www.wildonthefly.com 61

take pictures with an unobstructed view. I didn’t dispute it. I didn’t even ask if any essential safety features were being compromised. Just before we prepared to take off, a fog rolled into the bay and settled over the water, with no escape in sight. Only the mountain tops were visible. We took off and headed straight through the fog and eventually popped out right on top of it. Without the doors, the wind blew in my face, but felt good, making me feel so alive. Gliding over the clouds, looking down at summits and the tips of glaciers brought tears to my eyes. There was a new burning in my throat that reminded me that this was all real and better than any dream or imagination. It is impossible to have fear when the experience is worth dying for. The convergence of the glacial stream with the waters where we landed created an incredible swirl of color. Sam parked the helicopter and Rus, Tim and I set off on foot across a meadow, where we stopped to gorge on Nagoon ber-ries, which look like raspberries, but taste more citrus. We hiked over a rocky notch and forded a chest-deep lake to get to the river of char. After lunch, we took turns spotting fish and casting to them. We shared one rod by choice and stood side by side taking as much pleasure in each other’s fish as our own. I finally felt like this was my activity, too. I wasn’t intruding on Tim’s adventure. This wasn’t his trip with his friends. It was suddenly ours. After all these years, I under-stood what it was to be an angler. Our final flight back to camp proved to be the most spectacular yet. Sam flew us all around the bay, right over a group of six bears fishing in the river, over a bald eagle’s nest. Between, around and over clusters of islands. We followed the landscape, hugging the shore, scaling the cliffs, racing down the hills. Huge pods of white jellyfish, visible to the naked eye, pulsated in the water. Schools of fish and flocks of birds everywhere. Pristine beaches, un-named peaks, breaking waves, volcanoes, glaciers, rivers all around us. We were living in our own personal IMAX movie. It was like experiencing silence and listening to your favorite song at the same time. We landed and I looked at Tim, speechless. For the next few hours, I felt like I was floating. I could tell he felt the same way. At least we wouldn’t have to describe the experience to each other. This thought stuck with me. As we ate our last meal at camp, drank our last beer from the trough, took the last look through the spotting scopes and watched the tide roll out for the last time, it hit me that this would be the first of many adventures. That secret “code” I’ve been trying to crack isn’t really a secret at all. It’s quite obvious. A long day on the water isn’t something you do to kill time, or get exercise, or even bragging rights. It’s not the macho, dude-fest I once thought it was. It’s all about that moment, that second or minute, hour or week when everything around you is suddenly in tune. When you couldn’t possibly imag-ine another place you’d rather be.

when you go King Salmon

Katmai N.P.

Becharof Lake

OUTFITTER: Epic Angling & Adventure2111 Lanier Drive, Austin, Texas 78757

512-656-2736 • info@epicanglingadventure.com • www.alaskawildernesssafari.com

SPECIES OF FISHRainbow trout, arctic char, Dolly Varden, pink salmon, chum salmon, silver salmon, halibut.

SEASONMid-July through the end of September.

RATES$4,950 per person from Saturday to Saturday with a maximum of nine guests per week. Price includes two helicopter fly outs per week.

LOCATIONThe Alaska Wilderness Safari camp is located on the southern coast of the Alaskan Peninsula, due south of King Salmon.

GETTING THEREFrom Anchorage you’ll fly to King Salmon where you will connect with an Alaska Wilderness Safari’s chartered plane to fly you to camp.

FOODFrom fresh salmon to fresh blue ber-ries, smoked char fritatta to almond crusted halibut, New York strip steak to roasted pork loin, and desserts to die for, this is gourmet cuisine in the wilderness. Freshness like this will forever change your opinion about the fish you have been eating back home!

TIME ZONEAlaska Time Zone. One hour earlier than California and four hours earlier than New York.

WEATHERCan change daily. Anticipate the possibility of wind, rain, sun and evening cold.

BUGSNot a huge problem but this is Alaska in the summertime. Bring a DEET-based bug spray and wear long sleeve clothing.

