Lees Ferry, a Haven for Humongous Trout

Icy Water, Dangerous Currents, and Giant Trout River at Lees Ferry

I SEE THAT MY GUIDE, TERRY GUNN, IS WORRIED. We are in Glen Canyon, halfway between Lees Ferry and Lake Powell, motoring through the swift and dangerous currents of the Colorado River. "Anything wrong?" I ask as I poke around for my life jacket. Terry's grim look suggests the greatest crisis since the Black Death. "We should have midges plastered all over our teeth by now," he tells me. For most people, bug-free teeth would be something of a blessing, but not for Terry. We are out here, he reminds me, to catch some legendary Lees Ferry trout, fish that somehow secretly it seemed grew to monstrous proportions from 1963 to 1976, the period between the completion of Glen Canyon Dam and the moment of their discovery by fishermen. For a few years, rainbows in the 15to 20pound category were almost common here. Then the biggest trout disappeared, their decline caused by too many anglers. New and stricter fishing regulations seemed to resolve the problem, but a series of water studies in 1990 accidentally wiped out the aquatic food supply, leaving the surviving trout with enormous heads attached to skinny bodies. We are here today, however, because the big trout are fat again, and this time they are defended by regulations that both restrict kills and guarantee ample water flows.

But back to the midges. These tiny winged insects seem to stoke the appetites of big Lees Ferry trout like honey would for a bear. So no midges early in the morning could mean tough fishing the rest of the day. Nevertheless, we decide to stop and test our luck a half mile from the 8 Mile Bar, a gravel deposit named for its distance from the launch site at Lees Ferry. While we stalk the 48° F. river in insulated waders, Terry explains some of the special techniques I will need to catch Lees Ferry trout. "This is big water," he tells me, "and the fish are scattered, so you have to spot them first and then make a fairly long cast. That's why people travel here from far away. Lees Ferry is one of the few places in the world where you can routinely sight cast to large rainbow trout."

The river's strong current initially defeats my casting technique. Terry, for his part, nearly goes hoarse from cries of, "Mend! Mend!" by which he means that, after each cast, I should pull gobs of extra line from my reel, shake it down the rod, and then throw it upstream as fast as I can. The reason for the mend is simple. Without it, the fly line will float ahead of the fly, tending to drag it downstream in a most unflylike manner. This alerts the trout to shut their mouths.

In the midst of all this, a large shadow navigates through the bubbly past my legs. Trout. A brawny fellow. He fins over to join his colleagues who are lined up like trucks waiting to be loaded. Wondering if they might want to fill up on some imitation midges, I offer them a dry fly called an "Adams." But the trout ignore it completely, preferring to stare off at the scenery instead.

"Let's go," Terry orders. We clamber back aboard his 20-foot riverboat and drive farther north. At a spot called Russell's Place, we jump out onto another sunken gravel bar, and this time Terry rigs our leaders with "scuds": orange flies that imitate freshwater shrimp. Then we spread out, Terry taking the difficult hard-running currents at the head of the bar.

On his first cast, he strikes a trout. The fish jumps boldly and streaks for the middle of the river, but Terry quickly brings it around. Soon he is releasing a 17-inch rainbow brightly splashed with rouge-colored gill plates and crimson-blotched sides. "A spawning male," Terry tells me as he watches the fish swim off unharmed. "Isn't he beautiful?" I notice the grimness has gone.

Terry quickly hooks another fish, and another, each one similar in size and color to the first. Then it is my turn. At the head of a sluggish eddy, I spot a four-pack of trout rocking like sunken boats against the bottom. I strip out 40 feet of my floating line and cast above them, letting the current carry my scud to the fish. When the fly has floated within a foot or so of the pack, a pan-size fellow swishes out of nowhere, snatches the scud, and cruises forward a yard or two. Instinctively I shoot my rod up in the air and haul back to set the hook, but the fish keeps going, taking fly, leader, and my rising hope along with him.

"What happened?" I ask Terry. "How did that little guy break my line?"

"That 'little guy' was two and one-half pounds," Terry says softly. "I think, maybe, you set the hook a bit hard."

I ponder this mistake and decide my problem is simply one of scale. Nowhere else would I confuse a two-and-one-half-pound lunker with a pan-size trout. But I will discover I'm not the only one here troubled by a poor sense of scale.

(RIGHT) Heffernon frees a trout according to catch-and-release regulations at Lees Ferry.

(BELOW) Gunn observes Heffernon's fly-casting technique and offers helpful tips.

