Volume 10 • Issue 12 • December 2005

An Evolving Tale of Water, Land, and Man

Native limestone reveals the earliest known history of the land we now recognize as our Texas Hill Country. It shows that in ancient times the area where we live was once covered by ocean waters. The strata and fossils now unveiled indicate the passage of millions of years. That is the starting point for an unending chronology of how, up to the current time, our environment and ecology has evolved into the familiar land of hills and rivers that we know so well. Don Frels, Jr., of the Kerr Wildlife Management Area of the Texas Parks and Wildlife Dept., skillfully pursued the story at our November meeting by leading us through the ages extending from that ancient sea into a period in which the water receded and the land was covered by conifer forests, later to be supplanted by vast rich grasslands–all of which occurred under totally natural circumstances until a little over a century ago when the native grass was largely replaced by the cedar-covered surroundings which now characterize our lovely hills . That last evolution occurred when the Indian occupants, primarily Comanches and Lipan Apaches in this area, were replaced by frontier white settlers.

Don Frels’ account continued the sequence of events. In 1882, the first barbed wire fences appeared. Lack of suitable posts resulted in long stretches of wire between supports. The grasslands still prevailed. As late as 1905, cedar was still not a major factor in the environmental surroundings. By the 1930's, however, area springs showed signs of being depleted. Intensive grazing by ranching operations emerged in the 1940's. A chain of events: increase in population, overgrazing by livestock, increasing demands on water supply, disruption of natural conservation factors long in place, along with other subtle coupled with not so subtle factors, led to an unnatural drain, not only on the land but also on the rivers. The water’s vigor and clarity that came from both filtering surface features following rains and from heavy absorption from surface water into abundant subsurface aquifers were steadily altered as heavier population and increased demands eventually created a necessity for response by an appropriate governmental entity to help initiate measures to conserve and manage the state’s soil and water resources.

As time passed, cedar trees replaced grasslands. In the 1950's the Soil Conservation Service paid landowners to clear these water draining trees from their property. Much of the clearing was accomplished by chaining and bulldozing that uprooted the shallow widespread roots of the cedar trees and loosened the soil, resulting in a new problem of erosion and offsite pollution. Of course, rivers, creeks, and lakes suffered from resulting consequences. The intentions were good but the results unsatisfactory.

One might ask how all of the above ties in with fly-fishing. A short response would be, “A river runs through it.” That is to say, one segment of the overall conservation scheme is that what happens to the land influences what occurs in the water draining that land. Don Frel’s message aimed to show how civilization’s invasion into what was once controlled almost totally by nature has brought about serious challenges for an acceptable compatibility between Mother Earth and modern society. Frels framed the current state of affairs as being a critical balance of the land, the water, the population, and the future. The Kerr Wildlife Management facility is part of the picture in that it is involved with research on how to facilitate the most productive, least intrusive use of land and water typical to our part of the state at a time when the challenge of an increase in population coupled with its accompanying demands must met.

In earlier times, natural fires, along with some intentional fires set by the Indians, encouraged continuous rejuvenation of the rich grass. In addition, a natural grazing pattern instinctively followed by the native bison incorporated a huge circular trail that allowed the grass that had been a feeding ground to recover as the big animals slowly moved away to extended grazing territory further up the trail. The valued bison did not return to an area until they had completed their grazing cycle and the grass had been given time to recover.

What was once, in the words of Don Frels, “some of the sorriest land around”was donated to the state and became the Kerr Wildlife Management Area. By experimentation, the facility has controlled cedar growth (the tree provides excellent fence posts), controlled burnings, and fencing that manages grazing which, ironically, follows the ancient pattern of the bison, in resting one grazing area while other sites are allowed to recover. The bottom line is that, as difficult as the task may seem, there must be a reasonable and practical balance maintained among human demands, conservation of the soil, and sustaining healthy and ample water sources.

Clear water now drains into the Guadalupe River from the Kerr Wildlife Management Area because that “sorry” piece of land has responded to the study and experimental efforts of its current stewards. It might not be too far-fetched to believe that some Guadalupe bass might just thrive in the clear water flowing into the creeks and river immediately downstream from the Management Area. Keep up the good work, Don Frels, and thanks for a fine presentation.

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November Meeting Notes

Much of the November meeting was spent in collecting annual dues and signing up for trout fishing lease privileges; however, preceding the above program, Vice-president Danny Wheat presided over brief committee reports: Mike Andrews described the upcoming plans for the December 15^th Christmas Dinner and was prepared to begin receiving checks for dinner tickets at $20 per person; Doc Harrison reported on the recent success of the Junior Anglers’ instructor qualification workshop sponsored by Texas Parks and Wildlife Dept. that was held at Blanco State Park with over twenty persons receiving instructor certification; Rick Wilson emphasized the urgency of those participating in the trout fishing to complete the latest release forms in order to receive their passes. NOTE: Rick Wilson has E-mailed that the trout will arrive on December 13^th. He will probably be sending the latest information soon on how we may volunteer to help.