CLOTHINGGood rain jacket, breathable waders, and a selection of fleece are the solution for staying warm and dry. Don’t forget comfortable camp clothing and waterproof camp shoes.

EQUIPMENT8 and 9 weight rods for salmon, 5 and 6 weight for char / Dolly Varden. Good reels with floating and sink tip lines.

FLIESBring pink pollywogs if you have salmon in your sights. Chartreuse, pink and purple starlight leeches are also recommended for salmon; and eggs, zonkers and zuddlers can be the ticket for Dolly Varden and arctic char.

Alaska Wilderness Safari Alaskan Peninsula

The famous Pink Pollywog

Camp

www.wildonthefly.com

$5.99 U.S. • $6.99 Canada

Wild On The Fly Goes Digital

See Pg. 2

Wild On The Fly Goes Digital

See Pg. 2Lake Athabasca Canadian Grand Slam Lake Athabasca Canadian Grand Slam

Fishing With My Boyfriend Alaskan Safari Outpost CampFishing With My Boyfriend Alaskan Safari Outpost Camp

The Greatest Ever! Steelhead Exploration

The Greatest Ever! Steelhead Exploration

Patagonia Unplugged: Part 4 Argentina’s Rio Santa Cruz

Patagonia Unplugged: Part 4 Argentina’s Rio Santa Cruz

PLUS: Nomads of the Sea, The Scene, Gallery: CD Clark, Bahamian Baked Bonefish, Colorado’s 4UR Guest Ranch, Galapagos Striped Marlin Life FishPLUS: Nomads of the Sea, The Scene, Gallery: CD Clark, Bahamian Baked Bonefish, Colorado’s 4UR Guest Ranch, Galapagos Striped Marlin Life Fish

violate another essential element of the fl

y fishing tradition, the rocks w

ould have to be quarried in England and cost $300 each.” – John G

ierach

“Pur

ity

[in

fly

fish

ing]

by

nost

algi

a is

an

inte

rest

ing

idea

, but

the

log

ic o

f it

is

ines

capa

ble.

If

we

carr

y pu

rism

to

its

logi

cal

conc

lusi

on, t

o do

it

right you’d have to live naked in a cave, hit your trout on the head with rocks, and eat them raw. But, so as not to

60 Wild On The Fly

4UR So Beautiful

To Me...

S t o r y a n d P h o t o g r a p h s b y J o s e p h E . D a n i e l

Goose Creek is the only privately owned fly fishing

tailwater in the United States. Beginning as a

small waterfall just below the Lake Humphreys dam on the southern boundary

of the 4UR Ranch, the creek then flows north, bisecting

the ranch property in a series of deep pools and gentle riffles (left), and

ending seven miles later where it flows into

the Rio Grande.

www.wildonthefly.com 63

ohn’s deep baritone cracks long before he hits his intended oc- tave as he croons his slightly modified version of the decade-old Joe Cocker ballad to a hushed dining room of graying boomers, all close in age to the legendary rocker. Climbing through the notes, he reaches his final stanza at the same moment he runs out of breath, his face flushing from the effort and the wine that has flowed freely for the previous two hours. The room erupts into riotous laugh-ter and applause and a rich atmosphere of goodwill and fellowship. Those witness-ing this spectacle for the first time smile awkwardly, like pledges at some fraternal initiation. They recognize they’re being made privy to something special, they just don’t know yet exactly what it is. I extract myself from the crowd and head for the front porch and some much- needed air. I’ve watched this annual recital many times before, and I know it’s John’s show and a much-anticipated performance for the tight-knit group of anglers who converge on this wonderful Colorado guest ranch every summer for a long weekend of piscatorial debauchery. I pass through the lodge’s great room under the glassy gaze of African antelope heads and horn mounts crowning a stone fireplace framed by two huge elephant tusks. These are evidence of a sporting life well-lived by the current patriarch of the ranch, Charles S. (Pete) Leavell. Somehow their being there – instead of the requisite elk or buffalo head mounts – seems to work and only further defines the unique personality of the 4UR. I’m almost to the front door when “the plaque” leaps off the wall adjacent to the front desk and hovers in the space right before my eyes, glowing rich in tones of brass and oak. Whoa! Maybe I’ve drank more wine than I thought. I blink hard several times to clear my vision and the plaque retreats to its hallowed spot where all can read the 15 name plates inscribed with dates and times and the identities of those special few anglers who have com-pleted the Goose Creek Marathon. This is a very small and elite club for which membership is hard-won and painful. Its

...Can’t You See? You’re everything I hoped for. You’re every, everything I need. You are so beautiful to me...

