A New World of Fly Fishing

My dad and I have been fly fishing in the tiny mountain streams and rivers of Colorado since I can remember. We’ve gotten pretty good at it over the years. Saltwater fly fishing has always been a foreign entity compared to our little world of trout streams, seemingly with less delicacy and much bigger fish. A friend of ours convinced us to try it, and specifically in the beautiful saltwater flats of Belize.

We arrived at the airport in Belize City, made our way to the town’s port, and hopped on a boat for a 90-minute ride east to Turneffe Flats. If you consider yourself to be a hardcore fisherman, Turneffe is definitely on your radar. It’s known for its miles of untouched shoreline, bonefish, tarpon, and big permit fishing, all via the intensive accuracy and precision of a fly rod. I had heard of Turneffe before, but I didn’t know much about it. In all honesty, I didn’t really understand where Belize even was until we headed out into the Caribbean.

The islands are 36 miles offshore. I’ve never been one to enjoy going so far out to sea that you can no longer see land. As soon as I head that “36 miles” I knew this trip would be pushing my comfort zone. We arrived at the resort and were greeted by the entire staff on the dock. There were only 14 guests staying at the resort this week. We were so far out, surrounded by hundreds of islands of mangrove forests and so few human beings— but we were oddly comfortable.

Our first day of fishing was hard. The big and small differences proved to be challenging for my dad and I as we tried to adapt to this new world we had entered. The immediate obvious difference to me was that we were fishing in the ocean, meaning we were in the fish’s world and they can go wherever they want. If we spook them, they can swim miles and miles away from us, never to be seen again. It’s not like they’re confined to a small stretch of river bounded by rocks and rapids like the trout in our friendly mountain streams. The second difference was that the majority of these fish have never seen a person before. They get spooked very easily, so quietly wading, moving slowly, and effectively casting to the nose of the fish is essential for success. The third major difference, and arguably the biggest challenge my dad and I faced, was casting the bigger and heavier rods. Sure, we learned to double haul with our eight weights before we left and we could be precise with a few false-casts on the river. But once we were out on the flats with a ten-weight, standing on the edge of our skiff, with our guide shouting to cast perfectly at 11:00, 40 feet off the boat NOW with no time for even a single false-cast, into a strong ocean breeze to a permit that we couldn’t even see: we didn’t stand a chance.

Our guide, Eddie, was the most patient man we had ever met. We warned him this was our first time fishing saltwater and he promised he could bear with us as we struggled to learn his ways. He succeeded in finding us lots of fish every day. He wasn’t ever upset as we spooked each and every permit we encountered, he helped us search for tarpon in the mangroves, he slowly walked us up to schools of bonefish, and he explained gently why his lighter, homemade version of a shrimp fly was exponentially better than the store-bought shrimp we brought with us. But most importantly, Eddie helped us catch a few bonefish, the easiest saltwater fish to catch on the Turneffe Flats, giving us hope that we could actually be successful in saltwater fly-fishing.

Eddie grew up at Turneffe, on a tiny island about a 20-minute boat ride away from the resort. He fished and learned where and what lived in each and every corner of the flats, and in the deepwater. He knew exactly where the fish were at each location he took us to, he could spot a 30-pound permit several hundred feet away in turquoise blue water, and his casting skills left us dumbfounded.

But what my dad and I especially noticed about Eddie, and even the rest of the resort staff, was that he was incredibly happy. Undoubtedly, life has thrown many curveballs at him as he grew up on these islands. He still radiated happiness, gratitude for his fortune at living in Turneffe, and amazement at the abundance of life living in his backyard that he gets to see everyday. We realized this incalculable quality is rare among the people we meet, and so we named it “The Eddie Factor”.

After two days of fishing with Eddie and a couple hooked bonefish, we promised him we’d return just to fish with him. We loved spending time with him, his positive energy, and his contagious happiness. We were intrigued by this whole new side of fly-fishing that we had discovered and were eager to improve. There are hundreds of big permit waiting in the flats and we are now determined to cast to them.

