It was a hot afternoon in mid July. I spun a loop through a partially filled parking lot before centering my truck between a pair of faded white lines. Clouds were already beginning to form over the mountains, so I quickly threw on my waders and began stringing up my rod. As I did, another fisherman pulled in beside me. It was an out-of-stater with Georgia tags.

I continued rigging my leader as this gentleman stepped from his Ford F150 and began fumbling around for his gear. I kept my head down, focusing solely on the last few turns of my double clinch knot.

“Is this your home water, he asked, pulling his waders up to his waist? I’ve heard good things about this canyon.”

Not wanting to be rude, but reluctant to engage too deeply in conversation, I lifted my head just long enough to make eye contact, then I turned my attention back to my flies.

“I live just up the hill, I replied. And yes, this canyon is an amazing place. You chose wisely.”

He went on to tell me how he was out here on business and that he had been wanting to fish the canyon for quite some time. He was unashamed to admit he knew nothing about fishing Colorado tailwaters or any tailwater for that matter. I must say, I respect a fisherman who isn’t too proud to ask for advice. We’re all out-of-staters at some point in our fishing lives.

We wrapped up conversation with a handshake, then went our separate ways. I grabbed the rest of my gear from my truck then made quick steps towards the trailhead. After a short hike into the canyon I came to a familiar split in the trail where I could either stay high or drop to the river. Aware of my late start and the darkening sky, I decided to make the best use of my time and drop. A quick bushwhack through the willows and I was riverside.

Pressing my polarized glasses tightly against my face, I scanned the water for holding fish. I stripped some line out from my reel and made my initial cast across the water. Pitter patter… I felt the first few splashes of rain hit the brim of my hat. Adjusting my indicator I stepped out a bit further into the river. The clouds, now suspended just over the mountains, swallowed the sun’s light and even more of its warmth. Small droplets of rain began to dimple the water’s surface. Then larger ones followed. I threw a couple more casts into the seam, then grabbed my rain jacket from my pack. Within seconds the sky let loose.

Standing mid-river in a downpour left me one of two choices. I could either continue across the river on my original path or go back the way I came. Being no stranger to Colorado storms I was convinced this wouldn’t be anything but short lived, so with that in mind, I continued my course to the other side. No more had my boots touched the opposite shoreline and rain turned to hail – a hard hail, the kind that can take a piece of your ear kind of haiI. I pulled my hood up over my head to protect my exposed skin, then leaned over so my back could take the brunt of the hail’s fury. Five minutes turned to fifteen. Still the sky showed no signs of relenting.

The terrain in the canyon was primarily made up of loose, decomposed granite, with very little ground cover. This made the mountainside extremely prone to erosion even in normal runoff conditions. This storm though was different. I could tell. The speed at which it came in and the duration in which it was staying was not typical for a Colorado storm. I needed to get to higher ground.

Crawling hand over hand I made my way up the steep embankment. Fear gripped me as images of the 1976 Big Thompson flood began to fill my mind. I knew that disaster was an anomaly, but I still couldn’t help thinking about that wall of water that swept so many to their deaths.

Liquid sludge now poured down the hillside. It carved deep and twisted gullies in the earth, a foot deep in places. With little to no shelter this side of the river, I was fully exposed to the elements. Even my heavy-duty rain jacket seemed useless against the marble sized hail now pelting me from every which way. Desperate for even the slightest cover I found a downed tree and somehow managed to wedge my upper body into its hollow core. As uncomfortable as it was, it would be my refuge for the duration of the storm.

Twenty minutes turned to thirty, then thirty to forty. Finally the barrage from the sky began to ease. As it did, l wearily got back to my feet and watched while the last few bits of hail bounced off the forest floor. Like a hostage set free from its captor, I stood for a moment, a long moment, and just breathed again. A thick layer of hail now covered the mountainside, making my surroundings look more like a scene from late December than the middle of July. Warm and cold had collided unexpectedly and brought an eerie ambiance to the canyon. One I would not soon forget. One I hoped I would never see again.

Tired and emotionally drained, I waded a swift, debris filled river back from where I came. A sparse, low hanging fog now hovered over the water. Like a ghost it moved in tandem with the swirling current below. Once free of the river’s grasp, I turned to make my way up the trail. As I did, I heard the sound of voices coming from around the bend. It was welcoming to know I was no longer alone.

“Helloooo,” echoed a voice off the canyon walls. Then several other voices unintelligibly followed.

Upstream from me, some twenty yards, I saw the silhouette of a man appear through the rolling mist. The clouds had broken free of themselves and the afternoon sun was beginning to pour back through the spaces in between. Soon two men appeared, then three. One after the other they walked down to where I was standing.

It took me a minute, but I soon recognized one of the men as Pat Dorsey, a local fly fishing guide from the area. We’d crossed paths numerous times over the years, though I don’t think he recognized me.

“Hey Pat,” I said with a nod, sliding my hands into the fleece lined pockets of my jacket. “Crazy day, huh?”

“Crazy indeed,” he replied, looking down at one of the many landslides now formed along the river’s edge. “In all my years guiding in this canyon I’ve never seen anything like it.”

I remember the rain dripping from the hood of Dorsey’s bright blue parka, the largeness of his presence, the dejection in his voice. I knew he was hurting. We all were. We knew the canyon had taken a hit that day.

Small talk ensued and held everyone’s attention for several minutes, until our recollections of the storm ran its course, and the weight of the moment returned. Whatever we were thinking, from that point on, we kept to ourselves. Not from lack of questions really, more from lack of answers. Maybe we needed the quiet. Maybe we just wanted to hear what the river had to say. All the time strangely tethered to each other for comfort. Not knowing why or even how exactly, but soothed nonetheless.

I turned to look at the faces of the men next to me. All of us stoic, with eyes glazed, but wide open. Shoulder to shoulder we stared across an expanse, that for some of us, held hours upon hours of time spent entrenched in these waters. Chasing trout from one end of the river to the other.

Undeniably hopeful… eternally grateful!