I was fortunate enough to be able to get away with my brother this last weekend for a pretty stellar 24 hours of river time in northern New Mexico. My brother is usually pretty busy with soccer activities on Saturdays (3 kids, all playing), but we found a window that worked, and his wife was gracious enough to let us breakaway. Part of the graciousness lays in the fact she knows they are leaving New Mexico in a few months- and the western half of the United States, for that matter- and I will not get to see him as easily in the coming future. Having lost his current job due to a site closure at the company he worked for, the best option he found for new employ ended up being in Wisconsin, and they have bills to pay.

That said, Scott and Ronda ended up having a garage sale on Saturday morning to try and get rid of a few items as they are paring down their possessions, so I went over to pick a few things they gave me, and just to hang out. I was sick for half of the week prior, and wasn’t sure a weekend away was in order, but some time into the morning, I felt good enough to go, and Scott had time. We had planned to go fishing this weekend anyways, but time restrictions and my crappy head of snot seemed poised to kill the idea. And then Saturday came, the weather was outside was warm and the skies were clear, I felt fine, and Scott had time. We decided it was on.

Mid-afternoon, after dumping several bags of giveaway goods at a church and grabbing gear and a change of clothes, we headed northwest for what we understood was the fishing mecca of New Mexican fly fishers: the San Juan River, near Bloomfield in northern New Mexico. After a 3 hour drive through desert expanses dotted by red mesas and peopleless lunar landscapes, we made a turn in Bloomfield due east, and after a twenty minute drive through hilly desert terrain, we arrived at the little village of Navajo Dam, and in sight of the snaking river. And we made our way for it.

We stopped at the town’s main restaurant/store, and the gal behind the register in the store told us exactly where we needed to go: up the road from the store to the second left, and down to the Pumphouse Day Use Area. And so we went.

We ended up spending the rest of the daylight hours (all 2 of them) walking a swath of the south bank of the river, casting our fishing lines into the wide flow that spread out in front of us. We lingered in the quiet canopy of solitude that greeted us in this area: the sound of the trickling water running past became a ceiling over the canyon we were in, and we watched the sunlight slide through its twilight hues as the sun set.

Still a novice at fishing, I practiced casting and then cursing as I magically tangled my line reeling it in. At one point in the afternoon, my brother found a pool where he had some hits on his line, and at one point, the first catch of the trip- a decent-sized rainbow trout.

Prior to this trip, I had been out trying to catch something six times before, with not even a sense of what it was like to have my bait taken and my line pulled. My luck would change in the morning.

As the final rays of sunlight bent across the sky from a set sun, Scott and I packed our gear up and rejoined each other to head for the truck. At one point in the afternoon, he had ventured west along the river bank to climb a boulder and fish from it, and I had meandered east. With light waning, we talked about our experiences in the last two hours, and made the short trek back to the parking area. Saturday afternoon had been a pretty good afternoon. Sunday would get better.

We went back to the combo restaurant/bar, Sportsmans, for dinner. While there we talked to one of the owners, who told us where to stay for the nigh, at the Rainbow Lodge- “a friend of mine will put you up, for a good price.” We enjoyed a decent meal- stacked green chile enchiladas for him, pork chops with garlic potatoes for myself, and a surprisingly satisfying light ale- and chatted, checking sports scores from one of the myriad tellies on in the dining room/bar. We then paid our bill, went into the night to find the suggested lodging, got lost, drove umpteen miles down a dark single lane road into blackness where we stopped and got out and looked at the river of stars above us (“Man, you can see so many out here”), and then headed back into town. Another stop at Sportsmans, another wrong turn out of town and drive out into the black, and then a U-turn, and another visit to Sportsmans. Clear directions gathered, a stop in the store for junk food, and we set out again, finally finding the lodge. On the outside, we were not overwhelmed. The owner met us, knowing we were coming, and let us in our billet: a multi-roomed, four-bedded post with comfortable amenities. we settled in, watched the end of the evening’s college football games, and organized fishing gear as we ate our crap food and talked about tomorrow. Around 10:30, the matresses called and we went to bed. The river would greet us in a few hours. We did accept the bonus of the Daylight Savings change, though, and the extra hour of sleep it gave us.

