Here is a last minute submission for the TU/Outdoor Blogger Contest
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The air was cool on this weekday morning. Dew and raindrops from last night’s storm held on leaves and grass. It was July. The monsoons had started. Just in time as fires burned around the state. This particular watershed was lucky and avoided the annual torch of early summer fires in the Southwest.
I thought of some the fires – two started by careless campers - as we wandered down the hill making our way through the ponderosa pines, toward an open valley to the stream. With the recent rains, vegetation was lush and green. The isolation of this watershed seemed to protect things from both people and their negligence. Though looking at the trees you can see fire marks from previous summers, perhaps more optimistically from lightning strike.
We neared the end of the descent and settled into the valley. The tall grass up to our knees would prove beneficial in stalking wary native trout on a clear day. At first glance over the valley of grass, however, the uneducated would wonder where the water and therefore trout were located.
Places like this are tucked away, hard to get too. First you have to drive, then be willing to walk a good ways. The average angler certainly won’t make the trip. Fish of this sort, streams of this size take an odd dedication to the sport and fish. With lightweight, fiberglass rods, my cousin and I are hardly seeking monster trout. Instead, we are giddy to catch small, bright, and orange-throated beauties.
The water was skinny, but held deep cut –banks, offering seclusion and insulation in these high desert waters. Some might turn their nose at streams merely two feet across in some spots. Yet, casting into these waters takes delicate precision to hit your mark, get a clean drift, and set the hook through the grass.
While small, these fish have a special appeal. These are ancestors of salmonid evolution. Their ancestors following ice and waters flows millions of years ago to find themselves relatively isolated in the high mountains of the Jemez Mountains. Fires aside, their isolation has proven beneficial particularly as we assess the fate of native trout in the west. Today, however, in that isolation we’ll sneak up on the fish whose legacy tells a story of geologic time, one shedding light on the life of these mountains, this watershed and its ponderosa forests. Today, we are in search of Rio Grande cutthroat (Oncorhynchus clarki virginalis).
Fish like these are special. They belong here. They have not been mixed in the genetic blender with all of the rainbow, brown, or even brook trout spread around the West by overeager anglers and fisheries managers. By professional standards, these are pure, native (so much more than wild) trout. Assessing climate change, leaders in conservation such as Jack Williams of Trout Unlimited agree that native fish and watersheds like these are essential to fish and ecosystem resilience, not to mention the nature of our sport.
Over 400 years ago in a handful of watersheds to the east, a Spanish priest of Coronado’s colonizing travels wrote of these fish in the Pecos wilderness. He noted both their number and beauty. At the time, one might surmise the yet to be named truchas fed the party after long and tiresome travel through hostile landscapes. Yet, he wrote not of their sustenance but of their beauty. His words were the first written of trout in the so-called “New World” by Europeans, at least 150 years before later colonists would catch Eastern brook trout. Theirs is a complex history that has survived cultural flows from indigenous peoples or Spanish missions to mostly-Anglo fly fishers.
As I make this first cast, all of this history - ecological and cultural – that makes the stream and its inhabitants so very special, dissolves away. Casting in the light, sunny breeze, I forget the ecological and cultural narrative running through my head. Now I am focused getting my small stimulator to light on the bend, inducing a healthy strike from an unseen fish hiding in wait under the deep cut-bank of the Rio Cebolla.