I loved to fish on my dad’s ranch in the San Luis Valley a few miles south of Del Norte, Colorado. Working a fast-flowing snow-fed Colorado stream was my joy. The ranch meant chores, cattle and hay work, lots of it, and a teenage boy like me ached to slip away in the afternoons to stalk Frisco Creek’s banks. Sweet mountain meadows perfumed by alfalfa and timothy hay and clover. Crisp mountain air. Crystal clear, cold mountain water. Fresh-caught slippery rainbow trout. Though Frisco Creek was wide and deep in many places, trekking it was a bit rough even for an energetic boy. For one thing, reaching the stream meant a lot of high-stepping through hay meadows and ground scrub. For another, the tangled trees and brush prevented any trout-lover from casually moseying along the creek bank. There was a silver lining. The dense overgrowth and babbling water made it harder for fish to see, smell or feel me getting in close. A deep pool fed by water splashing over rocks and debris from higher up makes a prime fishing spot. With a short rod and reel, I’d bait my hook with a grasshopper, lay out my line and lock my reel. Rainbow crave grasshoppers. After mere seconds, a strike, the hook, then a close-hauled fight. After landing one or two sizable fish, time to move further up. I kept my catch alive by dropping my stringer in the creek and tying it off. When I caught about 7 or 8 trout, I aimed for home through the hay fields and along fence lines. By the time I threw open the kitchen screen door, the fish were dead. Or so they appeared. Cold mountain tap water quickly revived them. Half the fun was snatching them out of the churning sink to gut them for pan-frying. My gosh, fresh rainbow make a fine supper. And perfect boyhood memories. Father Barker +++
I loved to fish on my dad’s ranch in the San Luis Valley a few miles south of Del Norte, Colorado. Working a fast-flowing snow-fed Colorado stream was my joy. The ranch meant chores, cattle and hay work, lots of it, and a teenage boy like me ached to slip away in the afternoons to stalk Frisco Creek’s banks. Sweet mountain meadows perfumed by alfalfa and timothy hay and clover. Crisp mountain air. Crystal clear, cold mountain water. Fresh-caught slippery rainbow trout.