Between Fire and Fall

As colder temperatures and welcome rains refocus many a local angler’s attention on anadromous fish runs, Summer 2025 still occupies our lexicon as a firestorm for the ages. Whether you were in Canada or Colorado, Washington or Oregon, you saw many a treasured vista charred to an ashen hue. With flames burning in the rearview mirror, our Summer circuit traversed higher elevations, focused on northern climes, and stayed one step ahead of the conflagrations.

We’d long endeavored to complete a C-to-C (Colorado to Canada) fly-fishing circuit that neither time nor schedules could accommodate… until this past Summer. When the opportunity arose, we loaded a quiver of four-to-eight-weight rods and way too many fly boxes, and headed for Almont, Colorado. Yes, we were bypassing many a fabled water en route to Colorado’s high country, but our focus was on new-to-us rivers, and the others could wait.

Over the past decade, we’ve learned two things about Rocky Mountain streams: Many of the smaller freestone streams are relegated to a Goldilocks window between Spring melt and Summertime hoot-owl closures, while tailwaters can extend fishing seasons indefinitely. With those concepts loosely in mind, we landed in Almont, where the Taylor and East Rivers join to become the Gunnison River.

Within hours of arriving, we were peering into the gin-clear pool below the first bridge downstream from Taylor Park Reservoir. Affectionately dubbed the Hog Trough, this long pool is loaded with oversized rainbows fattened on mysis shrimp pouring out of the reservoir. Watching the scene unfold is amusing unto itself: Dozens of anglers vie for any one of those portly-but- educated beasts, while the same fish laughingly sidestep an ever-changing procession of dries and nymphs. But for the occasional net swing, the fish always laughed hardest.

The Hog Trough’s entertainment factor is a mere prelude to the area’s many offerings. From there, you can head downstream to pick apart the Taylor’s pocket water, one drainage west to chase high-country wild trout, or downstream to Almont to begin an Upper Gunnison float trip. Each section is unique, with Spring Creek providing solitude and broad valleys, the Lower Taylor providing boisterous plunge pools ripe for euronymphing, and the Upper Gunnison providing miles upon miles of hopper/dropper riffles full of a feisty mix of browns, cutties, and bows. You could spend a week here, and nary make a dent in the area’s offerings, but four days filled our punch card with memories and fish. After one last dash down the Upper Gunnison, we headed to Denver for our flight to Winnipeg, Manitoba… barely missing the conflagration that took out our original Plan B destination: the Gunnison Gorge. Man, did that area get toasted! Then again, we left fire only to find fire.

Our Canadian destination was Wollaston Lake: a 500,000-acre lake high in northern Saskatchewan and a prime area for chasing trophy pike on giant streamers. The trip there departs from Winnipeg Airport, touches down in Points North Landing, Saskatchewan, and ends with a 45-minute bus ride on the northernmost road in Saskatchewan.

Summers in this region last weeks – not months – and Fall arrives early. This past Summer drew worldwide attention as much of the region succumbed to wildfires that displaced many First Nations families, forcing them off their native lands and into unfamiliar cities. It felt strange heading north (toward the fires) while those families fled south (to safety), but our Wollaston Lake Lodge destination bestowed an amazing surprise: The wildfires that overran that region miraculously split near the lodge, leaving it – and the surrounding grounds – unscathed. Of course, none of that mattered to any of the fish, as they focused on feeding up before the Summer season wound down.

There’s only one way I could describe what we did: We sight-fished for logs with fins. We’d drift shallow flats until we saw submerged cylinders in the 40” to 45” range, then figured out if they were logs or fish. If they had fins, they were northern pike.

A 40”+ pike is a trophy in anybody’s book, but they’re common in northern Canada, and they’re mean. Get one to react to your fur or feathers and your next photo could be one for the ages. We stripped oversized rabbit strips but didn’t hesitate to throw traditional spinners with feathers (you get the gist…) when we didn’t get takes. In the end, we had more shots at giant pike than I’d ever had in my prior five decades of fishing stateside.

Still, we were where the fish were: on the water. What the region needed more than an amazed batch of google-eyed pike anglers was: more water.

Alas, Fall arrives early in northern Canada. The fires have subsided. The First Nation peoples are heading back north. And the pike – all released and still growing – will be there, should you ever want to chase logs with fins.