Fly Fishing Getaway to Lake George
The start of a great story is always the hardest part, encompassing, and giving voice to every magical moment is a challenge, I am still working on mastering. Words are a gateway to share with others in such a way that they are right there with you. Whether trudging through a dark alley or climbing the highest mountain top, you feel the tickle of danger in your gut or the burn of a blister on your heel. I have had the honor to grow up here in Colorado, a place so great, I plan to grow old here as well. For all the years I have been an inhabitant, I am continuously in awe of the beauty that surrounds us. Whether it be the sunset against a stark mountain backdrop, the rush of a river dedicated to its plight, or merely the silence only found in the vast unknown. The silence is my favorite because, in it, you hear something more, the heartbeat of the universe itself. Thus started our four-day fly fishing getaway to a quaint little town known as Lake George.
“You must go on adventures to find where you truly belong.”
Google maps in gear and our truck packed to the brim, the standard giddy excitement hit me the moment we turned off I-25 and headed west. Flycast USA had hooked us up with what we soon found out would be the trip of a lifetime. Amidst their countless options for our late summer getaway, Lake George had caught our eye. Snuggled in-between mountain highs and valley lows, it was this little piece of paradise through which the South Platte rumbled. If you blink too quickly, you will miss the quaint, tiny town of Lake George. The local fly shop, Tumbling Trout, was closed due to the late hour, so we added it to the agenda for the next day. Spillway Campground is the furthest campground up County Road 24, and as our truck bumped along the dusty road, we caught our first sight of the water itself. It took everything in me not to jump out of the moving vehicle, rip my shoes off, and throw my waders on. But the smell of a campfire kept me in the car as we slowly reached the campground; it was well worth the drive I might add. Our campsite was tucked in the corner on the edge of the campground, our only neighbor during this mid-week adventure was the South Platte itself. As we unpacked our pickup and set up camp, a whoop came from downstream as a female angler netted a large trout, I grinned in admiration, silently itching to head to the water myself.
With camp set up and the evening breeze turned chilly, we geared up and headed to the water. Our fly boxes were bursting with recommendations from Taylor and Travis over at FlyCast; Griffith Gnats, Rainbow Warriors, Zebra midges and Psycho Prince Nymphs, to name a few. A year of extraordinarily high runoff had left us eager to get into some good water as the year had ticked by. Small flurries surrounded us as we emerged from the brush and stepped into the water. A mayfly hatch at its prime; their wings were shimmering in the golden light of the setting sun. We quickly threw on a few imitation flies, said a quick prayer, and sent them on their way. Up-stream, the fish were sipping off the top of the water as my fly line unfurrowed and landed softly. In a split second, I realized I was holding my breath and reminded myself to relax; it is about the journey, not the destination. Just the chance to be here, with Cameron, taking in the scenery, in search of some big fish was enough. It wasn't long before I saw my fly dip below the surface, and I set the hook. The dance into the net was untypically short-lived, and in no time at all, I set eyes on a beautiful, hefty trout. Now, you can't beat that!
Early the next morning, the blue light of predawn accompanied me as I crept from the tent. Given the high temps the day before, I was unprepared for the chill that seized me the moment I left my sleeping bag. My husband slept soundly, the light snore escaping his lips had me giggling. The man continues to out fish me most days, and yes, I am a touch competitive. I gambled, my best chance of catching more fish was to get to the water earlier and stay longer. I brewed a quick cup of coffee, grabbed my gear, and headed to greet our neighbor, the South Platte. The clear, crisp scene that unfolded before me was surreal, and without a single angler in sight, I had the run of the place. Exploring new pockets of water and casting my line into eddies, I would bet money, were home to our fishy friends. It was all worth it the moment the line went taut, the sounding notes of my favorite dance, waking early, braving the morning chill, our fellow campers and husband sleeping soundly, all for this single moment. Several minutes later, the dripping trout safely netted and the slow, steady rise of the sun illuminating a world of color, I am reminded that this is precisely what I was seeking. Here, in our vast wilderness, my soul rejoices, for I am home.
The day carried on, just as epic as it had started as we cheered each other on, hollering when we landed a fish and howling slightly louder when more than once, we lost one on the line. A sport that takes decades to master, an art of which you are always learning. Whether it be the water itself, the flies you are trying to imitate, or the catch you are so desperate to find. The weather was perfect, the wind barely bristling the trees and the sunshine, well, there is nothing better than our Colorado sunshine.
I glanced up to see Cameron with a nice sized trout on the line, I quickly reeled in and grabbed my phone to take a video. This dance looked a little more challenging between several boulders and a log half-submerged in the water. From across the river, I was little help, and I painfully watched the fish run under the log. This left a dilemma for Cameron, who risked breaking his new rod or, as I observed in awe, gently guiding his rod under the trunk as well, fish still on the line. The art of fly fishing.
Mid-day arrived in a flash as we pulled off our waders and headed to the Tumbling Trout. The quaint shop was filled to the brim with flies, supplies, and, more importantly, Michele White, the owner, and a true master of the South Platte. We loaded up on her suggestions, making sure we had plenty of the right flies. We all know a day on the water can be great or a bust, depending on if you are packing the proper treats. As evening rounded the corner, the river becomes a vast unknown as your sight dims to the tick of the setting sun. A campfire and hot meal awaited us. With the help of the fire and a large glass of red wine, we sat back and shared our highs of the day in this magical place. We shrugged our shoulders at the water-logged cell phone, both agreeing it was worth it. It wasn't long before heavy eyes had us headed to bed, in wait of another day.
“What is life but a grand adventure. ”
Our trip ended on the same high note that it began; gratitude swelled around us at the chance to enjoy our outdoors, even if only for a few days. It never ceases to amaze me how 72 hours lost in the mountains can feel like a lifetime. You leave with a full heart, and a rejuvenated soul reminded once again of what truly matters in this crazy adventure we call life. At the end of the day, what matters is finding your soul, loving well, and living life to its fullest. An aspiration that just like fly fishing, I am still working on mastering. Always a work in progress and forever a learner, what more could I ask for?
- Kathryn
