I never had much use for waders in my youth. When the boys went fly fishing, we slipped our wallets in plastic bags and braved the cold water until our legs went numb. Dad raised us tough.
Later, as a husband and father, there came a day that I decided to invest in a set of chest waders, prompted by a challenging stretch of water. In Wyoming, on the North Platte River, there’s a reservoir and recreation area named Alcova.
The reservoir was formed by a dam, also named Alcova. What a coincidence, huh? The dam is 265 feet high and houses a hydroelectric station for the surrounding towns and farms. Just below the dam and its spillway, the road to the recreation area crosses the river on a tall bridge, just before starting the climb upward.
Alcova Reservoir is a popular spot for weekend crowds, mostly from the town of Casper, just 30 miles to the north. There are 2 larger reservoirs on the river, accessible via the same main road. As you might imagine, the road gets a lot of traffic. The tiny town of Alcova (there’s that name again) at the intersection of the highway and the road to the dam, sells bait, groceries, ice and such for those who need to stock up.
My (now ex) wife and I brought the kids to Alcova Lake and the other nearby reservoirs often. You’ll find rainbow, brown and cutthroat trout, along with some nice walleye. There are plenty of well-maintained camping and day use areas. There’s also a blue-ribbon trout fishery on the river between two of the upper reservoirs, but it’s not an ideal place for kids to enjoy themselves.
Now, before I get carried away with geography and such, let’s segue back to the story about waders. On this particular day, we’d stopped beside the bridge below the dam to give Dad (Yours Truly) a chance to play with his fly rod before heading up to the “sit and fish” water. The wife and kids would have a little breakfast and hang out several yards away from the sharp bank cut by the tailwater from the dam.
It was a bit of “me” time for the old man before spending the rest of the trip helping with rigging, baiting, netting and such. I saw it as a more than fair exchange. I’d given the old 9-foot, 8 weight rod many good workouts from the banks above and below the bridge. Above it, in the calm back-eddies, I’d seen some monsters, and of course, they’d seen me, too.
I’d fished the swift water below the bridge many times, too, but there were few rises and I couldn’t mend line fast enough to get a natural drift. Going deep with a nymph was a similar situation. Feeding out line to get it downstream was easy enough, but retrieving it from the bank just made for an unnatural angle.
So, on the last outing, I’d decided that I needed to invest in some waders, and a week later, here I was, ready to get out there with a cheap pair of PVC boot foot that fit like an loosely-wrapped tent. (I was young and stupid and broke.)
Now, I wasn’t a complete idiot. When got “suited up”, I’d cinched a belt good and tight around the top of the waders. I had no intention of taking on water and being pulled under. Everything was under control, as the family settled into the chairs. I tied on a #6 halfback nymph, as recommended by the owner of my favorite fly shop and made my way down into the water, which was fairly low at that time of the morning.
I found decent footing and started casting. It only too a couple of lobs to realize I’d need some weight to get the nymph down deep in the swift current. Once that was done, I was pretty pleased with the feel of things. I gradually worked my way out to the center of the channel and could feel the drag of the current on that loose vinyl, but I was braced well, and the water was only about hip high.
At the time, I wasn’t a very experienced nymph fisherman, but I knew that I’d have to find the right sink time and retrieve to stir up a strike, and I tried everything. I knew there were big trout in there, and I was focused on doing whatever it took to entice one. Maybe too focused.
When I suddenly realized that the water was quickly making its way to the belt on my floppy waders, it dawned on me that I had actually heard the warning siren that meant another turbine was about to spin up under the dam. The towns were awakening and the demand needed to met.
My wife and kids were on their feet, dragging their chairs further away from the dam and toward the road, yelling at me to get out of the water. I thought that sounded like a good idea, so I started bouncing toward the bank as directly as possible, while being pushed quickly downstream. I started stripping line in as fast as possible.
Wouldn’t you know, I’d found exactly the right retrieval to get the attention of the lunkers I knew were in that water. Strip it back hard, reach for another haul and strip it back again. That big ol’ nymph was slammed hard, and I had something hefty on.
Fortunately, the bank curved toward me not too far downstream and each bounce was moving me closer to safety. I held my rod high and bobbed my way toward the edge. That was no small feat, since the current was pushing on the loose plastic around my legs and trying to lay me down on my back.
Just before my last lunge, the fight was over, as the fish on the end snapped a 12-pound leader and was gone. I threw my rod up on the bank, grabbed a handful of mud and grass and hauled myself out on my belly. After catching my breath, I rolled over and made my way over to apologize to an angry wife and crying kids.
When I pulled off those waders, I never put them on again. I purchased a nice pair of Remington® neoprene stocking footers the following week. They’ve kept me warm and dry in all kinds of water ever since. They may be just a tad more snug around the waist after 30 some years. I still use the belt, of course.
Oh, and everywhere I’ve fished a nymph in fast water, from Miracle Mile to the Green River, that ridiculously fast drag back has connected me with some awesome fish.
Looking back, I realize this story could have ended much differently. Even as it was happening, I had visions of them fishing my body out of Grey Reef Reservoir, a few miles downstream. There’s nothing funny about that. Still, I can’t help thinking about how odd it must have seemed to anyone looking on, as I bobbed my way to the bank with my right arm extended, holding onto a fly rod for dear life.