J

The 4UR Ranch in all her autumn glory. This unique Western guest ranch features luxury lodge accommodations and a wide range of

popular outdoor activities from horseback riding, to trap shooting, to truly superb trout

fishing – all carefully overseen by ranch owners Lindsey and Pete Leavell (above, middle).

The 4UR Ranch in all her autumn glory. This unique Western guest ranch features luxury lodge accommodations and a wide range of

popular outdoor activities from horseback riding, to trap shooting, to truly superb trout

fishing – all carefully overseen by ranch owners Lindsey and Pete Leavell (above, middle).

58 Wild On The Fly

very existence has taunted me for years and always conjures up feelings of self-doubt. But like pornography, I have to look, willing failing eyes to focus on the tiny font of light and metal. The oldest inscription is from July of 1984 – David H. Lott, five hours and 45 minutes. Two years later Robert H. Brown carved a fat hour off that time, and two years after that Henry Ellis raised the bar substan-tially by finishing in an astonishing 3 hours

and ten minutes. For the next 13 years only six more anglers would complete the chal-lenge and none of them would come close to Henry’s record, their times ranging from three hours and 50 minutes, to eight hours and 22 minutes. Then on July 17, 2001 John Moritz (the same John torturing the Joe Cocker ballad at the start of this tale) fin-ished the Goose Creek Marathon in under three hours – two hours and 52 minutes to be exact. Anglers staying at the ranch went

wild. It was like breaking the four-minute mile! The very next day a very ambitious and relentless young angler named Forest Stewart spent nine hours and 28 minutes try-ing to equal John. It was a long, painful day but he finished, earning himself a place on the plaque and the admiration of everyone. But only one day later ranch manager, and at the time head fishing guide, Aaron Christensen, on the pretense that John’s boasting was simply too much to endure,

stepped into Station 1 of Goose Creek short-ly before 10 am and emerged from Station 15 in time for lunch, posting a new record time of two hours and 37 minutes! John screamed foul play, complaining that ranch employees, particularly fly fishing guides, had no business competing in this “guest” event. I can sort of see his point, but it was interesting to see how fast a healthy young guy who knew every inch, and prob-ably every fish, of Goose Creek could com-

plete the Marathon. Aaron answered that question quite impressively. If you haven’t guessed by now, the Goose Creek Marathon is a fishing competi-tion. Goose Creek is the superb little tailwa-ter that flows the length of the 4UR Ranch, beginning on the property’s southern bound-ary under the private dam for neighboring Lake Humphreys, and ending over seven miles later where it meets the Rio Grande at the northern edge of the ranch. The creek is

divided into 15 fishing stations, each rough-ly a half-mile long. Marathon rules require a competitor to start on Station One and fish upstream, successfully catching and land-ing a fish in each station as fast as possible. Simple as that. Most anglers planning for a Marathon attempt will choose to start at the top of Sta-tion One and hope to land their last fish in the big pool under the bridge at the bottom of Station Fifteen. The total distance that

Fish photos: Andy Lee

The top section of Goose Creek flows through a steep alpine canyon before plunging out into the pastures and hay fields of the ranch. Here an angler ties into a nice fish at the bottom of Station 15, the final destination of those competing in the Goose Creek Marathon. The trout in Goose Creek can be quite large, with big native browns from the Rio Grande mixing it up with the established rainbows of the fishery.