New Decade, Same River

Yesterday marked the beginning of a new decade. The first sentence of a new chapter. And I started it by standing in a river, the same river I have been standing in for twelve years.

Basalt, the Frying Pan River, and the Roaring Fork Valley in Colorado have always held a special place in my heart. The bright maroon rocks and rich green lush covers the rolling hills, to where they hit the Elk Mountains, Sawatch Range and Glenwood Canyon. The Crystal, Roaring Fork and Frying Pan Rivers flow tirelessly across colorful river stones, containing a diverse riparian system that are filled with mayflies and trout. My parents found this area by closing their eyes and pointing to a place on a Colorado map. We precisely drove to that point, camped, and fell in love. 

Even though my family’s camping days are long gone, my dad and I have been returning to Basalt for our annual fishing trip at least once every summer. Recently, we’ve been able to make time for two or three trips… allowing our fishing obsession to grow and grow. 

It’s that time of year too, where loose cotton drifts through the trees, the sun burns down hot on the Western slope, and the mayflies begin to hatch. And they hatch like crazy. 

Blue winged olives, pink pale morning duns, and the famous green drakes line the river for months in anticipation of this grand event. They rise to the surface, one species after another and the trout go nuts. The famous trout in the Frying Pan are no stranger to tricky fisherman—they can easily tell an imitation fly from the real deal by just an ever so slightly off-putting drift. But on the Pan, a hooked fish every few hundred casts or so is worth it. 

So even at the end of a hard day fishing, when there are no bugs, no birds, and no netted fish, standing in the river and waving a stick under the Seven Castles is pretty magical. This is why we keep coming back.

We had one of these hard days yesterday. A few fish were caught so we didn’t go hungry, but it wasn’t the epic day we were looking for by any means. After several hours with no sign of a late afternoon hatch, my dad and I loaded up the truck and began our drive back into town. We were a little tired, a little annoyed, but overall incredibly happy.

“Don’t fight the river, dad,” I said out of nowhere. 

He smiled and further demanded an explanation.

“My favorite saying, if I got a tattoo, I would get that sentence written somewhere on my body. My old mentor first said it to me, but since my obsession with rivers began, it stuck more and more. Rivers are an allegory for life. Most of the time, it’s peaceful, easy flowing. Flat water. Most of the time, life is good and easy, and everything seems to be like how it’s supposed to. But every now and then, the river becomes turbulent. Boulders, holes, rapids, waterfalls. When you’re on a boat approaching these obstacles, a way through often seems impossible at first. It is only after more time, thought and consideration that a route shows itself. And a route through always shows itself. These turbulent times just so happen to be when the river is able to change its surrounding landscape the most. In life, these turbulent times are when we are able to grow the most as human beings. And, the river always reaches the sea.”

“I like it, don’t fight the river, you can’t fight the river,” my dad repeated.

We drove on back to Basalt, where I thought a bit more about what the next ten years of my life should look like. I will definitely keep returning for the summer hatches on the Frying Pan, and I will (hopefully) catch more beautiful browns in deep holes on a fat dry fly. But if I just remember that wherever life takes me and as long as I don’t fight the river, everything will turn out alright.

Missing Rivers

I'm about two and a half months back into the academic grind at the University of Colorado Boulder, and life is good. My classes are interesting, grades are decent, I hike every weekend, I take plenty of photos. But there's been something missing, and I couldn't figure out what it was until I got a chance to catch up with my dad a few days ago. 

Rivers. 

I spent all summer next to a river. I worked a full-time job on Clear Creek in Idaho Springs. I paid homage to the Roaring Fork Valley and its gold-medal waters for multiple fishing trips. I spent twelve days and eleven nights on the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon. Rushing water was the soundtrack of my summer. 

Today I finally found a few extra hours after class, and drove up Boulder Canyon to fish. I parked my car, rigged my rod, and walked a little ways down to Boulder Creek where I made two casts before a fish hit my fly. This— is what I had been missing. 

I started thinking about my time spent in the Roaring Fork Valley, between Glenwood Springs and Aspen. I spent a good part of my childhood there, camping with my family, playing in open fields with my brother and our dog, walking through groves of aspen trees, and fishing. The Frying Pan River, in particular, is a part of me. I learned to fish there, I grew up there, I'll always return there. 

