Brush Creek
My Dad was a fisherman of that there just is not any doubt,
He always looked for those special spots when we were out.
Even when we were right on the banks of a great Colorado River,
He still looked for a special spot that would make his liver quiver.
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Brush Creek
On those trips we did take camping out on the Conejos River,
In Colorado in the Rio Grande National Forest, I did often shiver,
At the awesome natural beauty made by God’s own great hand,
As we roughed it living outside camping in that wonderful land.
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We camped on that Conejos River roughing it with our family,
With my Mom and Dad and my Aunt and Uncle Harold so happily.
Some times my Dad, My Uncle Harold and I took day trips there.
To fish for the elusive Brook Trout spawning naturally everywhere.
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The Species of trout we caught up there in paradise. The Brook was my favorite of them all.
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We fished for those Rainbow Trout they did stock in that river,
But sometimes we needed more to make us feel that shiver,
Catching fish that were naturally born in the wild felt much better.
So we looked for these places nobody found but a real go getter.
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Brush Creek was wild and wooly as were the Brook Trout.
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There was this one very small rough stream named Brush Creek,
That had lots of the Brook Trout for that special trip we did seek.
The banks were covered with brush so thick it was so very rough,
To get to the creek, making catching those Brookies so tough.
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The terrain there along Brush Creek was rugged, but the fishing was great.
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My Dad, My Uncle Harold, and I packed our fly rods and a lunch,
And drove to the area then hiked through the brush as a bunch,
To fish that creek fishing with our flys being as quiet as we could,
Trying not to disturb the fish in those pools near where we stood.
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We often used a dry fly called the humpy that looked like a bug occurring naturraly there.
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We worked hard fishing and hiking, but the fishing was so good,
We all had a limit of those special Brook Trout to eat for our food.
The meat was almost orange, about the same color of the Salmon,
With a kind of sweet taste, a better trout than a Rainbow or Brown.
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Old pappy could flip that dry fly right where he wanted it out there in the wild.
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I remember finding a nice big pool hidden deep in the brush,
Hiding and flicking my fly upstream where in the water did rush,
Letting it drift into the pool like a mosquito there on the surface,
To entice those Brookies into having just a little snack to taste.
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The kid wasn’t too bad a fly fisherman either. I loved catching those Brookies.
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I caught four nice Brook Trout there at that one pool that day,
Giving me just one of those “Feels So Right” feelings, this I say.
I was so young out there with Uncle Harold and my dear Dad,
Feeling like one of the men just doing my part as a young lad.
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Uncle Harold had a fine stealth approach fishing unnoticed off the bank.
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Up there in the mountains fishing for our own food felt so fine,
With Nature’s Beautiful Wonders surrounding us all the time,
Roughing it out there like our forefathers used to live back then,
Was a learning experience that I would surely like to do again.
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The Brook Trout was a beauty and really made some fine eating out there roughing it.
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But, I guess my wonderful memories will have to do for now,
As my old bones won’t let me do those things anymore somehow,
So I’ll just rely on the pictures I took there in my memory banks,
Alzheimers would end me for sure , so the good Lord I do thank.
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What fun we had out there far away from the beaten track challenging those Brook Trout.
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By Bill
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Thanks for reading Brush Creek,
Bill