Somewhere between 6:30 and 7 AM an alarm went off and we got up with enthusiasm. After making coffee and throwing our stuff in the truck, we said goodbye to our lodging and headed east again, past the Pumphouse Day Area on up to the Crusher Hole Day Use parking area. First in the area, we made our way to the river.

Crusher Hole is the western boundary to the “quality water” designated fishing region on the San Juan River, where fly fishermen have right-of-way working highly populated waters for their celebrated trout. Portions of this region are reserved for lure fishermen as well, but it is this area that draws fly fisherman from all over for a tremendous fishing experience. Because it is a quality water region, it is a well stocked portion of the river, and consequently, to fish near this region means you are fishing the overflow that teems in the shoulders of this section.

Well, we walked a little bit west up from the parking area and boat ramp along the bank and found a clear area to start fishing at near a splice in the river, and in a short time some other people came along. Fortunately, one of them was an older local guy who marched to a spot on the branch directly behind us, and in minutes was pulling fish out of the water. Excited and perplexed, my brother asked him what he was using as bait, and he gave us a run down on all you needed. When he realized we were not locals, not seasoned, and not catching anything, he yelled over and told us he was going to move, and that we should take his spot. We looked at each other, asked if he was sure, and then gladly walked over the knoll to idle over crushed grass and cattails to start fishing where he had been fishing. And the fun began.

Within the next two or so hours, Scott and I caught 15 rainbow trout. We had regular hits on our lines all throughout that period, and we each reeled in several other fish that outsmarted us at the last minute, and fell off of our hooks and got away. Many of the fish were smaller, 6-8 inches in length, but we saw a few bigger ones (11-12 inches) in the mix.

After two hours at the active bend in the river, we made our way on down the tributary, working the eddies as we hacked our way along the tree lined banks. My brother brought in a few larger fish, but as midday broke, the bites stalled. So it was lunchtime.

We headed back into Navajo Dam to the other restaurant we found there (because Sportsmans was closed on Sundays) and sat down for some green chile burgers and fries, watching NFL highlights with the other hunters and fishermen in the little cafe. It was our first food of the day, so it was well-received and enjoyed. But there was work to be finished.

And so we headed back down to the river, this time returning to the Pumphouse Day Area for a few hours. We walked farther east up the river than we had on Saturday night and tried to see if anything would bite in mid-afternoon, but where we were, nothing did. There the water was deep and swift. After an hour and some practicing casting into the quick water and listening to blasting caps pop and echo through the canyon, we gave up on the Pumphouse area and went back to the Crusher Hole area, where we worked the same tributary spots in a late afternoon sun.

Finally, as evening approached and we were moving back in the direction of the area parking lot, the fish became active again, and we felt periodic nips on the lines. In a fluke, my brother had a small fly on his line that he floated in the water- and with it he pulled in the first of the last two fish caught on the day, a good 12-incher. Shortly after that, he returned to our bait of choice- night crawlers- and cast in an active eddy, and hooked the last fish of the day. At that point we were a little tired of climbing over grass tufts and being grabbed by the thistle branches of Russian olives guarding the river bank and dealing with line tangles and casting snafus, so the catches were appreciated prizes to end the day.

In the end, over the weekend, Scott caught 12 fish, including several that were 12-14 inches long, and I was pleased to have reeled in 8. If I had caught one, I would have been happy. At any rate, my long drought is over.

More importantly, the trip was time with my brother. Our lives are at a junction, and like that river, they will split off and go in different directions again, for who knows how long. We started fishing together this summer, and it was suitable we ended the summer with this trip. We loved feeling the heat of the day, hearing the water, looking at the stars, and soaking up the sunlight together, just hanging on the banks of that river waiting to catch a fish or two.

Life is best when you catch a few prizes along the way being together, hanging together, working together, waiting together. Those are the best prizes to catch.

When you are being together.