the south st. vrain

named after the french trapper ceran st. vrain, the south st. vrain rises up out of the continental divide and runs along highway 7 through allen's park and raymond and on down to lyons where it joins the north st. vrain. the two rivers form a loop around a section of the colorado piedmont before their not-very-impressive confluence in lyons.

i took the truck up out of lyons friday evening and fished a stretch of the south. it was cold and grey. no rises or hatches. it was my first time out this year and i felt rusty. like a clumsy beginner, even though i've been fly fishing for thirty years.

the runoff has just started and i stumbled on the rocks fording the river. the" greased bowling balls," as my friend bill calls them. snagged on an underground rock, i lost a favorite tippet, the last one of my hand-tied leaders from rusty gates' fly shop on the au sable in michigan. hands frozen from the frigid water, i could barely tie up another leader.

but even with the cold and frustration i couldn't miss this intense feeling of almost-spring up here. the green haze of new growth on the deciduous trees along the banks upstream. the sweet, vinegary smell of the pines in bloom. the detritus of winter in the stream; water scoured branches, leaves, plastic bags.

in a few weeks the snowmelt will be screaming down this stretch of river and where i was standing will be five feet underwater. and all the remains of winter will be scrubbed away. during the runoff you can't put your toe in this same water for fear of ending up in kansas. and the fishing will be over until the melt turns to a slow, steady run in late june. (with the heavy snowpack this year, maybe july.) by then the canyon will be lined with RVs chugging their way up to miniature golf and pony rides in estes park. the mayfly and caddis hatches will be on, but crowds will be out and i'll have to find another place to fish.

this, from a poem called "springwood" by jack ramey, first published in the toucan, the kent state literary magazine, circa 1968.

"...a close, a narrow gestation shaves
against our bark, trembling along springwood
to break loose the scale of buds
leaving scars, rings, for next season's building.

among these fragile units, paths intrude,
fretted like tight weavings of a tapestry.
listen. tear loose a piece of the bark;
place your ear against the naked cambium.
close your eyes to the liquid temper of steady
murmuring; the sound of water in secret pathways."