It was May 1. The fair mountains of the upper Roaring Fork Valley had
just been blanketed with yet another fresh layer of the white stuff,
and the temperature in town was hovering slightly above freezing. For
my part, I had just wrapped up a round of altogether-too-soon
off-season vacations and was hoping, as in previous years, that the
snow line on Aspen Mountain had, at the very least, receded to the top
of Little Nell run. Alas, someone must have applied the Rogaine.

So, still lamenting the fact that winter had obviously disregarded that
moment of astronomical significance known as the vernal equinox, I
contented myself by sitting around half asking, half demanding to know
why Ullr wanted to keep rubbing the epic winter in our collective faces.

Sure, the backcountry is going to be “totally sweet,” Aspen has enough
snow to keep skinning up and snowmobiling for a month, and SkiCo might
even open the mountain up for a weekend or two in June. But, quite
frankly, I was over it. And I knew I wasn’t alone.

As my whining (absent of any cheese) was getting me nowhere fast, I
laced up my trail running shoes and headed to the only clear hiking
trail within 20 miles: Smuggler. I was less than surprised when, after
taking my first lap on the slushy road, former mining site and,
apparently, community gathering spot replete with cell phone-clad power
walkers, Smuggler Mountain failed to engender any sense of actually
being in the outdoors.

I was stumped. I had decided that I was over snowboarding for the
season, that whining was making matters worse, and that the quiet and
serene respite of trail running was still months away. Well, all that
and an ill-conceived off-season challenge to myself to hop on the wagon
for the month of May. (How did I forget that Cinco de Mayo is in Mayo?)

As I stood on my East Waters Avenue balcony, looking at Aspen Mountain
and listening to the Roaring Fork River, I rewrote an old adage in my
head and vocally proclaimed to my roommates that it was boredom, not
necessity, that was the true mother of invention. I was at once struck
by my brilliance in finally seeing it, and my shortsightedness in
seeing it taking so long.

Other than floating rivers on truck inner tubes with a mesh bag of PBRs
in tow, I hadn’t spent much time on – nay even thought about – the
valley’s rivers. And here I was in a place where thousands come to fish
gold-medal rivers annually and at a time of year — akin to those April
powder days almost void of tourists — that is considered the best by
those who know about these things.

And whether by divine intervention or just a series of weekly
off-season classes that had been ongoing for more than a decade, several of
the valley’s fly shops were hosting free introductory fly-fishing
clinics. Having no real experience with the matter, I simply chose the
location closest to my house — Basalt — and the latest morning start
time — Saturday at 10 a.m. Taylor Creek Fly Shop it was.

Turns out I had met my instructor a few times before and we would be
focusing on casting for the first lesson. Great; I wasn’t ready to deal
with all those crazy terms like mayfly, butt section, nymphs, caddis,
midges and hatches. Baby steps. I was lucky, as only one other person
showed up, meaning that we got a lot of one-on-one time. Cameron Scott,
our guide, says the clinics range anywhere from 2-8 people, but he’s
seen up to 30 in a class.

So we go out on a field near a pond and start casting. Simple. And the
beauty of being a complete novice to a sport is that you haven’t had
time to develop any bad skills, something Cameron appreciated.

“Fly-fishing is really a fly shop-oriented sport,” he said. “You don’t
just go on the mountain and ski all day; you go and ask what’s hatching
and talk to the guys in the shop because they are always on the river
and they know how the river changes. And these free clinics are a great
way to let people see what it’s all about, help others refresh their
skills, and they really help to build relationships with the community.”

Admittedly, free clinics are a good business move, as many of the
people who show up for the classes often return to the same shop for
gear and guided trips.

“We’ve had some customers coming in for 20 years,” Cameron adds. “The
most important aspect of a fly-fishing shop is your relationship to the
customer and their relationship to you.”

Cameron reiterated that spring and fall are the best times to hit the
rivers, as summer, with what he calls the “people hatch,” means that
solitude is at a premium, and in the winter months ice and ice-cold
water complicate any good wade.

All of which, I suppose, makes fly-fishing the ideal sport to add to
any good ski bum’s repertoire — perfect for the off-season, and less
than ideal in the winter.

But then again, maybe everyone already knew this and my three-year Aspen snowboarding myopia was holding me back.