The top section of Goose Creek flows through a steep alpine canyon before plunging out into the pastures and hay fields of the ranch. Here an angler ties into a nice fish at the bottom of Station 15, the final destination of those competing in the Goose Creek Marathon. The trout in Goose Creek can be quite large, with big native browns from the Rio Grande mixing it up with the established rainbows of the fishery.

www.wildonthefly.com 67

60 Wild On The Fly www.wildonthefly.com 61

must be covered using this strategy is a little more than six miles – basically a 10K race, beginning at 8,400 feet of al-titude and running uphill through water and willow thicket, stopping 15 times to catch a trout. And that’s if everything goes perfect. Suddenly young Forrest’s time of over nine hours doesn’t sound all that bad. And Aaron’s and John’s sub-three-hour achievements seem downright heroic. But enough of this, I certainly didn’t need to psyche myself out any further, and I head for the door, carefully stepping over the threshold and down the short step to the porch. A year before I had stumbled on this same step in the dark, breaking my ankle and ending my poorly-laid plans for a go at the Marathon the following day. Se-cretly I had welcomed the excuse, because I really wasn’t prepared physically for the event and John’s thinly veiled challenges were beginning to grate. But this year was different. I had been running with some regularity and had shed over 20 pounds of double lattes and muffins. I was 52 years old (one year younger than John when he set his record) and I probably wasn’t going to get in any better shape than I was right then. I was going for the Marathon the next day come hell or high water. What I hadn’t figured on however was snow. We had all come to the 4UR quite a bit later this year due to our kids’ school schedules, and already an early season snowstorm had dumped six inches on the upper reaches of the ranch. Most of that had melted, but as I walked out onto the porch and looked up into a sky of stars I could feel a cold, hard frost in the air. John had already graciously allowed as to how it maybe wasn’t the best time of the year to make a serious attempt at the record, allowing me an out we both knew I wouldn’t take. It was now or never, and I figured I could just nymph my way to victory if the cold weather had ended the hatches for the year. I stared up-valley towards the head of Goose Creek and my eventual goal the next day. Clouds of steam billowed from the natural hot springs on the property, of relatively recent history a turn-of-the-cen-tury spa for travelers seeking rejuvena-tion from the road, and for hundreds of years before that a sacred site for the Ute Indians who first discovered the valley. Interestingly, Utes were a tribe prone to arthritis and they believed the springs held magical healing properties. I wondered what those early Native Americans would think of our Marathon. Did they play at

Boots photo: Andy Lee

Serious horseback riding and cowboy chic are as much a part of the 4UR Ranch as graphite fly rods and breathable waders. Participating in these activities while surrounded by the natural grandeur of the ranch makes this decidedly Western experience all the more genuine.

such trivial games as grown men? Did they fish Goose Creek and make sport of who proved the most able angler? The next morning dawns bright and clear… and cold. A thick frost clings to the uncut hay of the upper pastures and sparkles like a billion diamonds as the sun floods over the Palisades to the east bath-ing the 4UR in a light so vivid it hurts the eyes. Blankets of aspen on either side of the

valley burst into yellow flame while stately cottonwoods along the lower reaches of Goose Creek glow as golden torches against the cool blue shadows of the stream itself. A wrangler appears, and then his dog, and suddenly the wonderfully western rever-beration of hoof beats fills the air as 20 head of horses gallop past, headed for the barn. I stand on the broad front porch of our luxury “bunkhouse” sipping the rich coffee that

had been left at our door and watching the ranch awaken to a spectacular day. My plan is to start my Marathon shortly after lunch, allowing as much time as pos-sible for the day to warm up and the trout of Goose Creek to become active. I spend the morning preparing for my attempt and strat-egizing over every possible aspect of the ef-fort, from what flies to use to what I should wear. I tie a half dozen hopper/dropper and

double nymph rigs, with every favored local combination of flies and wind them care-fully around an empty toilet paper roll. The idea is to save time re-rigging should I break off or have to change up. John stops by on his way to fish and he promises to try out a few of my selections and report on his results before I begin. We spend a few moments talking light-hearted smack and discussing what I have to achieve in order to break his

record. Figure that I have just under 172 minutes to work with (I’m really not out to beat Aaron, besting John will be satisfaction enough!). Then figure that if running uphill on very uneven ground, while negotiating willow thickets and slippery boulders, the best pace I could hope for is maybe 15-min-ute miles. So there goes nearly 100 minutes, leaving the balance to be divided by 15 fish. That’s about 5 minutes a fish, every fish,