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A continuation of Danny Wheat’s. . .
Fishing Journal 2005

When we fished the Colorado River, near Kremling, we were staying in Breckenridge. Our children and grandchildren were visiting us for the week to help us celebrate our 50 th wedding anniversary. I have two fourteen-year-old grandsons who are pretty good fly fishermen, and I was looking forward to taking them on a guided trip. Since there were going to be five anglers in all (two grandsons, son-in-law, and son), I hired two guides from Breckenridge Outfitters. We met at 8:00 A.M. at the fly shop in downtown Brekenridge and got the necessary gear for the group. Then we drove the 45 minutes to a public access point near Kremling.

The river was about 75 feet wide with a fairly slow current so as not to prevent us from wading across with ease. The guides worked with the boys as we spread out. By noon, we had caught about ten fish but nothing of size to brag about. After lunch, we moved upstream to a place where the river narrowed with rapids and a chute that extended downstream about 100 feet.My grandson, Tom McArthur, from Georgia connected first with a nice 14 inch brown. I proudly took his picture. My other grandson, Pat, from Austin, hadn’t caught anything at this point and was getting edgy since it was getting late in the afternoon. I moved out of a good spot next to the chute where I had experienced some strong hits and suggested that Pat and the guide move there. Sure enough, Pat connected and battled a beautiful 15 inch brown into his net. My day was made! Both boys had caught nice fish. This was one grand experience. The downside was that in my excitement to get a picture, while running along the bank and making a quick turn into a clear spot to set up the scene, I tripped on some old barbed wire and fell face down with my with my hands stretchd out to stop my fall. I was okay, but my camera had slipped into the river. I retrieved it after a few seconds, opened it up, and let the water drain out while I took out the batteries. Later, I dried out the camera as best I could. Fortunately, I was able to retrieve six good pictures of the trip and load them into my computer. The camera doesn’t work otherwise. Luckily, it was a cheapo from Office Max–no great loss.

How to get there: Take Colorado Hwy 9 north from Silverthorne to Kremling; take Hwy 40 east to the Public access point for the river.

When I fished the headwaters of the Frying Pan River, northwest of Basalt about thirty miles, we stayed at Chapman Campground, a beautiful spot with some sites right on the river. The elevation was around 9,500 feet. Not many campers were there since it was late in the season. This campground is nestled in a high meadow surrounded by lofty peaks.

The Frying Pan River is quite swift in the campground, but immediately upstream is a meadow where the river meanders and there are a number of beaver ponds. I did not spend much time fishing these ponds because the fish were very easily spooked. In a steam, one can approach behind the fish without disturbing them, but with the ponds, an angler almost has to fish by lying flat on the ground in order to avoid scaring the sensitive occupants. I caught several nice browns in the meadow portion of the river, the largest being a 14 incher.

While we were there, the Colorado Fish and Game Dept. dumped 1,000 small rainbows into a lake at the park. The campers really had a good time catching them. This area is upstream of Reudi Reservoir, which is a good lake to troll for Kokanee salmon. Because this area is a weekend recreation area for the Aspen area, there are a lot of jet skiers and water skiers on the lake.

How to get there: Take the Glenwood springs exit off of IH 70 and head west through Carbondale and Basalt. At Basalt, the Frying Pan merges with the Roaring Fork. Take the road to Reudi Reservoir, which follows the Frying Pan River upstream. Drive past the reservoir to Chapman Campground.

I really saved the best campground and fishing spot for last. The Rio Grande River has its headwaters southwest of Creede, Colorado, about 45 miles. We stayed at the Thirty Mile Campground, which is about 32 miles southwest of Creede. It takes about an hour to make the trip from Creede to Thirty Mile because it is a fairly bumpy dirt road. The park is in a meadow at an elevation of 9,400 feet, surrounded by beautiful peaks. The river runs right through the place where we were lucky enough to get set up right on the banks next to some rapids. There are some forty campsites here with many being pull-throughs and spread out so that there was plenty of privacy. We stayed there a week. I think there were only six other trailers there. During the summer, I understand that the park gets crowded every weekend and during the week rather heavily occupied. Reservations for sites can be made for all the Colorado National and State Parks by calling 1-877-444-6777, the National Recreation Reservation Service.

Surprisingly, I caught seven nice browns right in the river near our campsite even though the place looks to be rather heavily fished. I caught most of the fish on a Flashback Pheasant Tail and a dark blue #18 Copper John.

