Dances With Elk; Fishes With Asshole

By Gregg Hoffmann

I came to fly fishing somewhat late by some standards, taking it up in my late 30s. I’ve had an off and on love affair with it since then. I say off and on because it really is a tougher way to catch fish than just throwing a worm at them, or even a spinner.

Some fly fishermen consider those types of fishing heresy, a violation against the religion they have made of fly fishing for trout. I do not go that far, and in fact at times wonder why I make it as tough on myself as I do.

I am a catch and release fisher, even when it is not required. I don’t like cleaning fish, to begin with, and also believe the population of trout stays healthier if we release them. That’s good for them, and for those of us who go after them by trying to figure out what bug they want to eat that day.

There are times I have found fly fishing discouraging when I could not figure out the right bug. I also have been blessed to have great fishing days, with multiple catches of browns and rainbows and even brookies who put up a good fight.

Some of the best experiences, and ones which make me understand a little better those who treat fly fishing as their religion, have not necessarily come from catching a lot of fish, or the size of what I caught. They have come, instead, through interesting, in some cases humorous and almost bizarre, relationships with nature, with the environment and other species who inhabited it with me on these particular days.

At least three of those experiences involve elk, not a specie you ordinarily associate with fly fishing. The first came years ago when my wife and I were fishing in a high country lake in Rocky Mountain National Park. I was wading in the lake and my wife was on one of the shores. We both started hearing a high pitch sound that resembled that of a hawk or eagle. As we searched the air, Pauline looked behind me and started pointing past where I was standing.

I turned to see at least 4-5 elk cows, leading several little ones through a small stream that was an outlet for the lake. They were bleating to the young elk to not dawdle and to not fool around with that strange looking creature with waders and the long pole. I watched these families cross no more than 20-30 yards from me. As the last mother elk passed at the end of the line, she looked at me, almost as if to say, “thanks for not messing with our children.”

A few years later, while fishing in RMNP’s Moraine Park, which has a wonderful meandering stream that runs through it, I laid on my stomach, dangling my line over a rock, under which a large rainbow was hiding. I suddenly became aware of some movement behind me, stood up and saw a herd of about 10-12 elk standing about 40 yards away and looking at me. They didn’t seem hostile or alarmed, so neither was I.

I laid back down to once again go after that rainbow and scared him away. I then rolled over to see if the elk herd was still there. All 10-12 elk had laid down, no more than 20 yards from where I had been laying, and quietly watched me. Apparently, they had thought laying down was a good idea.

My final elk/trout story came recently, and is the most bizarre of the three. I was fishing in Sprague Lake, a rather shallow lake in RMNP that has some good evening fishing. I was catching a few fish when suddenly a bull spike elk, probably around two years-old, came to the shore to the right of where I was situated, almost in the middle of the lake. Pauline was on the opposite shore from him, and I motioned for her to take some photos, with me in the foreground and the elk in the background.

As she did, the elk first started to paw in the muck at the edge of the water. He then waded about 20 yards into the water, no more than 30 yards or so from where I was standing, and started to “dance.”

He would leap into the air, come down and bow his head and antlers into the water and shake his head, sending water flying all around him. Then, he would start bounding in circles. This went on for about 15 minutes, as I watched, not concentrating on fishing any more, and Pauline took some wonderful shots.

The young bull then tired of his dance and went into the woods. He emerged a little later and this time looked straight at me and started walking into the water, his eyes intent on where I stood. He got within about 25 yards before I decided to start retreating, still casting as I backed up. He eventually lost interest, turned and left the lake.

That experience happened in the same lake where only a few years earlier I had caught a big brown trout by hand. That time, I was fishing near one of the shores of the lake when I heard a commotion behind me. I turned to see the big brown trapped among some logs in a shallow outlet. He was a dead man, no doubt doomed to die either in the talons of an eagle or hawk or from not having enough water to breath. So, I decided to rescue him.

Of course, he had no way of knowing of my good intentions, and instead fought my grasps for a good five minutes. I finally was able to cradle him against my waders, carry him to the lake and release him. He disappeared into the cold, clear water in a flash, without a word of thanks.

After that incident, one of my trout fishing friends and mentor told me I had earned the “trout tribal name” of “Grizzly Hoffmann” because I had caught a fish with my “paws.” That nickname stuck for several years, until my friend heard the story of the dancing elk. I was thus dubbed “Dances With Elk.”

I really liked that nickname, having been a big fan of Kevin Costner in “Dances With Wolves.” I was ready to proudly wear that name tag for years, but it only lasted a few weeks.

After our return from Colorado, my friend and I fished in the West Fork, in the Kickapoo Valley of western Wisconsin. I consider the spring fed stream my “home field” and one of the top streams in the Midwest if not the country. With my friend about 100 yards up stream, I got into a nice size brown, who came out of the water and took me all over the stream.

Just about when I thought he was ready to concede, he went deep, and I suddenly saw my line coming straight at me. Before I could maneuver in the water, the line slammed into my crotch as the fish swam right between my legs! I could feel him splashing around near my butt, grasped for him (after all I had caught a brown by hand before) and then felt him strip my line of the fly and swim off to freedom.

As I stood in the stream, rearranging my line and laughing, my friend who had watched it all and also was laughing, informed me I had a new nickname -- Fishes With Asshole. I’ll never like it as much as “Dances With Elk.”

Just a week or so later, while fishing on the last day of the Wisconsin season, not far from where the humorous incident had occurred, I had yet another experience. This one made me realize again while some talk about fly fishing in sacred terms.

I caught a fish in a pool that was about 15 yards wide and maybe 25 yards long. As I was releasing him, I looked down into the crystal clear water to see about six fish race by my boots. At first I thought they were suckers, since they often hang in groups and move in unison. But, then a group 8-10 raced by, and this time I could see they were trout, even was able to distinguish between browns and a few brook trout who displayed their reddish bellies as they raced by.

Then, came another group of 8-10, then more and more and more. The exodus lasted for what I would estimate as 2-4 minutes and included dozens, if not hundreds of trout, all racing upstream in a frantic manner. I watched in amazement.

I saw nothing that could have scared that many trout into fleeing upstream. My friend/mentor said I might have witnessed a spawning run, which trout do almost like the better known runs of salmon. Whatever caused it, I felt privileged to have witnessed it.

All these experiences have enriched my fishing life greatly. They have made me marvel more at the wonders of nature. They have made me laugh, feel excited, feel part of something bigger. One species sharing an environment with other species, interacting with them by hand, sight, hearing, even an asshole. The experiences have made me feel more at home in the world. If that’s treating fly fishing as a religion, then I guess I am a convert.

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