15 times in a row. Wow. I was reasonably confident I could handle the running, but even under the best conditions that was some seriously righteous fishing! I meet Aaron at the top of Station One shortly after lunch. Rules require that a guide accompany each competitor to certify every catch and keep the official time. I’m dressed like a New Zealand trout guide with neoprene tights in place of waders and an

Food photo: Andy Lee

The 4UR was operated for quite some time as a tourist hotel and natural hot springs spa, and the original bathhouse from 1902 is still preserved on the property. A classic one-room school house (above right) also still

stands, and once serviced the children of fluorspar miners who quarried on the ranch from 1925 to 1950. Today, the 4UR boasts a cozy old lodge

with atypical adornments (below right), and a modern kitchen/dining room featuring endless masterpieces of Nouveau Western cuisine.

70 Wild On The Fly www.wildonthefly.com 71

old pair of running shoes. And I’m amped to the max! I plan to start with a simple nymph rig of two small beadhead princes about 12-inches apart on 5X, which John had report-ed had “murdered ‘em” in this same pool earlier that morning. At exactly 1:30 pm Aaron clicks his stopwatch and my Marathon has begun. I quickly start working the water at the head of the pool, and fish downstream, system-atically covering a deep seam that I know holds lots of trout. After ten casts I am be-coming concerned that I haven’t even had a bump. Five casts later and four minutes into the game I am just about to curse John for Hoovering the pool earlier in the day when suddenly my strike in-dicator shoots back upstream and a huge rainbow, fresh from the Rio Grande just a half-mile down-stream, rockets into the air and tears up into the long slick of deep water above, with me in hot pur-suit. This would be a very coveted trophy fish at any other time but it is exactly what you don’t want to catch during the Goose Creek Marathon. Growing anxious that my precious time is slipping away I bear down on the big fish and be-gin horsing it to the shore. The re-sult is inevitable, and I realize ex-actly the moment my tippet parts and my first “uncaught” fish sinks out of view just a few feet from my net that I’m choking. Rookie mis-take, rookie result. Calming myself down, I re-tie with another nymph rig and pro-ceed to dredge for 12 more min-utes before hooking and landing a small bow in the riffles 50 feet from where I had begun. What an inauspicious start! I feel like the pro golfer who triple-bogeys the first hole of the last round of a tournament, completely destroying the three stroke lead he had on the rest of the field. I manage to land another small brown fairly quickly on the bottom of Station Two, and then Aaron and I are off on a lung-scorching run for a straight mile to the top of Station Three. By the time we arrive at our planned pool I’m already 35 minutes into the event, I’ve only caught two fish and I’m feeling totally ex-hausted. This is not good. I lose a rig to an underwater snag and another to a high tree before landing a small brown on a #14 Parachute Adams fished in

desperation in the tiny pocket water only a few feet from the end of the Station Three. I can’t believe how the element of time has completely transformed how I fish. I’m ner-vous and moving too fast, and I’m convinced this bad vibe is being transferred down my line to the fish I’m after. I start working up Station Four and quickly hook a nice size rainbow that breaks me off after an impressive display of tail walking. I hook up again only to suffer the same fate. So much for my stash of pre-

tied nymph and fly rigs! And so much for 5X tippet, I’m changing to cable. Then the pool goes dead, in fact the whole station goes dead, and I can’t even buy a fish. Station Four ends in a series of deep plunge pools at a bridge adjacent to the ranch’s horse stables. Under the direction of Head Wrangler Dammon Gibbons, the 4UR is as much a serious equestrian opera-tion as it is a fly fishing destination, and just as many guests visit the ranch to ride or let their children participate in the weekly kid’s rodeo. Right now a long line of horses carry-ing laughing members of our group is cross-ing the bridge, and each in turn inquires as to how I’m doing. I wish myself invisible as I painfully answer their queries with “Oh it’s a little slow right now.”

