South Fork Colorado, at the intersection of 149 and 160, is one of those places where you can tell the world has passed by many, many times. The edges of the roads are dusty and a little rain, and a little sun can make even the paved roads a real dustup. Harley Davidsons do the best they can to look tough, and disrupt the audio tranquility. For all the feigned badness, it’s a world away from Robert Johnson’s crossroads.

There’s no shortage of fish signs in South Fork, and marauding Texans would think a natural place to stop would be the Wolf Creek Anglers‘ log cabin at 1 Brown’s Road (N37 40.409 W106 37.187), just across the tracks barely north of 160. If you don’t see the cabin, just look for drift boats, rafts and other equally sexy and exotic watercraft parked out front. Other than the fact they are not very interested in selling you a fishing license for anything other than cash, Wolf Creek Anglers is a very good and informative stop. Sure, it’s full tourist price, but … you’re a TOURIST!

The young man working there was plenty of help, and was willing to provide enough information to get me a couple days down the road. “If you’re going to Creede, you’ll want to check out the Rio Grande Reservoir. Don’t bother with the first two reservoirs. The south end (of the Rio Grande) is OK, but the north end can be pretty good,” he said.

We digressed to lake cutthroat, and another seasoned local kicked in at the counter, “Crater Lake. You can get there from South Fork, but it’s rough,” driving a fish bone right through my heart. This is when I put Crater Lake away for another day that includes the FJ60. The conversation rambled, no need to hurry, with the counter-leaning, fair skinned, but well tanned customer I’ll call mahafishie … “There’s this lake where the trout are huge, but I can’t tell you where it is,” he said, enticing anyone who would listen into a guessing game. It was useless for a Texan to guess around the map with anyone this local. Leslie tried to guess, but it was pointless.

We had zero success getting a license for Leslie at Wolf Creek Anglers, so we hit the dusty road back toward 149. I had to hold something (not getting the license) against the young guy working there, since he was a good looking chap, weathered by the the life that much closer to heaven, and doing something only slightly short of God’s work – guiding schmoes like myself to the promised waters. He did say the Rainbow Grocery could do the license, so we stopped there and went inside.

The Rainbow Grocery, the look and the name do plenty to lower expectations. Plenty. We went inside, and went left to fly supply mecca. We are talking unbelievable inventory in every category including fly tying. There were more fly tying materials than I had ever, EVER seen in one place. Generally, if one is traveling, it may not be the time to buy feathers and fur. Drawer after drawer of materials filled to the top … would have to wait for another day. I struggled to break the trance, regain my equilibrium, and quickly headed for the door. These days, all the talk is about overdosing on Facebook, the internet, but little attention is given to those of us who overdose on fly shops. NOTE – Stop at the Rainbow Grocery no matter what. This is one grocery store where wives will wait in the car.

How come I never got one of these?

We headed up 149 along the Rio Grande River toward Creede. I was a passenger, so I could look at the water, and enjoy the scenery. The river was wide, and spotted with fly fishers here and there. The water was cold and clear. On a curve, we spotted a strange (for Texans) site, parents and kids in birthday hats, holding paddles, getting ready to load up on a big blue raft for a birthday float down the Rio Grande. We had to stop. We traded pleasantries and I shot a couple of images before they pushed off. It was surreal. How many six-year-olds do you know who have birthday parties like this? Maybe every Colorado kid has a floating birthday party, on a perfect day, on a perfect river, but this Texan felt a little … short changed. They loaded up and paddled off happy ever after.

In Creede, we checked in to Bruce’s Snowshoe Lodge. The laundry room was the final piece of a completely restored sense of (no) smell. Bruce’s has all the look of a 1960′s motor hotel, but was a great place to continue the comfort phase of the Colorado expedition.

We were in Creede early enough to get squared away, and head for the Rio Grande Reservoir. We headed out 149 and turned off at FS Road 520, a road that is long and typical of the challenges you would face in the Colorado outback. Potholes, unbreakable rock formations in the middle, all form narrow canyon ribbons with sheer downsides loosely disguised as a road.

We had no concept of distances, and time speeds up as we slowed to a crawl on some parts of the road to the reservoir. It came as no surprise that we were about to get our afternoon fill of the monsoons again. We hadn’t seen much rain in Texas around this time, but this wasn’t Texas, and I was wearing a little thin on the half-days every single day.

From high above the the Rio Grande Reservoir we could see fishermen down below fishing the river coming into the north side of the reservoir. How they got there was a mystery. We drove past three Ford trucks with Texas license plates, did a ten point turn around, and went back to where the trucks were parked. They had to be parked as close to the trail as possible – if they’re Texans.

Sure enough, they parked, perhaps strategically, to prevent easy sighting of the trail, so here are the GPS coordinates – N37 44.691 W107 19.595.

