Golden Hook

It was a hot day down on the plains, but in the mountains above Nederland, Colorado it was a completely different story. As I drove up with my windows down, I could feel the air soothing my city-worn body. There is always relief when I get into the mountains. I can feel the long and tiring days melt away. The Continental Divide towers above me. The peaks, some over 12,000 feet, are an intimidating yet beautiful sight. The highest peaks still have snow lingering in the shadows, clinging to life. I load up my rod and ready my fishing buddy, Cody. Cody is a Labrador retriever. That name is a little deceiving: in theory, he should retrieve, but in actuality, he falls a little short. I make my way across the railroad tracks that line this part of the stream and move down to the banks of the stream. The stream is new yet refreshingly familiar, I have never been here but there is a sense of déjà vu, as there is when you fish on any small stream. The blending and swirling currents put me at ease, each current merging into the next, flowing effortlessly, each in a state of bliss. If only the traffic in Denver were so kind.

 I am in the mood for some dry fly fishing, but I want to catch a few first so I decide to go with a nymph pattern- one that is partly of my designs and that is partly borrowed from trusted oldies. I see what seems to be a good pocket, an area of gentle slow water, protected from the main current by a large rock, so I make my way into position. The water is a nice awakening. Its icy sting is just what I was looking for, a feeling that one can only get from waters that make their way from the melting snow. As I splash my way across the little stream, my partner in crime follows, always curious about all that is going on. After a few casts, I hook a small brook trout. It puts up a surprisingly good fight for its size, its effort valiant but not enough. You can feel the power, a power only conjured up when there is the fear of no tomorrow. I feel like saying: “Don’t worry, in time you will be back to the waters you roam and everything will be ok.” 

I continue to make my way upstream. I fish each pocket gently yet thoroughly. After several pockets and a lack of fish, I begin to wonder whether that first fish was just a fluke, the early success can never predict the day to come. There have been days where I have caught a fish on my first cast and then had no luck the rest of the day. That is just how fishing goes.

As I make my way further upstream, I am able to spot a good-sized trout holding in a small pocket near the shore. From my perch on the banks, I can see it swaying back and forth with the current. I cast my line into the pool. Nothing. I cast again. Nothing. I tell myself: “It must be the fly.” So I change it up. Cast, nothing, cast, nothing, change flies again, cast, nothing. “Ok, what is going on?” I then tell myself: “If I can’t catch this fish then I am going to spook it.” Yes, that may seem cruel but that is just how the young mind works. After a couple of pokes, all of my frustration leaves me but I am filled with a new feeling, sadness.

The fish is dead, some old fishing line holds it in place. Some uncaring fisherman before me left the fish on the line, which then became tangled in the rocks and didn’t allow the fish to move. A shame, this fish was beautiful, a cutthroat. Its gill plate raging fire orange, making it easy to see how it got the name.

  I cradle the dead fish as if he were one of my fallen comrades. As I hold it in my hands, having realized that this fish has been caught before, I ask myself: “What did he go for?” Well, it will still be there since it has been holding the fish here since who knows when. As I look into the mouth I see that there is a golden hook. I remove the hook and examine it, just a plain gold hook. Since I did graduate from high school and am now in college I have the knowledge to put two and two together. The golden hook worked on this fish so it could work on others.

As I tie the hook on, I wonder how something so simple could work. I make my way into a new position, eager to use my new find and hoping it will prove to be successful.  There is always a great sense of hope when one ties on a new fly. There is a feeling of things to come. “Maybe this could be the one.” I feel a little discouraged after a couple of casts, but patience pays off. Bump, Set, Wiggle. “Well I’ll be damned, it works.” I can feel the power of the fish. Playing the fish over to me I realize that this is a cutthroat. I can see the distinctive mark, the “cut throat”, as the fish glides through the water. I guess it is around fifteen inches, a whopper for the size of the stream and what I was expecting. I continue to fish this same pocket and it keeps on proving successful. With the golden hook and a pheasant tail, I have much more success than I ever imagined. This pocket just seems to keep on producing fish. My audience of one, sitting there with a smirk on his face as if to say: “ Humans are completely insane. You stand here waist deep in the water, laughing at something funny only to you, waving some toy of yours, and pulling fish out of the water.” Each successive fish brings more joy to my face. They have a godly power to make me smile. I have always been able to rely on the sight of a trout, gleaming in the sun with its vibrant colors, to take me away from my problems. I have always been able to think things out on the river, just me, the stream, and the fish. Everything else melts away. The week’s problems flow out of me like the waters that gently meander by and around my legs.

With dark clouds mounting an assault on the citadel that is the Rocky Mountains, I decide to call it a day.  I make my way back to the car and then eventually make my way back home, even though there is a strange feeling of already being there. A plain gold hook had the power to bring pure joy into my life. Not everything in life needs a fancy logo or a computer chip. Throughout my life it has been the simple things that have been the most memorable. Things like just talking to friends and family, petting a wet dog after a long day of fishing, or fishing with just a plain gold hook.

Something so simple changed the entire day, a day that started in the cramped city and ended with a feeling of freedom that can only be found by yourself on a stream in the Rocky Mountains. It may not have been a life-changing discovery, but when will another golden hook show up in life? It may have already shown up. Have I just overlooked the fish? Or just haven’t taken the time to examine what is in its mouth?