The morning light cast a soft golden hue across a cold blue winter sky. Rods were stowed, gear was packed, it was time to make tracks for the river. I’d made this trip so many times in the past I’m surprised my truck even needed me at the wheel, but to keep with tradition I slid into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine. The sun was just beginning to peek through the pines, throwing hard shadows across the ground. With a warm drink in hand I turned out of my drive and pointed my truck southward. I wasn’t in too much of a hurry this particular morning. Air temps were still in the low 30s and it would be an hour or so before water temps reached a fishable window. My destination, the South Platte River. This was my home water and the drive today would be less than 45 minutes. I considered the SP my “go to” for winter fishing and summer evenings when I could dodge the mainstream crowds. The fish were big and the water technical, sight fishing at its best. I had grown to love it and know it better than any river I had fished.

About 20 minutes into my drive, just past the little town of Pine, I am reminded of yet another reason I’m not in such a hurry to wet my line this morning. The landscape opened up to a narrow but long valley carved by the North Fork of the South Platte… the South Platte’s distant cousin. For the next several miles the road paralleled the river through acres and acres of pristine ranch land. Wooden fences crisscrossed the countryside and a single red barn stood as a refuge for horses grazing on whatever bits of vegetation they could dig up out of the frozen ground. From the road’s vantage point one could see every bend, run and plunge pool the river had to offer. I slowed down in hopes to spot a holding trout, but the river this morning was still in the shadow of the mountain and the fish were nowhere to be seen. As beautiful as this stretch of river is, I’ve rarely seen a fisherman traverse its banks, even in all the years I’ve driven this road. I guess that is what makes it so mysterious.

Before the road made its final ascent up and out of the valley it took one last turn through the tiny community of Buffalo Creek, a town still scarred from a devastating forest fire that ran through its backyard in 2002. A handful of cabins, a grocery store, and an old forest service station are about all that remain, but be aware, the local police will still take your money if you don’t take their 30 mile an hour speed limit seriously.

Up and over a pass and down through several more twisting turns, and I was at my destination. Though not the first, I shouldn’t have a problem finding some open water and a trout to chase. Anyway, it was still cold and I wasn’t in much of a hurry.