Written several years ago about a December trip to Arizona's White Mountains.
Like any proper multi-day trip, my prep began several days earlier at my local fly shop. What began as a quick mission to stock up on essentials quickly spiraled into something darker.
Most dedicated anglers recognize the impulse one gets when entering their local tackle shop: one-part gluttonous desire for every item on the shelves paired with a healthy dose of self-righteous economic compromise. Sure, I don’t have the money to buy even more fishing gear, but hey, at least I’ll be supporting local business! Next thing you know, you’re a few hundred dollars poorer and trying to convince yourself you performed a charitable act for the day.
Once I gave into an articulated streamer, any attempt at self-control was over. Woolly buggers? Could use a few of those. Small dries? That afternoon sun might trigger some topwater action, even in the cold! Stonefly nymphs? Oh yeah, and better grab every size they offer. Chubbys?? Ehh…. well, actually, you never know! The binge continued: bead headed nymphs of various persuasions, a few of those “I can’t remember their name but they always seem to net a fish or two” flies, and a handful of standard caddis and mayflies spanning entire aquatic lifecycles. Not that I needed all that for the trip, but once you get locked into a serious fly collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can.
A few days later, locked and loaded with a small fortune of fly gear and camping supplies, I found myself gunning down highway 87 as the sun broke over the Mazatzal mountains. My stomach, pumped full of the nutritious combination of black coffee and a slightly overripe tangerine, groaned in protest.
I was somewhere around Show Low on the edge of the Whites when the thought of monster trout began to take hold. This trip, while hastily thrown together in a state of fishing mania, had a clear objective: catch a big brown trout. Now, when I say big, I want you to understand what I mean. I don’t mean just a big brown trout. No, I mean a FREAKING BIG BROWN TROUT. The kind of fish that breaks poorly-tied tippet knots for breakfast. The kind of fish you not-so-secretly can’t wait to post on Instagram. The kind of fish that would fuel family jealousy from thousands of miles away. So far, I had had a pretty epic year of fishing. I’d even say I had had my personal best year of fishing, ever. I’d explored a ton of backcountry water, caught multiple new species, and clocked a respectable number of days on the water. But I hadn’t caught a hands-down-honest-to-God trophy. That was what this trip was for: a trophy fall brown. And while these fish are more plentiful in stillwater, I was determined to find one in a freestone river.
As I turned off the highway and onto familiar dirt terrain, I queued up some Grateful Dead and pushed my Forester to the limits of its off-road capabilities. At the river, I was the only one there. On previous trips, I had never seen another human in this particular stretch of river, but it’s always a relief to find that your “secret spot” has remained unfound, at least for another trip.
Now, if you’ve ever had a secret spot, the kind you want to protect at all costs, you’ll be familiar with the lump that starts to form as you round the final corner to “your” spot. No matter how irrational, your mind begins stoking a truly devastating thought: not only has half the population of New York become obsessed with fly fishing, but they’ve ditched the exclusive private ranches across the West and made a beeline for this hard-to-find treasure. When I saw the empty pullout, I breathed a sigh of relief. My secret had lived to see another day.
I made quick work on a basic camp set up: a small tent, filled with cold-weather sleeping bags, and a cooking area. As I wolfed down a peanut butter and banana mashed between two heels, I casually walked down to the river and was struck by a curious sight. The river wasn’t high and it wasn’t low. Nor was it stained. Instead, it was running at about normal capacity and absolutely crystal clear. Most times I had fished this river, it had been at a minimum swollen, and at a maximum the color of Willy Wonka’s River of Chocolate. This time, I was hoping for some tinted streamer conditions, but was so blown away by the beauty of the clear version of the river that I didn’t really mind.
I quickly geared up for the water and started hiking upstream a few miles. Never mind the fact that no one else was there; I’m a firm believer that the farther away from access you can get, the better the fishing. I started casting to a nice run along a cut bank, with a pretty standard dry-dropper.
