John and I left at sun up. Our first stop a little drive-through coffee shop at the base of the canyon right off highway 34. The road along the Big Thompson River was tight and curvy. Steep rock walls extended up into the sky, projecting elongated shadows across the churning water below.

“Where are you thinking we should fish?” I asked John, as he slowly drank his coffee.

“How about Drake,” he replied between sips. “We’ll fish the confluence where the North Fork of the Big-T comes in. Should be a good place to start.”

John introduced me to fly fishing. He helped me pick out my first fly rod and I caught my first trout alongside him. One of his favorite rivers was the Big Thompson. It soon became one of mine. Looking back now I see why. Its close proximity to Denver and plenty of public access made it a great river to start on. The trout were pretty accommodating too, that always helps.

We pulled into the parking lot of a little retail store, a hundred or so feet back from the river. There we sat and talked as the morning sun burned a thin mist off the water. We caught up on life… our jobs, our favorite new bands, anything and everything really. Conversations always came easy for us. John and I were like brothers.

The canyon was still quiet. Just the distant growl of an eighteen wheeler grinding its gears in the upper canyon echoed off the granite walls. When we finally wadered up, at the tailgate of my truck, John shared his knowledge of the river. I listened. He’d tell me how trout were lazy and never wanted to expend more energy than they had to, especially when the water was cold.

“You gotta put it on their nose,” he’d always say.

Solid advice!

We fished a few holes in the confluence, then moved up river as the day went on. I enjoyed taking in the quaint but rustic ambiance of the canyon. Little cabins perched riverside – some as old as the river itself – could tell a tale or two if they wanted. So much history, some good, some not so good. The 1976 flood left a significant scar on this place. Though standing in the river now you’d never know it. It’s amazing how time has a way of healing.

With a few fish under our belt we made our way up to the east end of the valley, about a mile below Lake Estes. The river was wider here than in the canyon, and seemed to hold bigger fish. John’s theory was that these trout migrated down from the reservoir during high water and posted up in the deeper holes. This particular section – where he was taking me – was one of those runs. I didn’t know it at the time, but this stretch would eventually become my “go to” spot on the Big-T. It’s where I would spend a good portion of my early years learning the art of fly fishing.

We parked on the far side of the highway and made our way along the river. Our entry point, an array of trails that crisscrossed through fir and lodgepole pine. Once at the river’s edge we re-rigged our rods as John pointed out a small midge hatch just coming off in a far pool.

“We’ll get there soon enough,” he said. “Let’s nymph this run first. It’s a good one.”

John was right. A couple casts and we were both into a fish. It seemed there were trout holding behind every rock. A bead head Prince and a small Copper John were the flies of choice and both were taking fish underneath. By late afternoon we’d switched over to a Griffith’s Gnat and were taking fish from the surface. We definitely left a dent in the river that day.

At the time I remember feeling a bit guilty about catching so many fish. I’ve since learned that days like these seldom come, so when they do, you soak them up. You hold unto them with a white knuckle grip, because you know real life isn’t always so kind. I wonder if John was thinking the same thing.

Walking the trail back to the truck no words were said. The day had said enough already. Just the soft, rhythmic sound of our boots over wet pine needles filled the forest… we were good with that. The sun, now hovering over the mountain, splayed through the tops of the evergreens like light streaming through a stained glass window. It illuminated the valley with a deep shade of yellow-orange, reminding us that day’s end was near. As we broke down our rods and tossed gear into the bed of my truck it felt as though we were saying goodbye to something, we just didn’t know what.

Not long after this trip John moved to Montana. He had a dream of becoming a fishing guide and living in the wide open spaces of “big sky country”. He did just that for several years. He’d tell me stories of fishing the Madison, the Blackfoot and his favorite river… the Bitterroot. I must admit I was a bit jealous of the freedom he had to just pick up and go.

After a year or so, John and I drifted apart. I found out sometime later he had taken his life on the banks of the Bitterroot. I knew John had been battling some serious demons. I guess we all are to some extent. John’s were different though. He knew it. I knew it too. I thought maybe our friendship was big enough to carry him, or the river, or even Montana, but in the end his fight finally gave out.

I miss my brother…

I haven’t fished the Big Thompson in years. Probably the last time I wet my boots there was with my son when he was middle school age. Another flood came through in 2013 and washed a good portion of the river out. I’m not even sure John’s run is still there. I guess I’ll have to take a trip up north to find out. It would be good to stir a trout and a memory or two.

“My Old Friend” by Tim McGraw

My old friend, this song’s for you
Cause a few simple verses was the least that I could do
To tell the world that you were here
Cause the love and the laughter
Will live on long after
All of the sadness and the tears
We’ll meet again
My old friend…