 The Rio Grande Reservoir Colorado Fly Fishing 1: Play Now | Play in Popup | Download

We put on our rain gear and made our way down the trail. The rain was coming on steady, and thunder rumbled from miles distant. We wouldn’t be at a high point, but talk about exposed … all I could do is take solace in the odds with about four other guys holding lightning rods in the same area. One-in-four were odds I would take after that drive.

I was immediately encouraged by a quick strike drifting a bunny fly in the mud brewed water. The silver flash was unmistakeable rainbow, but the clarity was turning all wrong, and quick. Another strike was enough to tell me I was in a good place, but this day was going to break the string, no fish today.

My determination to avoid a shutout was soon dampened by the relentless rain, and tomorrow’s plan was set in stone. I wasn’t going to let this spot get away without a fair fight. We climbed out of the river valley, and drove back with me measuring time and distance the whole way. How else could I plan to bring you guys what comes next?

Day two started with the knowledge that it was moving day. I knew I was due in Pagosa Springs to meet Leslie and the backpacking group at Kips after coming off the trail. Her cryptic call the day before did little to ease my mind, a message from altitude cut off just after saying she wasn’t going to make the second week with her friends on the Continental Divide trail.

That got my attention. I was left to guess what the physical problem was, and the entire trip would be recast in a different mold starting Day Two.

For what it’s worth, and playing the Texan card, I considered my goals for fishing in Colorado to be so low as to be attainable – going nello if you will. Doing it all myself, based on what information I could find in fly shops, books, magazines and the detailed itinerary from Joel Hays, I was satisfied to catch trout every day, and as a bonus catch as many different trout as were possible.

I packed it all up and headed out of Bridge Campground, down the increasingly rough 631 and into town. It was an early start with the idea of catching a cutthroat. I had heard about Crater Lake at some point, so I hit 160 and headed east at what seemed like blazing speeds compared to the dirt roads I had been on for the past two days.

Through Pagosa Springs and out on 160, and just before Wolf Creek, I finally found and took a right on 667. Somewhere at the end of the road begins a four mile hike to Crater Lake. It was a beautiful if hurried drive that gradually became more and more difficult. Things took a turn for the worse after my second water crossing, and I arrived at the proverbial fork in the road. The original 667 (also on maps as East Fork Road) split into 667a. “A” was what I wanted, but I could see extremely bad road conditions a hundred yards ahead, as if what I just came through wasn’t bad enough, and a sign saying “Four Wheel Drive Only.”

Now, I don’t want to take the risk of offending the Subaru Forester, and I am sure that my four-wheel-driving skills were up to the task, but at the end of the road lay a four mile hike to Crater Lake along “Crater Lake Trail 562.” The math of time didn’t add up, so I turned around and bailed out.

I went back through Pagosa Springs and fell back on one of the recommended days, big water at 160 where it crosses the Piedra. The idea of fishing a little, and getting blanked for the day, was setting in. Driving isn’t fishing just like talking and writing isn’t fishing.

I turned off 160 again, this time at 622 north bound along the east side of the Piedra. And the Piedra was flowing pretty good on the strength of daily monsoons. I parked when the clock said to stop, and boulder hopped my way in. Fly fishing, shooting video, and staying dry were all too much to ask, so video was out – as it should be.

A good drift and a nice take brought an extremely aggravated German brown trout to hand. There was not going to be any sight casting in this water. It was text book riffles behind boulders, edges of currents and classic holding spots. Time was ticking, but I managed another rainbow trout before time ran out.

I parked myself in a booth at Farrago Market Cafe, and tried to get an internet connection to go with my Pabst Blue Ribbon on tap. It’s just west of Kip’s Grill and within eyesight of all church vans passing through Pagosa Springs. I had a great meal, great beer and zero internet connection, so it was time to sit outside in Kip’s in the shade and wait.

ON TO SOUTH FORK

After a week apart … camping in the great wilderness … I am glad Leslie and I are “visual people” because if we were going on smell, it might be all over but the shouting. The adult trip leaders and high school age backpackers ate like it was their last meal. Leslie was having foot problems, but wanted to go see her second group off from their start in Creede.

We had one little problem, Leslie had forgotten where we were staying that night, so we stopped at an attractive little lodge called the Spruce Lodge, only to find out we were in the wrong place. So, the Spruce Lodge owner proceeded to call every lodge in the area, and finally found us at the Ute Bluff Lodge. I knew we were good when we saw the sign on the lodge office door … something about “Gone Fishin’, and the fish photos. The owner was more than happy to give me directions to one of his favorite cutthroat lakes that was close by. Sometimes it seems all you have to do is ask.

The sun was dropping and thunder and rain was threatening as we laid out our tents to dry before packing them away. Hummingbirds were moving from hanging plant to hanging plant getting high on nectar before the evening roost, and buzzing us if we were too close. The temperature was dropping and rains skipped around us, and the air dried out making it that much more NOT Texas.

All in all, it was a good day with fish caught, and another variety of trout caught, as if sampling another fine wine from another winery, on another beautiful day in paradise.