Seasonable Angler: Redemption on the San Juan

It is perhaps a bit poetic or prophetic that our journey began on the Texas Hole just below the Navajo Dam, in New Mexico. It’s my understanding that this long and lazy trout-filled pool received its name because shortly after the dam’s construction, many of my fellow Texans came here to fish. As far as I could tell I was the only Texan on the San Juan River that day. Everyone else seemed to know each other, and they did not seem to hold it against me that I came from the Land of White License Plates. I remain grateful for the kindness and generosity I have experienced every time I have visited the Land of Enchantment.

The day prior I’d had the honor and pleasure of being a guest speaker at the New Mexico Trout Enclave. After the conclave had concluded, my friends Bruce Newton, Jeff Fleming, and I made the long but lovely drive from Albuquerque to Bloomfield, New Mexico, where we planned to spend that night before awaking early the following morning to fish the San Juan—their homewater. That night we enjoyed a wonderful New Mexican-style Mexican meal at a diner called The Roadside Café. It was an unpretentious little place where the people were friendly and the only thing lacking was a liquor license. A cold beer would have gone perfectly with that green chili salsa.

While enjoying tacos, rice, and beans, we spoke of the San Juan River in New Mexico and the Guadalupe River in Texas, and of how the environment and fecundity of our favorite wild places has changed—not for the better. We shared memories of fishing and friendship and compared the many bends and riffles in the rivers of our respective lives. And in the end we retired to our hotel rooms with the anticipation of a new day of gratitude—for simply being alive.

It is often said that the San Juan River begins just below the Navajo Dam, but of course this is as absurd as saying that the world begins just outside my front door. It does not. Water flows in cycles and circles—just as we do. Time is a story we tell ourselves. Nothing remains the same, yet everything is simply an extension of the whole. So if I choose to be open to the universe in a more vast sense, the river began with a raindrop. It certainly lives in its more natural state, just above the unnatural reservoir.

In the morning we met up with a young man who has become a beloved fixture of this riverscape—guide Jude Duran. Jude is a knowledgeable fly-fishing guide who exhibits the rarefied traits of being both confident in his abilities and humble in nature. He is a soft-spoken gentleman and by the end of this day he was destined to become a friend. And I don’t treat friendship casually. I believe that friendship is something sacred that requires mutual respect and understanding. It’s what thrives within the chrysalis of our human experience.

In the early morning light we swapped smiles and handshakes in front of the Float ’N Fish Fly Shop, before making our way to the launch point near the Texas Hole. Jeff was planning a much-needed and well-deserved day of wade-fishing solitude, while Bruce and I floated the first 3.75-mile section of river, known locally as the Quality Water. I’m assuming this name was given by anglers to reflect the abundance of catchable trout per mile, but to my mind, all of this lovely river and its starkly beautiful desert landscape was quality water.

Bruce and I stood on shore as Jude launched his drift boat, and we immediately noticed that he had lost one of his oars in the process. With good humor he placed his long-handled net into the empty oarlock and began paddling himself toward the drifting oar—capturing it and then paddling toward shore to retrieve the two of us—all without losing his genuine smile or interrupting the various conversations he was enjoying with other anglers as they drifted by, each one seemingly as happy to see him.

Except for the somewhat turbid water, this was as perfect a day as we could ever hope for, and the anglers who populated the half dozen other drift boats around us seemed to agree. One by one they called out joyful good mornings toward Jude. It seemed that almost everyone on the water knew him, and he knew them. There was no competition here—just camaraderie and caring.

This is a tailwater “fishery,” and like most human-created habitats it contains highly educated immigrant trout—European brown trout and Californian rainbow trout. The few browns have gone wild, the many rainbows are a mixed bag. But as with Jude, Jeff, and Bruce, these San Juan currents have become the homewaters of these persnickety fish. All of us, even the Navajo, Apache, Pueblo, and Anasazi, are immigrants to this landscape if we backcast far enough in time. But all of us together have come to love this land and call it home. For a moment in time, I felt at home here too.

