. I was pleased as I showed the fish to my father who had been watching from the bridge. My next cast was spot on and my intended target confidently engulfed the fly. My glory was short lived as this fellow promptly threw the hook. I made another cast and tangled on the back the cast. No problem- I’m “resting” the fish. The next cast was meet with another take. This time I struck too soon or too late and the fish was gone. I felt just slight resistance as the fish moved to a feeding station just below the bridge. Each following cast was meet with refusal. Fortunately, while my dance with this particular trout played out, two other fish had started feeding under the bridge.

The first trout was at the very top portion of the pool, just below a rock. The second trout was midway beneath the bridge, where the current flowing in from above created a feeding lie against the right hand wall. A cast to either of these fish would be difficult. I’d have to false cast with a minimum of line out of the guides to avoid snagging on the back cast; then shoot enough line to reach the fish. This was not an exciting prospect for me. My casting skills wanting, I decided to try to reach the fish with a roll cast instead. Wiggling the line out, I guestimated the amount of line needed to reach the second fish and shot a roll cast to the left side of the pool. This was to gauge distance as well as to straighten out the line in front of me. As the line drifted slowly toward me, I lifted my rod and shot out another cast up and to the right. The fly fell just right of center and drifted against the far wall. Nothing. I waited for the fish to rise again. He did and I could see that my cast was just short of where it needed to be. I made another cast and a scrappy Brown trout intercepted my Wulff. Hot Dog!

(This chronicle is continued with the San Juan portion of the trip in Tales from the Pish Page.)

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