A little slow?! I’ve only landed three qualifying fish, and I’m well over an hour into the competition. On top of that I’ve run out of water on Station Four and my only choice is to backtrack several hundred yards downstream to a stretch of stream I didn’t fish on the way up, where, by some grace of God, I hook a big brown that stays glued and delivers me from this piscine pur-gatory. Obviously I’m not going to break any records today, and I shift my thinking from winning to simply surviving.

Perhaps it’s the big dose of hu-mility or the fact that I no longer really care anymore, but I suddenly calm down and begin to fish in ear-nest. I tie on a black Wooly Bugger and drag it through the big mine pool at the bottom of Five, hook-ing a feisty rainbow that eventu-ally comes to the net in grand style. My wife and a few of her pals are watching from the bridge and she gives me a thumbs-up, ever the sup-portive friend, I know she feels my pain. Their plan is for a long hike through the turning aspen this after-noon, followed by massages and a dip in the hot springs pool before dinner. It’s actually hard to experi-ence everything this amazing ranch has to offer in just a few short days but this group is determined to try. The 3,600 acres of land form-ing the present-day 4UR Ranch is steeped in colorful history. Originally homesteaded in 1819, the first permanent resident of the property was Tom Boggs – brother-in-law of Western leg-end Kit Carson – who settled there

in 1840. The ranch changed hands several times over the next dozen decades operat-ing primarily as a hot springs resort from 1872 to the late 1950s under the original name of the Wagon Wheel Gap Develop-ment Company. A beautiful stucco bath-house built in 1902 still stands on the prop-erty, and the springs still flow at a steady 132 to 136 degrees. In 1959 the ranch was purchased for private use by Lawrence C. Phipps, U.S. Senator from Colorado, who in turn sold it to Charles H. Leavell in 1972. The Leavell family refurbished the property as a Western guest ranch and have run it as such ever since. Charles’ son Pete and his wife Lindsey are the charismatic current overseers of the ranch who, along with their managers Aaron and his wife Robin, have

Author Joseph Daniel crossing the stream at Station Six during the Goose Creek Marathon. Rules require that anglers run upstream, landing a fish in each of the 15 stations in the shortest amount of time.

72 Wild On The Fly

been instrumental in evolving the 4UR into a superb, luxury-level fishing destination complete with all the Western charm of its earlier legacy. Aaron and I light out for the top of Six and although winded by the altitude I’m be-ginning to enjoy the run. I hear the rhyth-mic pops of John and a few others from our group shooting trap on the ridge above and I wonder if he’s looking down, keeping tabs on my progress. We’re now in the middle pasture section of Goose Creek where the stream meanders in a series of S turns. We run a straight line, cutting the oxbows in splashing bursts, jumping over banks and dodging willow clumps. At Station Six I barely stop before land-ing a nice fish, followed by two hooked and lost at the bottom of Seven. Aaron has radioed ahead for guide Dave Mead-ows to replace him on Station Seven. I like to think I wore him out, but I know he has only allowed himself a three-hour window on the extremely rare possibility that I might have actually threatened that sacred benchmark. With the clock firmly expired on that possibility, he hands me off to Dave and we ply every inch of Sev-en with no success. Backtracking yet again, I drift a small nymph deep along a wall of rocks that sweeps through a long, slow curve. My line stops, and I’m sure I’m snagged, only to suddenly find myself coupled with a nuclear rainbow, easily my best fish of the day. This trout is truly spectacular and with no time limits to worry about I fully enjoy the screaming runs and bull-dogging moves he delivers. Finally, he dives deep against the rock wall and just as suddenly I’m snagged again, this time for real. I wade out across the stream following the taut line with my hand until I’m forced to submerge my entire shoulder in order to reach where it disappears beneath a rock. Miracu-lously the trout is still connected and it bolts from behind the stone in a repeat of its earlier gymnastics. Eventually this terrific fish tires, and I bring it to the net where both Dave and I “ooh and ahh” in genuine appreciation. In addition to the 15 stations of Goose Creek, the fishing program at the 4UR in-cludes five more stations on the Rio Grande. Every evening after dinner – which is always an incredible culinary event staged by chef Wray Warner – guests shake out a numbered die from a bottle presented by Head Guide Andy Lee. This is the fishing lottery for the following day and the winner chooses which