This is not easy fishing. The San Juan is one of those rivers where it makes good sense for the uninitiated to partner with an able local guide like Jude. As we floated the river and methodically worked each pool, it became apparent that he knew every holding place and swirl of current. The fishing was challenging with him, and for me it might have been fruitless without him. As I drifted my leech and nymph rig through every deep pool and foam line, Jude calmly coached me on each drift, presentation, and hook-set. I wish every guide had Jude’s generous temperament. Bruce and Jeff also know this river as if it were an extension of their souls—and I suspect this is their reality. I admired their connection to this place and its people. But I was the newbie who was learning this new water and its nuanced personalities.

The strikes on the San Juan really can’t be called “strikes.” They are beyond subtle. The slightest dip or hesitation of the indicator requires a swift and complete lift of the line and the eleven-foot-long submerged leader. Bruce brought a number of fish to the boat while I missed hook-set after hook-set. Through it all I prayed to the fish gods for redemption—that I might gather my Imperfect Texan Buddha self into a Zen-like moment of intuitive motion that would connect me to the fish—beating heart to beating heart.

All the while in a soft voice Jude coached me . . . “This is a big right mend.” “This is a soft left mend.” “The takes here will be quick.” And then the most important lesson: “Because the leader is so long and being fished so deep you have to set the hook by initiating a complete casting movement. If the fish is there you play it, if it’s not you complete the cast.” That bit of instruction made all the difference.

Once I began to follow Jude’s advice and transformed it from mere understanding to actual action, everything came together. By remaining calm, being open to what this moment demanded of me, and forgiving myself for my many mistakes, I found my redemption. One after another, albeit with plenty of missed shots in between, I began landing some magnificent San Juan rainbows. I was overjoyed. Each fish was a gift.

Through sincere determination to learn from my mistakes and do better, I was catching and landing fish. More importantly, I had accepted each moment as it unfolded—not having preconceived expectations and taking responsibility for my mistakes, while showing compassion to myself along the way. The first step in forgiving others is to forgive ourselves. Compassion for others cannot exist if we lack compassion for ourselves. And this is not about making excuses. I know that whenever I fail to catch fish it’s not because of the fish, the guide, the fly, or the conditions—it’s all about my own perspective and choices. It’s me.

Every day of my life I go to sleep and awaken while declaring the same humble truth—“I’m grateful.” When I catch fish I’m grateful for the connection, however brief, and when I don’t I’m grateful for the sounds of the songbirds, water, and wind.

And now, as we drifted down the river, casting and catching brightly colored rainbows in the cooling breeze and warming sunlight, I was grateful to learn the story that everyone had told me Jude had to tell. You see, my new friend, the soft-spoken, articulate, and infinitely kind fishing guide had once served four years in federal prison for “armed” bank robbery.

As a young man, while enduring an extreme form of obsessive-compulsive disorder, anxiety, and depression along with an unhealthy combination of prescribed medications, Jude suffered a total mental health collapse. To this day, he doesn’t know why he did it. He robbed a bank with an unloaded firearm, fully ready to die at the hands of the police. But instead, he surrendered, admitted his guilt, and served his time without complaint.

He returned home to pick up that errant cast and cast again—rebuilding his life in a new direction. And now on this river, surrounded by the people who know and love him, Jude had found forgiveness and redemption. One of the rarest qualities on earth seems to be empathy, but it was a quality that surrounded us that day on the river, beaming like sunshine from every friendly face.

My own struggles with post-traumatic stress disorder have helped me to become a more compassionate and accepting human being—and perhaps, a better angler. We all have our own backstory, and we all suffer the consequences of our actions or inactions in one way or another. It’s okay if we miss the hook-set as long as we take responsibility for our mistakes, learn from them, and cast forward once again—as better versions of ourselves. It seems to me that nature and fly fishing are my best teachers. How about you?

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Steve Ramirez is a Texas master naturalist, poet, and U.S. Marine Corps veteran. He is the author of four books published by Lyons Press: Casting Forward (2020), Casting Onward (2022), Casting Seaward (2023), and Casting Homeward (2024).

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