How many times have I stood at the gauging station in the Rocky Fork Day Use Area, about 13 miles up the Frying Pan Road from Basalt, and caught a rainbow trout with my dad standing next to me? How many times have I stood in the pouring rain, laughing in frustration on an unsuccessful day at Old Faithful? How many times have my dad and I driven up and down that windy road, singing along to Jimmy Buffet and gazing off at the iron-red Seven Castles?

My dad always tells me with a chuckle that when he dies, he wants to be cremated and thrown in the Frying Pan. 

These rivers are more than just "nature". They're memories, history, religion. There's a reason why the Confluence of the Little Colorado is a sacred place to the Piute people. There's a reason why Clear Creek County makes tens of millions of dollars every summer just through the rafting industry. There's a reason why the Roaring Fork and Frying Pan are iconic rivers for fly-fisherman. 

One day over the summer while I was working on Clear Creek, I was talking to a girl I had just met about my photography, and she asked me if I could take photos of one thing for the rest of my life, what would it be? Without thinking, I responded, "rivers". 

Rivers connect people to places. They are an essential lifeline between mountains, valleys, deserts, and oceans. They provide people with infinite intrinsic value, places to reflect, and sources of inspiration. "Don't fight the river," my mentor always told me. Rivers are an allegory for life—always moving, always flowing, always reaching new places.

They've most definitely shaped who I am. 

The few therapeutic hours I spent on Boulder Creek today was exactly what I needed, a little bit of nature, a little reflection, a little inspiration. I'm sure I'll be driving back for more tomorrow. And I'm definitely sure I'll be returning to those rivers that made me, me.

Fish Family

With a little less than two weeks until my second year of college starts, I've got a pretty busy schedule. I finally finished up my seasonal job at Rapid Image, leaving me with some time to prepare for school and for fun. 

I just finished the first item on the agenda, the annual Halama-family camping trip. We drove to our favorite spot in Colorado, Chapman Campground, located exactly 29 miles south of Basalt on the Frying Pan Road. It's right in the middle of White River National Forest, which is my favorite, since it has some of the best fly-fishing in the state, red-tinted rocks, and incredible aspen forests. 

My parents have brought my brother and I to this campsite, number 79 to be exact, since we were first able to walk. I caught my first fish in the Frying Pan river when I was eight. Since then, my family and I make at least one trip per year to our traditional spot. 

Yesterday, my dad and I had an epic day of fishing. The Frying Pan is known for its challenging hatches, picky fish, and forever changing conditions, which give fisherman dozens of variables to consider while fishing and a most certain headache. 

We started the day in a new spot on the river for us, and found a massive hole just upstream of a sharp bend. My dad stood waist deep in the hole, casting towards the bank for about 45 minutes, when he eventually called me over. 

He called over to me, "I've got a fish family!" I waded over and discovered at least 30 fish stacked up behind him, embracing the slower current and easy swimming produced by the hydraulics of his position in the river and the big hole. 

We were pretty desperate at this point. So far, our day had been filled with bad karma. We had tangles, almost-slips into the current, all while tying and untying flies in attempt to figure out the hatch. So, out of desperation, my dad told me to start casting towards him, into the school of fish hanging out behind him. Of course those picky Frying Pan trout wouldn't take the bait. 

Eventually he gave me his spot in the hole, and told me to cast in towards the bank, there were tons of fish rising there. It was a tricky cast, the current was much faster closer to me and slower by the bank, giving me a challenging mend in my line. In the cold mountain stream— I was soon numb from the waist down. "Oh well," I thought, "gotta sacrifice something for the fish gods."

I cast from this spot for about an hour and our family of fish never moved. One fish swam straight into my leg, almost knocking me over in surprise.

We had no luck in this new hole, but returned to our usual places and began catching fish, we were in the midst of a pretty awesome pink PMD hatch. Then the sun came back out, pushing the fish towards the bottom of the river, and we decided it was time to find some dinner.