Three Days in The Gorge – Trout Nirvana in Western Colorado

Day One:

I'm startled from my sleep – something is licking my face.

Given the high-desert setting – home to black bears, mountain lions, bobcats, lizards, northern scorpions, and the occasional prairie rattler – and the fact that we elected to cowboy camp at the trailhead last night, I'm mildly alarmed. And only mildly because I haven't had my caffeine fix yet.

Swiping in the general direction of the wet tongue, I pry my eyes open to meet my fate. And there stands Reba, Rich's sweet but highly enthusiastic red-golden, my headlamp clutched in her white puppy teeth. I swear she's smiling. I check my watch: not even 6 AM. The morning is still a dull, muted grey, but it's already hot as a furnace. Okay, girl, I get it. It's time to get up and at 'em.

I groan, stretch my back, and shake a fresh layer of dust off the old, red sleeping bag.

After numerous conversations, months of research, and hours spent daydreaming, not to mention the extensive planning and logistical coordination, today we begin a three-day, two-night DIY float through Colorado's Gunnison Gorge. And, despite the season's alarmingly low snowpack and river levels, it looks like we may have timed the legendary Salmonfly hatch just right.

My younger son, Blake, and I flew into Montrose yesterday afternoon. My oldest, Kyle, and his two buddies, Matt and John (who spent a few of his college summers guiding this water and coordinated the logistics for this trip), drove down from Montana the day before to get gear squared and manage the mule pack in before grabbing us from the airport. Rich, the sixth member of our group, joined the rest of us at the campsite late last night. Rich works at a popular fly shop in Telluride, counts many outings in the gorge, and is proud owner of the white-toothed face-licker turned headlamp thief.

Anticipation runs high.

Beginning at the confluence of the Taylor and East rivers, the Gunnison, or Gunny to locals, flows 180 miles through western Colorado, carving its way through seriously spectacular landscapes – including the renowned Black Canyon National Park – before joining with the Colorado River in Grand Junction.

Just downstream from the national park lies Gunnison Gorge National Conservation Area – a fourteen-and-a-half-mile ribbon of trout heaven, filled with riffle runs, pocket water, and deep pools. It's considered among the crown jewels of American fly fishing, boasting 7,000 -10,000 trout per mile – twice as many as Montana's Madison, and nearly ten times as many as my home river in Michigan. 

Beyond the abundance of fish, one of the things that make this section so desirable from an angler's perspective is the access, or lack thereof – the majority of the prime water can only be reached by raft or kayak (or some truly serious hiking/scrambling), and many of the stretches are not ideal for wading. Just getting to this part of the river can be an adventure of its own – as I discovered on our drive in yesterday – bumping through rutty, rocky miles of spine-compressing dirt track.

After a quick breakfast we break camp, load packs, and make our way down to the put-in with the remaining gear, just as the sun begins to nudge over the rocky eastern wall. Our mile-long, 560-foot descent is dusty and hot. We take the switchbacks single file, wiping sweat and dodging mule shit as we go. Gradually winding our way into the slightly cooler and surprisingly verdant river valley.

At the put-in we finish assembling the rafts, organize and stash mounds of food, camp supplies, and fishing rigs, then row our three-craft flotilla upriver until we hit the rapids. Here we hop out and, as a team, rope each gingerly through the whitewater up to our first campsite.

The site consists of a mostly flat bench tucked up against a shaded wall of ancient Precambrian metamorphic rock with a few small trees. Salmonflies and golden stones bumble heavily through the scorching, late-morning air and scurry to and fro across the rocks and bushes – on some chaotic mission known only to them. In the river out front, fish feed in greedy gulps and full nose-to-tail, porpoise-like takes in the slicks, tail outs, and fussy water; in the shade and the full sun. It doesn't seem to matter. It's as if every pocket that could possibly hold a trout, does. This, I conclude, is where anglers who have lived a righteous life spend eternity. This place, this day, this moment, on repeat forever. I silently vow to stick a bit closer to the straight and narrow.

It's difficult to take it all in – to avoid becoming overwhelmed by the simultaneous stimulation – the ineffable grandeur of it all. But I force myself to stop and look and listen. To draw a deep breath of the dry, juniper-laced air and notice the salty bite of sweat running down my cheek. To slow things down a few clicks. To truly see it, not just as an angler, but as a human. This, I imagine, is what the world was like before modern man began his endless tinkering.