After a few different rigs, I had yet to hook into a fish and felt a little discouraged. The water looked so appealing. Although the high temp for the day was somewhere south of 40 degrees, I saw a small caddis hatch popping up in the sunnier parts of the water. As my eyes adjusted to the river, I picked out a few rising fish. I tied on my smallest elk hair caddis, switched to a lighter tippet and cast towards a pocket. Within a few casts, I was hooked up on my first fish of the trip, a decent rainbow.
The rest of the day, the fishing remained frustratingly inconsistent. I threw my whole fly box through the juiciest looking runs only to repeatedly come up empty. Every now and again, I’d find a willing fish, but no consistent pattern emerged.
When the sun fell below the canyon walls, I added on a sinking leader and tied on some meat: an olive-colored articulated streamer meant to mimic sculpin and other small baitfish. As the sun set, I casted, stripped, and swung the streamer through deep pools, across runs, and along banks. No fish.
Back at camp, I threw on some warm clothes, fired up the stove, and settled in for a starry, cold, and lonely night.
On the morning of day two, I awoke to a hard freeze and a clear sky. I warmed up with some eggs and bacon, wrapped a sandwich in foil, and forced my feet into frozen-solid wading boots. I hiked up to a tributary known to hold a population of wild Apache trout, native to this river system. Unfortunately, most of the pools and fishy-looking water were completely iced over. Within half an hour, I decided to leave the Apaches to their winter lairs. Fishing probably wouldn’t be feasible here until late next spring.
Back on the main stem, I continued working through my fly box and trying to figure out what, exactly, these fish were looking for. Turning over rocks, I found a steady supply of squirming stonefly nymphs, and found moderate success fishing stoneflies close to the bottom. Still, a consistent bite eluded me.
As the day wore on, I began to accept that I had missed the peak fall fishing I had hoped to catch. It was early December, and the trout had seemed to switch into winter mode. During peak fall fishing, the fish can be ravenous, eating everything they can to prepare for the colder months. When winter sets in, they become more sluggish and don’t go out of their way for a meal. Small flies are key, and you often have to hit a fish in the face before they’ll bite.
When shadows started filling the river, I again switched to my streamer setup. Like the night before, I stripped line like my life depended on it. Eddies swimming with debris, bushy cut banks, large logs – no difficult cast was off limits. If I didn’t catch a big brown looking to add on a few pounds before the snow came, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.
Alas – the trophy fish eluded me.
By 5:30, it was dark and cold. Considering that I didn’t have time to fish the following day, a new thought occurred to me. I could a) read in the dark alone for the next five hours, wake up early and head out or b) pack up the car and be home by midnight. As the cold set in, a breeze picked up and I decided to break camp and hop in the car for a late-night drive back to Phoenix.
I hastily packed up my fishing gear, broke camp, and chugged some water. Disappointment about the modest fishing faded as I thought about a warm night in my bed at home. Finally, shivering with cold, I walked to the driver’s side door to get in and start the trek home.
At this point, I noticed my front tire looked a little weird. Upon closer inspection, it was completely flat, with the rim resting on the ground. This adventure wasn’t quite over yet.
With the temperature sinking into the teens, I begrudgingly took my camping gear back out of the trunk and set up a shelter for the night.
The next morning, I threw on the temporary spare and crossed my fingers as I bumbled along dirt roads and back highways to the nearest town and tire shop, 75 miles away. Luckily, I made it to Eagar without further issue and had my tire quickly patched and put back on.
On the drive home, I felt humbled by the river and by fly fishing in general. If I learned anything from this trip, maybe it’s this: when it comes to fishing, being greedy just doesn’t pay off. I was so determined and excited to catch a huge fish that at times, I risked missing the beauty and peacefulness of the White Mountains. Besides, how special is catching a giant trout if it came easy? When the snow melts and the roads re-open, I’ll be back up in the Whites, running on another caffeine bender, looking for hungry fish. I hear the rainbows get pretty big in spring…