It was a humid wet pre-dawn on the way to the airport. Kieth was a about ten minutes behind me to the meeting place and the sun was just hinting at its existence on the horizon as we waited in the check-in line at the airport. Later that day we would be 1 mile high in the Rocky Mountains, but our travel started out rocky. We made the plane, however the pilot refused to move. Mid-western storms blocked our trek from upstate NY to our connecter in Chicago and we had to take on some fuel. That meant 7 people had to get off the plane. With a 45 minute window we watched for an hour and a half as we all debated who would get off. Finally in the air, I dreamt of our connecting plane taking off as we descended into O’Hare. We called our guides in Denver and told them we would be 2 hours late. Not to worry, our finned adversaries would wait us out. Jack Daniels chased down a nice breakfast of scrambled eggs, home fries and bacon and we made the stand-by list on the next flight to Denver. Bill met us in the Airport. Behold, a true rocky mountain fly fishing guide had been molded out my east coast childhood fishing partner. Quick introductions to all those involved and we made our way out interstate 70 towards Vail. I had another friend who owned a shop in Breckenridge. I was a freshman in college and Crosby was a senior on the same swim team. Neither of us had ever known of the shared passion until he stepped onto the tarmac in Dillingham Alaska. At that point in our lives I was an exhausted August fly fishing guide for Bristol Bay Lodge and he was chomping at the bit for some fish. Oh what fun we had. Today, I stood in his shop as wide-eyed as he had been on that day some time ago. Fishing licenses, new hats and some flies later we were on our way once again. Our first stop was “XYZ” Creek. A small stream by Eastern standards, its water as clear as I had ever seen. Not the blue green twinge of glacial water I had seen in Alaska, or the tannic brown water I am accustomed to fishing in the Adirondacks. It was beautiful crystal clear water. The first fish was spotted, hooked and played before I had blinked. Bill had gone right to work in his new element. A far cry from the bass pond we had learned on in high school. This put me back to reality. The mountains we had crossed and the scenery we had passed to get here fogged my vision but I remembered why I had come…to fly fish. I dutifully tied on the #24 midge larvae and strike indicator like I was told. However, I had no faith. I was used to my #12 hares ears and #8 stones. The first fish I cast to were unimpressed. “But look, there are so many!” I exclaimed. Finally, an hour into it, I noticed a flash in the water and with a lift of the rod, a 12 inch rainbow took to the air. I quickly brought him to hand and then sat down and watched for the rest of the day. This was truly wonderful and I wasn’t going to miss anything. The next morning, we awoke and we meant business. At 4am, we picked up the rafts that we would be using as vehicles for the day. By 7am we had gone 50 miles, dropped off one car at the bottom of the drift and were dropping two rafts down a 60 foot drop to the XYZ River. We picked teams and headed down river. The first part of the drift yielded normal trout until we hit the bottom of the canyon at which point the river spit us onto private ranch waters. A #8 stonefly nymph was bouncing along the current when the indicator disappeared and I set up on a heavy fish. The drag singed and I carefully brought to hand a football shaped rainbow trout 21 inches long, yet probably could have been weighed in pounds. Then all hell broke loose. Fish after fish was hooked including a 23-inch palomino trout, an albino rainbow. These fish looked and fought like the very steelhead I had left behind in NY, yet they were in the middle of the Colorado River valley. Tippets were broken, even 0x hooks were straightened and arms were strained. We boated too many footballs to count and a 25 incher with a 9-inch girth topped the day as the thunderclouds moved in. We all raced downstream amid a torrent of water and a streaked sky. After taking the rafts out we headed back to “XYZ” Creek for a change of pace. This pool was aptly named; “The Aquarium.” A few trout were dimpling the glassy surface as we approached the pool. I put on a size 20 cdc caddis dry and started offering it to the targets in the stream. Refusal after refusal was the order of the evening. It was maddening after the day of tippet busting aggressive rainbows we had battled earlier that day. Finally, a small trout rose up and sipped the dainty caddis confidently. The trout shuddered as the line connected and started twisting on its leash. It took a bit of line then slipped into my outstretched hand. I cradled it gently and as I rolled the gorgeous trout over a bright orange streak caught my eye. This, in my hand, was the first live cutthroat trout I had ever seen and he was magnificent. The magazines, and as I later learned, my photos did no justice to this creature. I watched him slowly disappear into the currents, take up a nice feeding lie and I spent the rest of the evening just watching. We changed gears again the next morning. We were up with the sun and in the parking lot of a trailhead, which followed a stream into the high desert and into a long narrow canyon. We would hike 3 miles before taking a cast even though every glimpse we had of the stream through the trees called out to us with the promise of a trout behind every rock. However, Bill promised the trip would be worth the walk and the fishing only improved as we ascended into the canyon. We started out at 8000 feet, the walls of the canyon loomed above us at 10,000 and we climbing towards them with every step. Finally, at an obvious yet seldom used camping site we stopped and proclaimed this ground as home base and our starting point for the day’s fishing. We would meet at 3pm and good luck. I tied on a #12 stimulator. I had been assured that these trout were not picky. I stepped into the water. Splash! The rocks were slippery and I baptized myself into the cold clean water. Even with the commotion, I hooked a cut on the first cast. A beautiful gem 11 inches long and full of fight. We all pulled the grand slam several times over that day as every pocket held two or three trout. This was like the brook trout fishing I had done in the east yet every trout species swam in these crystal waters. The highlight came from a quiet pocket created by a boulder and a large limb of scrub pine. From the left eddy I had just landed and released a small cutthroat but it was the near eddy that had been catching my eye. It was a bit more shaded and maybe a few inches deeper than the one on the far side and as my stimmy bounce off the rocks and landed softly in the eddy it hesitated, spun, and started to come downstream towards me. Suddenly it disappeared in the slightest of disturbances and I set up on the fish. The four weight bucked and the fish took off towards the far bank. It was a tug of war in the tightest of spaces and I thanked the fishing gods for the 4x tippet. A short fierce battle ended with the cradling of a brown trout, which nosed past the 15-inch mark I had painted on my rod a few years back. It was a noble king in these pools, a visitor possibly from the Colorado River just a few miles downstream in the valley but a true beast in this small canyon. I slipped the stimulator from the hooked jaw and he slipped away to retake his place in the food chain. We leapfrogged each other for hours catching who knows how many jewels from the canyon and as we imagined being watched by mountain lions from the high walls the sun started to dip beyond our site. When we emerged to the parking lot it was still full daylight but our little stream was in darkness. The next morning we were back in the airport, our flight had long since left without us and we were on stand-by out of Denver. Things would work themselves out again and we would be in upstate NY by the end of this day with some great memories of more trout, peaks and fun than we were to have for some time.