But for all the beauty and serenity of this place, that whimsical idea is a bit of a farce. Just upstream from this idyllic, Eden-like setting, a series of dams impede the once-wild river’s passage.

In 1956, in the upper reaches of the Black Canyon, the Wayne N. Aspinall Unit was authorized as part of the Colorado River Storage Project to provide water storage and generate hydroelectricity.

The unit consists of three dams. Blue Mesa, built in 1966, Morrow Point, built in 1968, and Crystal, the final dam in the succession, completed in 1976. This last 235-foot concrete structure acts as a regulating dam to balance water flows downstream in the lower portion of the Black Canyon. 

Collectively these dams regulate the river's temperature through selective withdrawal and thermal stratification using penstocks located deep within the reservoirs to pull water directly from the cold bottom layer. This is particularly critical in the summer months, when they release consistently cold water that keeps the downstream river temperatures habitable for trout populations – and especially relevant in these days of an ever-warming planet.

Generally speaking, and working from the benefit of hindsight, I am not a raving fan of dams, but in this case it's hard to argue the quality of the tailwater habitat they have created.

The plan for today is to wet-wade upriver, deeper into the canyon, and chase low-pressure lookers.

While it's no secret that I'm a born-again brown-trout guy and favor the streamer game, in this water hard-fighting rainbows are the true trophies, and topwater is the preferred method, if your timing is right. By some magical alignment of the stars, ours seems to be, and by the looks of things, we'll be throwing big, foamy bugs to big, happy fish.

Rainbow trout were first introduced here, alongside browns, via railroad stocking cars in the 1800s. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on your perspective) these vivacious fish quickly outcompeted the native Colorado River cutthroat who are now primarily only found in a few of the smaller headwater streams and tributaries.

These non-native trout soon established a world-class, self-sustaining wild fishery. But in the 1990s the local population of rainbows was nearly decimated by whirling disease, a condition caused by a microscopic parasite that attacks the cartilage of juvenile fish.

To combat the problem, Colorado Parks and Wildlife began collecting eggs from surviving wild rainbows to raise in hatcheries in the early 2000s, keeping the population from vanishing completely. Then biologists made a breakthrough in the East Portal section of the river. Here they discovered wild, reproducing rainbows that had developed a natural resistance to whirling disease.

Since 2014 biologists have been collecting eggs from these resilient Gunnison fish (affectionally known as GMO rainbows) to help repopulate other infected rivers across the state. The Gunny now hosts a thriving, Gold-Medal-status population of wild "Gunnison River Rainbows" that continue to reproduce naturally and draw anglers from around the globe.

Matt, John, and Rich head out first, intending to push as far as possible into the upper reaches of the canyon before working back down. Kyle, Blake, and I take it a little slower, starting with the juicy water right in front of camp.

The quiet time with my two boys is appreciated, and the fishing does not disappoint. Within eyesight of camp we pull an almost inconceivable number of good trout out of a handful of runs. Single salmonflies on top, dries dangling droppers, and small streamers (I couldn't help myself) – they all produce. And while I always get excited about seeing the buttery flash of a brownie, I'm quickly beginning to understand the lure of these thick, healthy rainbows with their bright cheeks and bold racing stripes.

We cross at the head of a gavel riffle and methodically leapfrog upstream, taking turns on the net, while enjoying watching each other hook and land fish. Collectively gasping at the aggressive strikes and blistering runs, groaning at the break-offs, and piling on the commentary when someone farms a set.

After a mile or two we finally locate the rest of our companions taking a short siesta in the shade. We join them for a while, enjoying a welcome respite from the day's heat, then begin to fish our way back downstream as the last of the light leaves the valley in shadow.

Back at camp we fashion rock recliners while steaks sizzle in cast iron and fudge brownies bake over coals in the Dutch oven. Under a bright blanket of stars, beers are passed and the day's stories recounted, until finally our eyes grow tired. The worries of the world have faded like a summer sunset, and we finally turn in.

Day Two:

I'm up early (no dog alarm required), and the canyon is slowly coming alive. I wander down to the river, perch on a low, still-warm rock, and absorb the moment. Attempting to synchronize myself with the rhythms of this place.