(OPPOSITE PAGE) Late light breaks through to illuminate the Vermilion Cliffs on a stormy evening.

We are working another gravel bar, where the algae-covered rocks roll like bowling balls underfoot. A nice trout rises to eat my scud, and I promptly set the hook, gently this time. To my surprise, the fish barely moves. Instantly Terry is at my side delivering a high-speed flurry of instructions: "Ready now. Loosen some line. He's gonna run, so be prepared. There! Give him line. Let him go. Good... now get ready. He's slowing... turn him around. Okay, strip in line . . . quick . . . haul it in faster. Now, rod tip over to the right. Lift his head up. Out of the water . . . lift. Do it!"

But I don't lift fast enough, and the trout swirls angrily, shaking from tip to tail before he plows off to the depths. I feed out line furiously in an attempt to keep up with him. Am I still attached? I think so. But then my line goes slack.

Terry pokes me. "Strip in line," he commands. "Hurry!" So I haul in armloads of line, letting it coil at my knees before it drifts downstream in the current. Finally I feel a tug the fish and then I feel his weight dragging against each yard of recovered line.

"Lift that rod," Terry urges next. "Be aggressive. Get his head up." I force the butt end of my nine-footfly rod toward the sky, and the tip doubles over on itself, tracing a delicate arc that culminates in a silver and red torpedo. Terry glides over to gently support the fish by its belly.

THE RIVER AT LEES FERRY

"Twenty-two inches long," he says. "Three pounds-plus. A beauty." He unhitches the barbless hook from the trout's lip, and we pose for pictures until our guest departs in a ripple of cool power. Afterward I ask Terry to explain a small red gash I noticed on the trout's back.

"Oh," he says, "that was probably wherea great blue heron poked him with his bill." "You're kidding," I say. "Why would it try such a thing? No heron could ever handle a three-pound fish."

a great blue heron poked him with his bill." "You're kidding," I say. "Why would it try such a thing? No heron could ever handle a three-pound fish."

Terry shrugs. "Who knows?" he says. "Herons seem to have no sense of scale." Ah, I nod. That's my problem here, too. Later, on the return ride, I question Terry about his own sense of scale. As a professional guide, he must catch and release big trout on a daily basis. Is there any thrill left for him at Lees Ferry?

"Rick," Terry says, "I have seen more three-pound fish than you'd care to think about, but, believe me, there are trout in this river that can still make my knees quiver." He pauses while I visualize a trout the size of a Nautilus submarine with gills and a rainbow stripe down its side. Then Terry adds, "And there will be more when we learn to protect them."

Pine-based Rick Heffernon previously contributed an article about attending a fly-fishing school. He considers his Lees Ferry experience "the final exam." Phoenix-based Richard Maack says he used to fish for fish but now angles only for photographs.

WHEN YOU GO

Best time to go: Fishing in Glen Canyon is good in any season because the river temperature stays constant at about 48° F. The most pleasant air temperatures occur in spring and fall.

Getting there: Lees Ferry is located in Glen Canyon National Recreation Area, approximately 275 miles north of Phoenix. Take Interstate 17 north 146 miles to Flagstaff, then U.S. Route 89 north another 111 miles, then U.S. Route 89A for 14 miles to Marble Canyon where signs indicate the five-mile access road to Lees Ferry. A developed campground and boat launch area are available.

Where to fish: The best trout fishing is in the 15 miles of river between the boat launch site at Lees Ferry and Glen Canyon Dam. Some shore fishing is possible in the first mile and a half from Lees Ferry, otherwise power boats are necessary. Because of dangerous river currents, a guide is recommended.

Guides: Lees Ferry Anglers books fishing trips with Terry Gunn and several other guides. Rates average between $200 and $300 per day depending on the number in the party. Boat rentals also are available. For more information, call toll-free (800) 962-9755. Names of other local guides may be obtained by calling businesses in the area, such as Marble Canyon Lodge at (520) 355-2225.

Fishing tips: A new state law directs that "fish shall be taken only by artificial lures and flies with barbless hooks" on that portion of the Colorado River from Glen Canyon Dam to Marble Canyon Bridge (Lees Ferry) in Coconino County. If you do not have barbless hooks, use pliers to close the barbs on your hooks. Bring the fish in as swiftly as possible. Keep the fish in the water and do not squeeze it. If you anticipate difficulty dislodging the hook, cut the leader. Allow a tired fish to completely recover before releasing by holding the tail with one hand and supporting the fish under the belly with the other hand. Point the head upstream and gently move the fish back and forth so the gills begin pumping oxygen. The fish will swim off when ready.