The Unforeseen Perks of Being a Teacher (Part I)

Four or five years ago, I heard mutterings of this rare species of trout found only in a limited number of watersheds in Arizona and New Mexico. Further research revealed that it was a strikingly beautiful fish and bore a name that somehow seems to encapsulate the ruggedness of the American Southwest in four letters -- Gila (hee-luh). The word is a synecdoche; literally, it means "running water which is salty," but its mere utterance conjures images of mysterious arroyos, of endless rimrock country caught in perpetual sunset, and of the cryptic wriggling creatures that call such a place home. 

The poster that started it all for me. This fish is a success story in watershed conservation -- check out their page on Western Native Trout's website to learn more (https://westernnativetrout.org/gila-trout/)

Anyhow, as soon as I learned about this fish, I bought a fly rod that I decided would be specifically devoted to its capture. Hence the Orvis Superfine Glass 4 wt in my rod quiver. A soft rod for small streams and small fish. The years flicked by, though, and a Southwest fly fishing trip began to seem even less likely than the year before. I'd become a teacher and had summers off, sure, but it just became harder and harder to leave Alaska during fishing season for a six-inch trout nearly 4,000 miles away. 

Enter the year 2022 when a new opportunity literally fell into my lap -- the chance to lead a school trip of 14 high schoolers to anywhere in the country that I wanted. Basically an angler's blank check. The Gila Wilderness of New Mexico immediately jumped to mind, but I surmounted my own selfishness by offering students the chance to pick for themselves. Ideas included Wyoming, Montana, and -- whadda ya know -- Arizona and New Mexico. I may or may not have encouraged the latter options, spinning yarns of breathtaking canyons and gentle freestone streams abounding with golden gems of trout. Another teacher and I got a plan nailed down, a budget drawn up, and a list of students who would be going with us. As you'd expect, there was a slough of logistics to wade through, but after months of parent meetings and phone calls and scrupulously filled-out paperwork, we found ourselves sitting on a plane bound for Phoenix. The young people around us were so jazzed they could hardly sit still. 

The journey brought us first through the Sonoran Desert, where creatures like Gambel's quail and roadrunners and various species of lizard puppeted our attentions. We hiked into the mystifying chasms of the Superstition Mountains; explored the echoing voids of Kartchner Caverns; and finally, after a stomach-tickling ride through the mountains in pitch darkness, we reached the Gila Wilderness. 

​It was a stark change from our home in Alaska. Sure, it was remote, mountainous, and the local people seemed as tuned into their surroundings as the average Alaskan did, but everything was different. 

Weather. Many students didn't recognize the sound of thunder when it hit. 

Trees. No, those aren't black spruces anymore. We left those a long time ago. 

Animals. Watch out for spiders in the bathroom, especially black widows. And don't go tromping through the tall grass in Crocs. Rattlesnakes not only exist here, but are abundant. 

Everyone seemed to be having a blast, and to be honest I forgot about my fly rod stuffed in the back of our rented suburban. I was a teacher and a chaperone; I couldn't also be a Gila trout bum. Expecting this school trip to fulfill my own personal fantasy of following streams to my heart's content would be a mistake. Inevitable disappointment. Slowly I succumbed to this reality. If I wanted to truly chase Gila trout the way I'd always dreamed, I'd have to come back on my own terms, at some distant and ambiguous point in the future. This belief might have held out, too, if I didn't see the waters of the West Fork that afternoon. 

I forget most everything when I see good trout water. Responsibility, who I am, what I'm doing, the fourteen students I've got under my direct care. The West Fork of the Gila River wiggled down next to the highway, beckoning like a siren. We took students on a tour of some old cliff dwellings, built and occupied by the long-lost Mogollon people of the 13th Century, and I quite literally had to bite my fist to suppress my urge to fish. Finally, the educational obligations out of the way, we all met in the parking lot. I told the students with fishing rods to rig up, and I told those without that we'd be doing a neat hike. Then we fished. At least, I did. I fished the tiny pools and pillows, I cast to the bankslide slicks where trout would be hiding. I let the rod that I'd bought all those years ago do the work of roll-casting, mending, the occasional bow-and-arrow. We didn't end up catching anything, nor seeing anything, but it didn't matter:

The obsession had started again. 

Click here for Part II