Imagine an insect four centimetres (1.5 in.) long, with six gangly legs and a generous
wingspan, creeping around your neck. Now imagine hundreds of such flies — milling
overhead, crawling up your sleeves and pant legs, and even flying into your open mouth.
Sound like a Hitchcock movie? If you’re a rabid fly fisher, such a writhing bug-fest is actually
nirvana. And if it’s the famed salmonfly hatch on western Colorado’s Gunnison River, you’d
happily scramble down some 700 metres of treacherous trail to a canyon floor to cast a dry
fly to the ravenous 50-centimetre rainbow and brown trout feasting on these insects.
The Hatch is a 17-minute film by Ben Knight and local fishing guide Travis Rummel about
the confluence of three things: a short-lived but prolific hatch of river insects; the large trout
that gorge on them in this short stretch of clear-flowing river; and the passionate guides and
clients who pay homage to this annual event.
During a three-week stretch in June, the large salmonflies, or stoneflies, that have been living
along the river bottom emerge to hatch, breed, flutter through the air, and land on the water.
Not surprisingly, the trout, which derive some three-quarters of their year’s protein from this
short-lived hatch, go into a feeding frenzy.
“Every time you’re making a cast during the stonefly hatch, you have the possibility of
catching the biggest fish you’ve ever seen,” says one fanatic. The steep trek down to the
river’s edge, adds another, “is not something you want to do. It’s something you have to do
— if you’re serious about fishing.”
The Hatch, shot on a $1000 (US) budget, is about more than just fly-fishing enthusiasts and
entomology. It’s also about a river that, where it flows through Black Canyon of the
Gunnison National Park, has one of the steepest descents (18 metres per kilometre, or 96
feet per mile) of any river in North America. With nearby farming and rapid development
demanding ever more water, the film is an eloquent plea to preserve this gorgeous stretch of
still pristine river from a likely death sentence of more upstream dams, so that kayakers,
roadside viewers and wilderness lovers can continue to enjoy it.
Normally, fly fishers would rather disown their offspring than divulge their favourite fishing
holes. But when the alternative is a diminished or decimated fishery, they’re more willing to
let the outside world know about this short stretch of paradise.
Down The Hatch