Three Rivers 2018 - White Mountain Wilderness, Lincoln National Forest

 Our first backpacking trip was to Three Rivers. The first time I ever caught a trout (in this case a brook char) on a fly was at Three Rivers. I fished this stream at least once a year, sometimes twice, from 2000-2008.

 On my visit in September 2008  I found the stream severely altered by flooding caused by torrential rains from the remnants from Hurricane Dolly that passed through the region that July. The fish appeared to be gone. I skipped 2009 but got curious again and visited in 2010.The brook trout were miraculously still there in small numbers as they were on my most recent visit last Tuesday (8/7/2018).
 A new rod, and a couple of successful fishing trips earlier in the summer inspired me to go have a go at my old favorite fishing stream for the first time in 8 years. When I arrived, the campground, where we've stayed a couple of times over the years was empty.  I paid my $6.00 fee, changed into my sacrifice shoes and began hiking upstream staying close to the creek instead of following the trail. The stream here near to the trailhead still looks much the same as it did nearly twenty years ago with large junipers and pines providing shade over a nearly bare understory. There are many use trails and fire rings. I tried a few of the murky pools as I went up with no success. I wondered if there will still fish in this section as I tried a few more with no luck either. Things then started to get really thick. The streambed was choked with fallen logs and branches.

 It looked as if the majority of the large firs and pines had died from drought, disease and having their roots stranded in the intervening years since my last visit. I have since been informed after publishing a short report on the Gila /Rio Grande Trout Unlimited Facebook page that there had been big blowdown about 2 years ago. New vegetation such as prolific bricklebush, willow and boxelder has begun to fill in extended sections now baked by the summer sun.
The growth made approaching the stream even more difficult. It was hot, and even though the water was still cold, I let this stretch be and hit the trail hoping for better conditions upstream.
 I didn't really find any. But I did notice that the water cleared above a section where the creek goes underground beneath  a massive deposit of gravel and sand from a side canyon.
 Little waterfalls, pools, crossings and clearings that had become so familiar to me  were difficult to pick out.  Our old campsite was unrecognizable. And the fish were not to be seen. Finally I saw a few in an utterly still pool. I threw a dry fly which did nothing but send them all scurrying around in a panic. Soon after I caught a toothy brookie in another pool upstream who was a skinny 9 inches or so. Then I caught another below a favorite waterfall who was virtually identical. I hooked another but lost it and from that point on I entered the bizarre realm of masochistic fishing as  I bruised, scraped, cut and scratched my body while performing a kind of clumsy forest parkour using boulders and deadfall trying to get in a position to cast between fallen logs that were always hanging over a very few choice pools. If that wasn't the case, then I was struggling to push through new growth with blind footing beneath. Some of the tiny pockets that I managed to get to had fish that approached my fly, but many others didn't seem to have any, even though they look very much like they should. In times past, they would have been everywhere.The logistics of getting to a deep pool to cast your fly would've been tough back then too, but not this tough. I know I'm bit older now, but I'm still game for wilderness fishing, just perhaps not for conditions so unrelenting and unrewarding.
Somewhere between 2 to 2.5 miles in, the stream went underground for couple of stretches. This was unfortunate because it looked as if the worst of the debris choked and flood damaged sections seemed to be ending. I ate my lunch in the shade of maples and oaks, after trying one more familiar pool without success where I had caught several lunkers ( 11 inches or so is a lunker in this tiny stream) over the years.
 I walked back down the trail and had the idea that the fishing was over for the day. I just couldn't make it stick and continued to punish myself (it definitely had ceased to be fun hours ago) as I sweated and stumbled for one more brookie. I had had the idea that perhaps the fish were only in the clear water above the enormous gravel deposit and probably would have reported as much, but then I as retried pool after pool in this lower section, I was quite surprised to hook and then lose a nice brookie, and then have several more bites in tiny pockets downstream of the old blown out dam.

I remembered a photo I had taken of fat fish with a beadhead fly still in its lip and now switched to a beadhead gold ribbed hairs ear that would sink on its own ( instead of using the downward pressure of the little waterfalls). I got a few more bites and more hookups from small ones  but never could bring  in another fish. I was sweating, dehydrated, exhausted and mostly miserable and I thought to myself : the fish are still here and I've even managed to catch a couple, but is this really a fishing stream at this point?
 I don't know. Certainly parts of the section  I traversed are reasonable enough and not any tougher than the old days. It may also be there is still good water above where I stopped with the stream more easily approached as well, so I may be back for at least one more investigation.
 Not everything changes for the better. You can't go home again. I can accept that. I'm glad the fish are still there and the water still cold, but it's not my place, my home stream, anymore ( see my blog White Mountains Wilderness Streams).

IMPORTANT UPDATE: The Three Rivers Fire in May of 2021 mostly likely seriously impacted  this stream and its trail. Expect conditions to be vastly different from what is described here.