Day Two took us up the Peak to Peak Highway into Rocky Mountain National Park (RMNP).  Our plan was to meet a friend of mine through fly fishing of over two decades, Sister Sue K.  Sister Sue is a Colorado gal who knows her way around the area AND a trout stream.  She is an amazing fisherman and is generous with her knowledge.  As we arrived at the gate to the park, waiting our turn to chat with the ranger, a horn blew behind us.  A quick glance back revealed a smiling and waving Sister Sue in her tattooed fishing van!  Timing is everything.  We drove to the Moraine Park area and parked to exchange long overdue greetings and hugs.

As I have mentioned before, Facebook is a joy for me.  It has been a gift to be able to keep in touch with so many people I have met over the years.  Sister Sue is one of my many gifts I call “framily”.  We met many moons ago when email list serves and chat rooms were all the rage.  When Facebook came along, it was a natural transition for many of those folks to reach out to one another.  Sharing is more frequent, and beyond emailed words, there are now photos to bring our worlds even closer together. 

The setting was amazing, despite the smoke hanging in the air.   It was sunny and warm, and a breeze was blowing through the valley.  We had hoped that the elk would be migrating down out of the mountains, but none were seen or heard.  We followed Sister Sue to a parking area off the beaten path and quickly got our fishing gear together.

While in that part of the park, we fished two streams.  The smaller, Cub Creek, and the other, Big Thompson.  Despite its name, the Big Thompson, or “Big T” is not big in this part of the park.  It is the headwaters, and is not more than 10-15 feet across at best.  Despite the small size of these streams, they are cold and they hold trout.

We had to access the stream through a gate.  Why the gate?  There are large fenced areas erected throughout the moraine to keep the elk from destroying the vegetation in areas.  This allows for some control and assurance that there will be plenty for them to eat.  We all chatted away as we walked the stream, watching for signs of insect activity and fish.  We saw plenty of fish.

Late summer fishing anywhere is not easy.  These streams get plenty of fishing pressure and the fish are very wary.  Given the warm sunny day, the fish we COULD see were holding close to the bottom of the stream and were sitting still.  Not good for fly fishermen.  Sitting still meant they were not actively feeding.  Not actively feeding means that presenting flies, as a “meal” was not necessarily going to entice them to bite.  Hubby is a fairly new fly fisherman.  My heart sunk a bit as I had hoped for more active trout and a bit easier fishing for him.  Ah well.

We all elected to fish dry flies.  This would mimic some sort of insect floating on the surface of the water.  Our hope was that we could encourage a fish to come up and investigate.  Watching a fish break the surface of the water and inhale a fly, descending once again under the surface is the epitome of fly fishing entertainment!  We remained hopeful.

Sister Sue gave us some pointers on the best way to approach these well-educated, wary fish. We took turns on various pockets and riffles along the streams, casting our flies, watching them drift, and casting again.  And again.  And again.  We changed flies.  And again.  And again.  Nothing.  We could see the fish in the pools.  And again.  And again.

I took a wander off downstream a bit and found a large pool along a very large boulder.  I could see the fish stacked up along the bottom edge of the boulder.  There was a slight current coming around that great rock into a calm pool behind it.  I put on a very small fly meant to mimic an insect trying to free itself from the surface of the water.  I was able to cast the fly at the top of the current and it drifted back towards me.  I could see movement under the surface as a fish came out of formation from the rest of the group, grabbed my fly and darted back towards the boulder.  With a quick raise of the rod, he was hooked! 

Wild trout are absolutely stunning and this fish was no different.  A colorful brown trout had taken my fly.  I was elated to have caught him.  I slowed the retrieval long enough to allow Sister Sue and Hubby to join me to capture a photo or two.  We admired him quickly, and gently returned him to the safety of the water.  I think he was sulking a bit as he swam back to join the others.

The day went on as we worked our way along the water.  Sister Sue put on a clinic for us.  In laymen’s terms, that means she fished the pants off of us!  She was kind enough to share a fly with us that was deadly:  IOBO. 

The fly is called IOBO because “It Ought to Be Outlawed”.  It was originated by a fellow Pennsylvanian, Jack Tucker, who is a great friend and fishing companion to Sister Sue.  She offered one of these gems to Hubby, and stood at his shoulder teaching him about the drift, and the mend.  He listened.  As he fished a gorgeous pool, shaded from the sun, and cut into the bank, we were both coaching, cheering, and applauding his fishing.  On one drift, the fly quickly disappeared.  Hubby VERY quickly raised the rod with lightning reflexes which VERY quickly extracted the fly from the fish.  Sister Sue and I looked at each other with a “been there, done that” look and patted him on the back.

After checking the fly, and assuring it would float, Hubby was back in business.  After only a couple of more drifts his efforts were rewarded as another fish took the fly.  This time, his movement was not so quick and the fish was on.  He brought the fish in quickly and we admired the splendor of his first trout on a dry fly… a wild brown trout.   Photos were taken, congratulations were given, and we moved on, all smiling at the success of our day.

Early afternoon, Sister Sue decided it was time for her to return to civilization.  As with many of my fly fishing friends, it was as if we had seen each other only a short time ago.  I am so grateful that she took the time to come out and fish with us.  The memories are priceless.

Hubby and I decided we too would journey back towards our base camp.  We stopped in the town of Estes Park to have a meal and wander the shops.  We ate at the Estes Park Brewery.  Although we were not impressed with the food, the beer was cold and hit the spot.  Estes Park was bustling with people.  We did our best as tourists to enter many of the shops, picked up a tee shirt and a hat, as well as a sticker or two.  We found a shop with homemade ice cream and waffle cones and felt it our obligation to try it.  We were impressed. 

On the drive back to Nederland, although disappointed we did not see elk, we were both smiling about our day spent fishing with Sister Sue.  When we were about two miles away from our base camp, there were a couple of cars pulled off of the roadway.  I cautioned Hubby, knowing that when this happened in this area, it was likely there was wildlife visible.  We pulled over.  There, about 25 yards away, near a pond, was a cow moose and her calf.  The cow was tearing off branches from a small aspen tree, filling her belly.  The calf seemed unimpressed with this, nibbling a few leaves now and again.  Momma wandered to the edge of the pond for a drink, and the calf laid down to wait for her.  We took photos, and quietly took our leave. 

As the sun set on our day, we rambled on to each other about the day, and how grateful we were for every part of it.  It was an early night for sleep as Day 3 was waiting for us!