Originally called the Tomichi by Native Americans, the Gunnison was renamed for U.S. Army Captain John W. Gunnison who explored the region in 1853, mapping a route for transcontinental railroad.

The Gunnison River valley is the ancestral homeland of the Ute Indians, specifically the Parianuches (Elk People) to the north, and the Tabeguaches (later known as Uncompahgres) in the Gunnison Valley. As nomadic hunter-gatherers, they followed large game migrations and utilized the valley's rich resources during the summer months, relying deeply on the mountains and river corridors, viewing themselves as stewards of the land. Rock structures and petroglyphs scattered throughout the gorge still hold the ancient stories of their culture, lending a weight and reverence to each echo of the canyon.

In 1859 the Colorado Gold Rush began, resulting in a dramatic increase in miners, conflicts, and, ultimately, the displacement of the Ute population. Following increased hostility and broken treaties, the Utes were forcibly removed from their lands and relocated to reservations, such as the Uintah-Ouray Reservation in Utah and the Southern Ute Reservation in southwestern Colorado around 1880.

It's a dark moment in our history as "civilized people" to be sure.

The irresistible aroma of camp coffee perking on the Coleman pulls me back to the present. I pack up my heavy thoughts and join the others for breakfast.

In no hurry, we take our time reloading the rafts, eventually pushing off mid morning. I'm in the lead boat with John, Blake and Matt follow behind, Kyle, Rich, and Reba bring up the rear. Back down at the put in we run into a commercial outfit getting ready with their clients, and local cowboys bringing down another load of supplies with pack mules.

We pull over – John and Rich know a few of the guides – share some intel and some beer, let the guides and clients jump out front, and then, after giving them some good space, follow.

Just below we glide through the first real rapid, Chukar, and start fishing with more conviction. Salmonflies and golden stones are still doing their work on top, but the sun is high, we have anglers in front of us now, and the bite has slowed to a more normal pace - which, in this case, would be touted as a banner day on any other river.

At a long, dark pool on the outside bend John and I let the others float ahead. We secretly string a deep-running indi set-up with a stonefly nymph and egg, much like the steelhead rigs popular in Michigan. Not my preferred method, but I'm certainly not above it, especially when John tells me this hole holds trophy rainbows pushing the 30-inch mark.

I cast awkwardly upstream, mend, and let it ride. The indicator bounces along the bubble line then hesitates. I set hard, as instructed, and see the silver-green side profile of a huge fish deep in the pool. But it quickly comes unpinned. Now my adrenaline is up.

John rows back to the top for another run at it. Nothing. Two more passes and no takers.

We set the rig even deeper and fish it through again. My indicator takes a hard dive, and this time I set with my whole body. Another side flash, this one even bigger than last – upper twenties at least – and I can feel his weight in the deep water. I get on the reel and make some headway, before he dives deep again. We catch another glance as he turns, well below my indicator, which itself must be at least six feet below the surface. Knowing I've got heavy leader, and trusting I have this fish well hooked, I decide to get more aggressive, attempting to pull him from his deep hold. I'm gaining; the rod is folded and my arm is burning. But then, just as suddenly, the line goes limp and he's gone. I exhale and curse myself.

Despite losing the fish, a stupid grin plasters my face. John can't stop laughing at my excitement. A couple bends later we pass the commercial outfit breaking for lunch, then catch back up with our group. After confessing our fishing sins, we take a late lunch of our own.

As evening sets in, we glide into Ute Park, and our campsite for the night. Here, the canyon opens and the river widens. Our prime site rests on a sandy hill overlooking the broad, braided water. We string camp lights, set up the kitchen, and stake out our respective sleeping areas.

The rest of the gang heads upriver to wade fish. Content with our day, Blake and I hang back and relax in the sparse shade and welcome breeze, watching the river drift by; laughing and catching up in a way the "everyday" doesn't allow much of anymore.

It's getting late, so I start the chili and cornbread and crack another beer. One by one the boys filter back into camp carrying intel from their reconnaissance and stories of those landed and the even bigger ones that got away.

