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ONCE UPON A FISHERMAN

TERRY GUNN STOOD IN THE current and tried to pick out the dark shapes of the trout amidst the sparkle of the early-morning light, fractured now by the flow of the Colorado River over a gravel bar at the head of the Grand Canyon.

He knew the trout lurked in the cold, clear water at the edge of the main channel. He'd made it his life's work to know. So he had no doubt that the rainbow trout waited behind rocks for the current to bring them the eggs of the native flannelback suckers that spawned just upstream in a pondlike side channel. Gunn stood in the sluicing mouth of that side channel, facing into the sun, which had just risen above the glowing red cliffs of the ancient canyon. Peering through his polarized sunglasses, he separated the shadowlike form of the trout from the dark speckling of mosscovered rocks on the bottom.

Then he began his cast: Forward. Halt. Back. Halt. Forward. Halt. Back. Halt. His fly rod stored and released the energy of its own recoil, imparting it to 100 feet of floating, snaking, dancing line. Finally he released that energy as the falconer releases his bird, the archer his arrow. The imitation flannelmouth sucker egg disappeared beneath the surface, drawn to the waiting trout by the small sinker and the swift current. The fluffy strike indicator drifted on the surface, innocent of drag, and floated toward the main channel.

Abruptly the strike indicator vanished beneath the surface. Instantly Gunn pulled back, set the hook, and began taking in line. The long fly pole arched, like a sailboat heeling into the wind. Gunn patiently worked the fish, yield-ing line when the trout turned to run, taking it in gently when the trout yielded to the pressure of the line. Soon the trout lay exhausted in shallow water, its iridescent scales gleaming red, pink, green, and violet in the liquid light. Gunn deftly removed the barbless hook, tenderly released the trout, and contentedly watched the fish return to its river refuge. He worked the gravel bar and the mouth of the channel leading from the spawning pond for half an hour, catching five large trout then releasing them back to the rippling depths of the Colorado. Wandering along the shoreline, I watched Gunn work the river and considered the wonderful ability of human beings to fit themselves into any available niche.

of the channel leading from the spawning pond for half an hour, catching five large trout then releasing them back to the rippling depths of the Colorado. Wandering along the shoreline, I watched Gunn work the river and considered the wonderful ability of human beings to fit themselves into any available niche.

Once upon a time, Terry Gunn possessed the soul of an entrepreneur, starting two businesses in Phoenix by the time he turned 28. High-tech, high-pressure, high-flying, Gunn sprinted lightly along the fast track toward the American dream. He could be anything, do anything, buy anything if he could keep up the pace. Strange thing, though. He thought often about his grandfather, who taught him fly fishing. More and more, Gunn lived for his sporadic time off, when he could pack his fishing gear and flee to the high country. One day he realized he'd fallen through the looking glass. His life had become a waking dream, save for the time cocooned in the sound of water. He felt fully alive only when standing in cold water, repeating the mantra of a fly cast, watching the fly float free with perfect anticipation hope reborn bright as the colors of a rainbow with every cast.

So he decided to sell his businesses, move to Lees Ferry, and become a fishing guide. He made his choice and it worked. Gunn is now one of the busiest fishing guides operating out of Lees Ferry. He's invested 16 years in learning every riffle and eddy of the internationally renowned trout river.

Business slows dramatically during the hottest days, so every summer Gunn heads to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, and takes fishermen out to sea to fly fish for tuna, bonita, and even marlin.

Of course, for him the business end of it is just an excuse. Learning the river has become his consuming ambition, his purpose in life. This is understandable, for the river weaves water spells all along its course.

Once the Colorado flowed warm, muddy, and unpredictable through the canyon fit for the ancestors of the razorback suckers and the gigantic Colorado River squawfish. Those native fish had adapted to a wide temperature range, knew how to survive the river's staggering annual floods, and could make a living in water so muddy that eyes were often useless. Then dams tamed the Colorado into a world-class trout fishery through the Grand Canyon and a series of bass lakes farther downstream. Gunn helped me see the river. We watched the flannelmouth suckers spawn.

We lingered alongside each gravel bar and sought out the swirling margins of the current where the biggest trout wait for food to float past. We marveled at the fluting of the sandstone cliffs and memorized the reflection of soaring red walls in the glassy quiet of the morning light.

I fished a little, experimenting with ever more complex knots tied in midair most of which Gunn patiently disentangled. Several fish took my barbless hook. None remained attached long enough to meet my eye. No matter.

Mostly, I just watched Terry Gunn blending seamlessly with the river. The day ended with the image of Gunn's grace amidst the waters, the reward for his willingness to merge with the river and revere the trout. Author's note: For more information on fishing with Terry Gunn or one of his guides, contact Lees Ferry Anglers, Guides & Fly Shop, toll-free at (800) 962-9755.