station he would prefer to fish the next morn-ing. In the afternoon the order is reversed, in-suring that every angler has great private fish-ing on prime water every day. Now as I work my way through the stations of Goose Creek I try and recall what I know about each, having in the past drawn them all in the lottery. At the bottom of Station Eight danger threatens in the form of young bull moose planted firmly in the middle of the best pool. I decide to try and shoo him out of “my wa-ter” until Dave urgently hails me back. He’s spotted a calf moose in the thickets up ahead and a big cow in the pines on the opposite bank. This is definitely not a safe situation and we’re forced to detour away from the stream adding unwanted distance and time

to my already disastrous results. By the time we get back to the top of Eight and find a fish, it’s beginning to get dark and I receive the first of the radio calls from the gang back at the lodge. They’re wonder-ing where I am on the stream and what my plans are for continuing. I have no intention of quitting at this point and grind out another qualifier on Station Nine despite the fact that I can hardly see my fly anymore. But by Station Ten reality is beginning to rear its ugly head. We’ve entered the steep canyon section of the creek and still have a little over two miles of hard terrain yet to go. It’s so dark that I’m now fishing a streamer by feel, and although I just had a savage strike I know how tough this is go-ing to be. Dave has been keeping the ranch crowd on the radio entertained by his play-by-play description of moose lovemaking,

but their appeals for us to call it a day have become more frequent and fervent. We reach the top of Ten still without a fish and the thought of backtracking in the dark is suddenly too much. I give Dave the nod and he radios in for a pick up. I’ve been on the stream for nearly six hours and have covered over four-and-a-half miles of water. It’s been a valiant attempt but Goose Creek has won. We hike up to the road that bisects the ranch north to south to where Lindsay Leavell meets us in her Jeep. She’s waiting with cold beers and a big hug. My legs feel like rubber as I sink into the softness of the vehicle’s seats, and I’m damn glad we’re call-ing it quits. All the way back the three of us

parse the attempt, rationalizing here, play-ing “what if” there. The general consensus is that “time of year” is a huge factor. Both John’s and Aaron’s records were set in mid July and every other time recorded on the plaque occurred within a month on either side of that. By mid-September the water temperature has dropped, the big hatches of summer are over, and the trout have sim-ply become harder to catch. I guess I can buy that theory. Hell, my own performance pretty much proves it. But still, I hooked 18 fish and landed half of them; and that’s not a bad day fishing anywhere! That I failed to complete the Marathon is due as much to angler error and poor strategy as it can be attributed to the quality of the fishing. In my mind, all that any of this really proves is that Goose Creek is a remark-able fishery, and that John’s and Aaron’s achievements are truly notable. To extract such consistency out of the sport of fly

fishing in such a natural setting is a rare and wonderful occurrence, and speaks volumes to the skills (and aerobic condition!) of both anglers. But just remember you two, records are made to be broken. I assure you that right now there’s some young (or old) long-rodder reading this story who’s already laying plans to win the Goose Creek Marathon.

The 4UR Ranch is located in southern Colorado near Creede. Their weekly rate is $2,275 per person double occupancy, and includes lodging, meals and most activi-ties. Their season runs from June through mid-September. If you’d like to book a trip to the 4UR, and maybe even attempt the Goose Creek Marathon, you can con-tact them directly through their web site: www.4URranch.com, or give Wild On The Fly Travel a call at 866-899-7008.

“The Plaque” with names, dates and times of the 15 anglers to ever complete the Goose Creek Marathon.

www.wildonthefly.com 73