Bellies full and bodies well-used, we lounge around debating life's important issues – such as "if you had to give up one, would it be ice-cream or cheese?"– well into the night. The obvious answer is ice-cream, but John, a known ice-cream aficionado, holds firm that cheese would have to go, despite stiff opposition. I have to admit that ice-cream sounds pretty damn good in the moment, but I'm not willing to part with my Parm. Sorry, Amigo, you got this one wrong.

Day Three:

Strawberry shortcake with whipped cream and black coffee from the percolator make up today's breakfast, as we watch the sun break over the hills and spill unto the water like hundreds of pieces of broken glass. I wonder quietly to myself what life would be like if every day started in such a way. Knowing this is our last morning on the water, we mill around camp for a while, not wanting to rush the time. I mosey out for a brief streamer mission and pull five solid browns from the riffle run just downstream, before wandering back.

Today we'll test the more lively rapids, then cruise the final four-mile, target-rich flat water stretch before our take out.

The lower Gunnison has legally required minimum flows set by a federal reserved water right, which guarantees a continuous minimum flow of 300 cfs. Most recreational boaters agree that 600 cfs is the minimum for a raft-friendly trip, and 800 cfs is the threshold where larger rafts can navigate the river safely without extreme difficulty – we're hitting it at around 350 cfs which, for our purposes, ain't much. At this level, the river becomes pretty technical; and the wind is picking up, just in time to keep things interesting.

John, Rich and Matt will be on the sticks until we get through the class threes and fours (probably pushing fives in these conditions). John guided here for two summers so knows the water well, though he's never floated in flows this low. I'll be with him in the lead boat. Matt, who has considerable experience in the middle seat but has never run this water before, will follow our lines in the middle raft with Blake, and Rich, who also knows this section well and has the most agile craft will bring up the rear with Kyle and Reba, playing clean up as needed.

But we have nearly two miles of premiere trout water before the first real rapid, Red Canyon. So I stick with the streamer that produced this morning. Blake goes with the foam golden stone that's been producing for him all trip, and Kyle's running a dry-dropper rig. We have the bases covered.

Up to this point the fishing on this trip has been some of the best of my life. Maybe the best. Little did I know it was only going to get better. For the next two miles the action is non-stop. Each of us catching fish after fish after fish until it becomes almost absurd. We work through Red Canyon without a hitch, despite the sticky rocks and pushy wind, and then fish hard all the way to Boulder Garden with the same success. I've never witnessed so many trout in my life. As a marketing guy, I may be prone to occasional exaggeration, but fishing nirvana would not be an overstatement.

Above Boulder Garden we post up, hop out of the rafts, and scout the route. As the name implies, there are a lot of rocks concentrated in the middle of the run. We store the rods, tighten the PFDs, and make sure we all know what needs to happen if things get western. The rapids will come in quick succession now.

Immediately downstream is Paddle Keeper a fairly technical drop with a large pyramid rock on the right, followed by T-Dyke. Then the Gorge narrows and the rapids become even more technical.

We hit the relatively mild S-Turn before rolling right into The Squeeze which literally looks like a jumble of boulders tossed haphazardly into the river, and then The Drops, a fun, splashy series of waves, tight slots, and holes. Then it's on to Cable, one of the most technical, with grabby holes and a large boulder and cliff wall the river drives you straight into. The lines are tricky in the low flows and the wind is making clean entry difficult, but each group gets through. We finish with Jumpin' Jack Splash and Gatekeeper before running the last, aptly named Grand Finale.

Through the puckering rapids we emerge wet, but unscathed into The Hall, a narrow slot of glassed out water where the canyon walls climb straight to the sky. This natural amphitheater exudes a sense of the hallowed and sacred, like some ancient place of worship. After the cacophony of the rapids the silence is striking, and I find myself whispering.

Then John shatters the stillness with a final whoop. We crack beers, and polish off the remaining Tequila in celebration of our success.

From here on out it's easy sailing. I settle into the middle seat while John rigs up with a yellow sally. Fly line whispers overhead and he places a cast tight to the bank.

As the takeout looms closer I find myself pulling back harder and harder on the oars. Subconsciously fighting the irresistible pull of the current and the inevitable end to a trip that's come too quickly.

But, I assure myself, if I live right, maybe I'll be back to test these waters again.

I'll do my best.