So instead, I headed back down the canyon along the South Saint Vrain and found a spot in the middle of the canyon to pull over and begin fishing. I carefully chose what I thought would do the trick as in my fly selection, an ant, and I walked down to the creek and looked the water over carefully. Nothing was rising, but that didn't worry me because in this creek you rarely ever see anything rise because the fish are wary of birds of prey that fly over head, so they stay down unless by chance a good looking morsel of food comes floating by that's good enough to get them to rise.
The water was moving fast due to the gradient of the creek, and so I found a section of calmer water near the edge of the main current and the boulders on the bank. I cast the ant upstream and gently lifted the rod tip while making figure eights in my left hand with the line while the ant was floating quite nicely down towards me. A rise! But it was also a miss. From what I saw it looked to be a very decent brown trout as it showed it's back to me as it went for the fly. I waited a few minutes and then cast my offering to the same spot. Once again the fish arose but refusing to take. I tried again and again, but that fish was no longer interested. I then decided to change flies, a fly that usually does very well, a parachute Adams. After about 20 minutes, I realized I was wasting my time with this dry fly technique. I even tried the Renegade, but to no avail. Time for a line change ( hockey term ).
I took the dry fly off and grabbed my box of wet flies. I came up with a fly earlier this year I call Gingerbread, and so far this fly has not let me down. On the thorax of the fly I have some D.W. Prism in a brown olive color that is supposed to glisten or sparkle a bit in the sunlight. As far as I know, it seems to be working getting the attention of the fish I had caught on the White River.
After changing out flies, I walked a bit upstream, climbing over boulders and fallen trees. Here's a question; why is it the bank on the other side of creeks or rivers always seem to be better suited to walk on? I kept looking for a spot to cross the creek so I wouldn't have to do acrobatic moves at my age, but the creek in this area was still too fast and deep to even try to cross. I figure in two weeks the creek water will lower a bit more and then I can cross.
As I waded along the steep and rocky embankment, I looked for any soft water I could find, and I hit every soft spot that I could get to. This creek holds nothing but wild brown trout in the canyon, and they are scattered abroad making fishing a sport more for those who are less patient than I, though it has challenged my knowledge and patience many times over. At any rate, I spotted a deepish hole behind a good size rock near the bank, so I cast my fly into the hole and with the glass bead on the fly it slowly sank into the slight current. It didn't take long until I had my first trout of the day. A spunky little brown with the most brilliant red colored spots came up to introduce itself to me. The red spots on this fish were absolutely amazing in the sunlight, and they were big spots too for a little guy. The photo shows no justice.
Either way, I was now doing some good with the changing of the flies. Above the rock was another hole, and I thought what would the chances be of a fish there. Chances were pretty good because I cast into the hole, and it had a bit of foam floating around in it, and I have learned while fishing the South Saint Vrain, foam is a good place to put a fly. The fly hit the mark and I let it sit there drifting around the hole that wasn't much bigger than a beach ball, and then I felt the little taps taking place. Yes, another brown, and a slightly bigger one than the first.
I kept fishing for awhile, wading upstream until I got to an area where I could no longer wade or climb the rocks, so I turned around and headed back to my truck. I drove a little ways downstream and pulled into another area. There was a couple there laying on the rocks enjoying the sun and cool breeze, so I just waved hello and walked on past. I could see many pockets downstream so I got onto the ridge and followed the creek until I found a place to get down to the water. Same fly, same plan. It was a search and conquer mission on this stretch, but I was able to land a few. Some of the fish were so small that when I lifted my rod tip they came right out of the water and into my hand or they wiggled so much they let themselves go. To me it's not that you bring them to hand that counts, but getting them to bite. And if you can get them to bite, you're on your game working the fly like you're supposed to.
I caught a few more fish and drove downstream again to the next spot that looked tempting. The more I drove down the canyon the more populated it had become with fishermen and families just enjoying the outdoors, and parking became an issue once again. I could have gone over to Boulder Creek, but that creek not only has wild browns, but it's stocked too because it's popular with fishing and the ghillie's take clients on that creek for an easy day of fishing. So I decided to stay where I was at; besides, the Vrain like I have said in the past will take you to school. It's a hard creek to figure out at times, and I can see why John Gierach likes it so much. So on I went, picking pockets and searching the seams for browns. Nothing majorly big was caught, just your average size little browns about ten inches in length.
I do have to say that I believe I am picking up a pattern here on the Vrain, in being that this time of year, going subsurface with wet flies seems to do well, but around August into Sept. dry flies kick in a bit better. It's a creek with picky and educated fish. At least educated enough to teach me a thing or two. All I know is my Gingerbread fly pattern has a special home in my fly box.
Like many who have followed the works of JG since Trout Bum burst him on to the UK game writing scene I've read all his accounts involving the St Vrain. Strangely I've no recollection of it being described as in any way a busy river - in my mind it's been a remote and almost unknown trout stream! Maybe that's just an indication of my memory being selective? Or is it a case of the writer providing the canvas, paint and brushes and the readers imagination painting their own picture? 
