Ominous clouds rolled over the mountains while I walked Sam this morning, and I feared what I knew would be one of the highlights of this trip - a fly fishing lesson - was in peril. Light sprinkles fell on Big Blue's windshield all the way in to town.
At Breckenridge Outfitters, I was...well...outfitted with waders and boots, given my license for the day, and introduced to my guide, Mike. We hopped in his truck and headed back out of town for a less-popular section of the Blue River.
From the moment the lesson began, I realized fly fishing, for all its beauty and purity, is as much a science as it is an art. Within the first ten minutes, we had brushed upon the variety of casts, dry flies and nymph flies, inside, outside, and middle seams, entomology, fish psychology, and I'm certain other topics I missed while looking at Mike with the expression of the RCA dog.
But the complexity, science, and study of the sport only added to its quickly growing appeal to me. After nearly three hours of fishing, praise from Mike for my casting, and one lovely little brown trout, I realized danger may lie ahead. I could really get into fly fishing. I could take it home with me to the rivers around Branson, I could bring it back out West when I travel, I could get completely wrapped up in the art and science of an incredibly pure, beautiful, and intellectual sport that respects and pays tribute to nature.
After lunch in the trailer, Sam and I headed for the Saints John trail near Montezuma, east and a little north of Breckenridge. Hiking the trail required parking three-quarters of a mile from Montezuma and walking through the town and up to the trailhead. The trail itself was easy; I realized just how easy it was when a Cadillac Escalade passed me on it. But I was determined to hike to one of the abandoned mining towns in the area, and the Saints John trail rewarded me with the ruins of the old town and mines.
