Every year, the mountains of northern New Mexico pull me back with the same quiet force—towering ridgelines, a few icy creeks, and the promise of cutthroat rising in thin air. This year’s trip was no different, though the mountains definitely made me earn every fish. Between unpredictable storms, sharp temperature drops, and long miles of backcountry hiking, it was a trip that blended solitude, struggle, and some of the best dry-fly eats I’ve had in a long time.
A Week in the High Country
I camped in a stretch of the mountains where cell service dies, the wind carries the sound of nothing but water and pines, and the cold comes quick the moment the sun drops behind the ridgeline. My setup was simple and reliable—my lightweight backpacking equipment and my tent staked on a soft bed of pine needles in my regular spot, my sleeping bag rated just warm enough for the 30° nights, and a small cooking kit for coffee at sunrise and meals at dusk.
The river ran close enough that I could fall asleep to it and wake up with steam rising off the riffles. There’s a certain kind of clarity that only comes from unzipping a tent at dawn, breath hanging in the air, knowing you have nothing to do except explore water and find trout.
The Weather That Tried to Turn Me Around
Northern New Mexico always throws curveballs, but this year felt personal.
One morning brought blue skies and 65°, the next hit with hail and wind that bent the aspens sideways. Storm cells crawled across the Sangre de Cristos like slow giants, and I had more than one afternoon of sprinting back to camp with thunder rolling behind me. The cutthroat didn’t seem to mind, though—they just shifted where they held, huddling deep under banks until the sun returned.
It made the fishing more of a puzzle than usual, which honestly only added to the satisfaction.
Dialing in the Dry Fly Game
The cutthroat were keyed in on big terrestrials this year, but sizing mattered more than anything. Early in the week, I started tossing size 8 hoppers—big enough to ride high but small enough not to spook fish in clear, low water.
The sweet spot:
Size 10–12 tan parachute hoppers with a slim profile.
The fish would swipe aggressively at anything too bulky but absolutely crushed the medium-sized bugs that matched the natural grasshoppers landing in the shallows. Most eats came on the edges of seams or right up against undercut banks where the creek grass hung over the water.
When the water got a little off-color from storms, I switched to a hopper-dropper with a small beadhead nymph and picked up a few extra fish hiding deep. But the real magic stayed on top.
Black & Purple Streamers That Saved the Afternoons
When the clouds stacked up and the temperature dropped, the surface bite shut down fast. That’s when the small black-and-purple streamers came alive.
Stripping a size 8–10 leech or thin-profile streamer through the deeper pools produced some of the biggest cutthroat of the trip. Something about the dark silhouette in that glacier-cold water gets these trout fired up, especially right before the storms rolled in.
A slow, twitch-pause retrieve was the ticket. Too fast, and they didn’t commit. Letting the fly hover in the current triggered the chase.
Photography in the Thin Air
This was another trip where the camera never left my pack for long. With the Canon R5 and my go-to lenses, I found moments everywhere: mist hanging over the river, sun shafts cutting through pines, and the kind of mountain light that only lasts a few minutes but transforms everything it touches.
Low-angle shots near the water made for the best compositions—cutthroat colors glowing in natural light, textured rock beds, and reflections off still pockets. I played with longer exposures on the tripod during the slower fishing hours, capturing the smooth flow of the river as the shadows stretched across the valley.
Even when the fish weren’t biting, the camera gave me another reason to slow down and appreciate the place.
Why These Trips Matter
Every year, the world feels louder and busier, which makes trips like this one even more important. Northern New Mexico gives you exactly what you need—not always what you want. Some days were cold and tough. Some casts were blown sideways by the wind. But every fish, every moment of quiet, and every sunrise over the ridges felt earned.
And that’s why I’ll keep coming back.
Beyond the Cast 
Let me know your thoughts in the comments below!