Six Days West: Red Rocks, Fall River, and the Big Thompson
Early September, six of us called a truce with our calendars and took a six-day weekend. I even broke my “never fly again” vow. Destination: a concert at Red Rocks—the storied amphitheatre carved into red sandstone outside Golden, in the town of Morrison. The climb from a lower lot warmed the legs; the clear, fifty-degree air cleared the head. Between songs, the rocks did their own lecture: Fountain Formation sandstone laid down roughly 300 million years ago, later tilted as the Rockies rose during the Laramide orogeny—proof that time has a rhythm too.
From there we rolled to Estes Park and a snug Airbnb above the Fall River—a pretty, fast-talking creek pouring out of the high country. I’ll admit it: passion for fly fishing doesn’t self-lubricate. It gets rusty. The first casts were creaky and the language… unhelpful. But the water had patience, and so did the river stones.
One of us (not me) found the groove instantly. Every few minutes the valley heard, “Fish on! Another one!” By the third chorus the rest of us had complicated feelings about that phrase. We took it in stride and took turns spotting seams, watching light slide across pocket water, and letting the day lengthen.
Day five we entered Rocky Mountain National Park at noon and walked into a wide, golden meadow—the kind that makes you slow down whether you meant to or not. The Big Thompson River meandered through it, all S-curves and undercut banks. I refused the beaten path and cut straight through the grass to the water. Third cast: “Fish on!” No witnesses; no camera. Just me, a small brown trout, a quick thank-you, and a careful release. In places like Moraine Park, the Big Thompson is meadow water made for small, perfect fish and big breaths.
Curiosity sent me down a rabbit hole on those “little devices that know everything.” Beauty here has an edge. On July 31, 1976, a sudden flash flood tore through Big Thompson Canyon—one of Colorado’s deadliest floods—taking 144 lives and destroying hundreds of homes and businesses. I stood a while thinking about the people remembered along this river and how water can be both giver and taker.
We only had the one afternoon for fishing, but it was enough. The rust flaked off. The water quieted the noise. I met a few new “friends” with amber spots and quicksilver fins, each released strong. Colorado, thanks for the loan. You see this every day; I was just a guest. We left it better than we found it, and I made damn sure those dozen new friends swam away happy.
As for our ring-leader in tallying trout? She says she caught one out there, too. Maybe she did. But I detected… hints of a skunk.
Fish On!