In the 1970s and ’80s, Colorado absorbed a flood of people. They came to the Front Range for mountains and rivers, for sunshine, open space, and ideology. White-water enthusiasts like my friend Kristen discovered the Arkansas with its drops and holes. Anglers like myself found huge numbers of fish and blanket caddis hatches. The river found advocates who saw it as more than just a conduit; but advocacy, in itself, isn’t enough. Rivers also need volunteers, funders, researchers, protectors. Growing a river is an engineering problem, but restoring its identity is more complicated.
In the early 1980s, many of the folks who had invaded the area (some of whom were the reviled Californians) began lobbying to clean up their aquatic artery. By 1983, some of those people were complaining about the two defunct mines at the headwaters (Yak and Leadville). In 1986, an earthen dam at the Yak ruptured, sending rust-colored sludge the length of the river. Belly-up fish bobbed whitely at the surface before disappearing in the flow. This event galvanized public outcry. In less than a decade, the mines were designated as Superfund sites, forcing the mining companies to finance major abatement projects that now trap and remove 50 percent of the hazardous waste their mines are leaching.
The future doesn’t look all that good for many trout rivers. Most news about coldwater fisheries involves dire destinies.
Anglers and white-water enthusiasts who banded together to get the heavy metals out of the river found themselves at odds over river flows. After the transmountain diversion projects were in place, engineers kept the flows highest in winter to minimize evaporation as the water moved between reservoirs, but that practice reversed the natural cycle of the river. In 1989, a Corps of Engineers renovation project on the upstream dam required significant draining of the reservoir, causing the river to flow at high levels all summer. The white-water industry boomed; tourists flocked; businesses opened. When hydrologists went to shut off the tap the following summer, the white-water community pushed back, formally requesting a minimum summertime flow of 1,000 cubic feet per second.
Anglers disagreed.
The local fisheries biologist released a study demonstrating negative impacts of high summertime flows on the trout population. Trout don’t mind high water in the spring, but they need a decrease during their prime feeding months. River users, who had fought as allies, became enemies. White-water recreation brings an estimated $60 million a year to the area. Fishing brings a third of that. Agriculture trumps both. In the end, all parties agreed on 700 cfs minimum flow in the summer season—a workable compromise, so long as there continues to be sufficient water to steal from the far side of the mountains.
The Arkansas earned “Gold Medal” status as a trout stream in 2014. In 2015, Browns Canyon National Monument was established, protecting a significant stretch of the river from development or grazing. The upstream sections have been restored to re-create the winding, habitat-rich streambed that once curled through that valley. There’s even a project to reestablish the long-extirpated salmon fly—Pteronarcys californica—to this river, the trout’s most significant insect food source and the West’s most iconic hatch. So far, the results have been inconclusive. In the past 20 years, the Arkansas River got some of its identity back.
The future doesn’t look all that good for many trout rivers. Most news about coldwater fisheries involves dire destinies. Growing populations, rising temperatures, increased demand for water, calls for broadening extractive industries to bolster slumping economies—these threats weigh heavily on those who value the simple silliness of fooling critters with dressed hooks.
But fatalism isn’t motivating. While the collective health of riverine ecosystems is troubling, we need reminders, not just of what we’re losing, but what we might yet accomplish. We need rivers like the Arkansas so we can bear to look forward.
SIXTEEN YEARS LATER, I board a raft at the same spot where I caught my first trout. Since then, I’ve caught thousands, and guided other anglers to many more thousands. This time, I’ve come back to the river in a buttoned-up, professional context, a member of the media. I’m here to learn what successful river conservation smells like. After two days of arid statistics and glossy reports, I’m ready to touch water.
After the first few shallow bends, we drop into a deep trough, and my boatmate shows me just how much this river has changed, bringing a 17-inch brown trout to the net. The morning continues steadily, each of us catching healthy fish between 14 and 18 inches on both dry flies and nymphs. The caddis still hatch in hordes, but they are now joined by various mayflies and stoneflies, bugs too sensitive to survive here 10 years ago. We hit the boat ramp at lunchtime with both our rods bent.
Miles Nolte wishes to thank the Theodore Roosevelt Conservation Partnership, Backcountry Hunters and Anglers, and Trout Unlimited for all the work they have done to spread the word about the Arkansas River.