While in the area, we explored the mining district at Creede. We drove up the canyon that was carved by Willow Creek, where gold was discovered. There are many old miner’s shacks to see and lots of rusted machinery lying about. We drove past Batchelor, a ghost town named after two brothers of that surname who discovered gold there. It was about ten miles above Creede, which was the largest and wildest town in the region. Though noted for its lawlessness because its location used to be shown as located in three different counties, none of the three would take any responsibility for running the outlaws out of town. The James boys hung out there for some time. Just south of town, a man named Wasson, who owned both sides of the river in the valley, decided to charge a toll for each person, horse, and wagon that passed through his land to and from Creede. He became so unpopular that he had to hire armed body guards to protect himself. When one of the counties finally claimed Creede, the sheriff put an end to the collection of tolls.

How to get there: Take Hwy 149 southwest from Creede about ten miles, turn left onto FH 520 and drive about twelve miles to the Thirty Mile Camp Ground, which is right on the Rio Grande about one mile below the Rio Grande Reservoir.

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"We who go a-fishing are a peculiar people. Like other men and women in many respects, we are like one another, and like no others, in other respects. We understand each other’s thoughts by an intuition of which we know nothing. We cast our flies on many waters, where memories and fancies and facts rise, and we take them and show them to each other, and small or large, we are content with our catch."–W.C. Prime in I Go A-Fishing (1873) from Nick Lyons’ The Quotable Fisherman, New York: The Lyon’s Press, 1998.

From FFF ClubWire. . .

AUDIENCE OF ONE
By Lee Weil–Taken from the Long Island
Flyrodders Newsletter

Sometimes you get so wrapped up in enjoying your life that you can’t enjoy your life. This applies not only to work but fishing as well; even in the very places we seek peace and relaxation we tend to rush. We stride purposefully to the river, charge out and begin casting furiously, obsessed with catching that first fish. In doing so we miss out on many of the best details, the flash of a bird above and tiny flowers that poke up out of the carpet of pine needles.

Last summer in August, two weeks of heavy rain made our favorite stretch of the upper Hudson discolored and almost impossible to wade. When the river finally became friendly enough to fish, we were like Labrador puppies, eager to get out into the water and feel that first take of an aggressive smallmouth.The high water and swift currents kept me from wading out to the ridge where I had planned to fish, being older and more cautious than I used to be. Instead, I decided to concentrate on targets closer to shore, particularly a trough that had produced good fish for me in the past. I fished a weighted hellgrammite through it for a good half hour but was disappointed; not even a bump to show for my efforts.

Moving downriver, I began to fish a flat at the base of a bluff, wading out as far as I dared. As I built my cast, feeding out as much line as I could, I heard the unmistakable noise of a deer blowing in alarm from the dense woods. I stopped and froze in midcast, allowing the line to collapse behind me, and turned to look back, seeing nothing but shadows in the dark trees and brush. The sun was coming up over the top of the bluff and I squinted, studying the spot where the noise came from. Raising my hand to shade my eyes, I heard a hoof stamp in the dry leaves. I stood stock still, seeing the source, but failed to spot anything. I began casting and as I laid out my line I heard it again, louder and closer this time. We played a game of "red light–green light" for several minutes; each time I resumed casting, the deer would blow, closer than before; and each time I stopped, it would freeze. I began to sing out loud, and then demonstrated my double haul. This proved too much for it, and when I turned quickly, I was rewarded by the flick of an ear. The silhouette came into focus; a big doe stood in the dense brush watching me.

“There you are!” I exclaimed, and she bounded up the face of the bluff, stopping once to look over her shoulder at me before disappearing over the top with a signature flash of white tail. I went back to fishing and after about 15 minutes I heard a snort indicating that my friend and returned. This time I was able to pick her out easily as she worked her way back down the slope toward the bank, stopping just short of the open, narrow stretch of sand. She watched me inquisitively, peering through the leaves. I called softly to Jeff and he spotted her from where he was wading upriver. She seemed intensely curious. I wondered why. Surely she must have seen many fishermen out here before. Then it occurred to me that even though she had seen fishermen, she had probably never seen anyone fly fishing. The motion of the fly in the air was new and fascination, perhaps transcending me into a different creature than the ones she had become used to.

By now my lower back was screaming for a rest, and a convenient deadfall beckoned from the gravel bar. As I began to wade out of the river, she wheeled and jogged away, her curiosity apparently satisfied since she did not return. I sat down gratefully on the tree trunk, tilted my face up to the sun and closed my eyes and smiled. Then I took out a pair of pliers and began searching through the flies in my chest pack for strays and new patterns that hadn’t been de-barbed. I was happily done fishing, finally relaxed enough to enjoy the sunshine and the smell of the heat beginning to rise from the damp stones. Best of all, I had been blessed with a most memorable day even though I didn’t even have one strike. Sometimes it’s not just about fishing anymore.