The temperature had already dropped a good ten degrees as the first few raindrops began to fall from a slate gray sky. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, the sound echoed through the canyon. With a tug I pulled my ball cap down snuggly to my ears and kept on fishing. I didn’t mind the rain or even the cold for that matter, as long as the trout bite didn’t shut down.

My son and I were fishing a tailwater near Steamboat Springs, a destination not unfamiliar to fisherman looking to go a round or two with a heavyweight fish. The kind of trout with shoulders the width of a loaf of bread and IQs in the upper one hundreds, at least in the art of fly inspection. In short the kind of trout that laugh at you as your fly slowly passes them by. So far we had seen plenty of these bruisers lurking in the shadows of this half mile stretch of river, and just as many anglers.

It was mid morning and Jake and I had fished our way up to the dam and were making our way back downstream. The rain once a sprinkle was now a consistent shower and not looking to lift anytime soon. Oddly enough the precipitation seemed to only encourage the feeding frenzy. RS2s, pheasant tails, and WD40s had all been taking trout.

This section of the Yampa, though short, is a joy to fish, and a beauty to behold. Imagine that classic river setting artists so often try and capture with a paintbrush. This is that picture. Water continuously in motion, carving a path through a deep green landscape. Currents intertwined, fast and slow, reflecting dark and solemn hues. The rain soaked mountains offer a fitting backdrop, draped in the stillness of the day. The trout are spoiled and I a bit jealous. There is no place I would rather be.

As we continued downstream and around a large boulder I noticed two nice sized rainbows feeding off the surface just below a log jam.

“Jake, come check this out,” I called as he waded over toward me.

My son was 12 at the time and had very little experience throwing drys. Asking for his rod I quickly tied on a small PMD.

“It’s all you,” I said handing it back to him. “Cast to the head of the pool and keep a short line, and oh yeah, keep it out of the log jam”! This was a tall order for a young fisherman, but I had faith in him.

His first cast was off target but with his second the larger of the two fish took. Instantly my son was in the fight. This was probably one of the biggest trout he had ever hooked and on a dry nonetheless. Pulling my net from my belt I positioned myself downstream of the fish and instructed my son to try and keep him contained within the pool. Jake did just that and after a minute or so he was able to coax this beauty into my net.

We both stood in the middle of the river smiling, cold and waterlogged from the day, yet warmed by the contentment of the moment. I’ll never forget how proud I was of my son as I watched him release this amazing trout back into the water. I could see signs of a fine fly fisherman in the making.

As the day went on the weather turned for the worse and thunder and lightning began its syncopated dance across the valley. You don’t want to, but you know you should, make your way back to the truck. You tell yourself there will be other days to fish. Although true, it’d be hard to beat this one.