Last week I was blessed to spend a full week in Crested Butte, tucked into the quiet rhythm of a place my wife chose long ago when she purchased a home there. Every time I return, it feels like stepping into a familiar story—snow settling over the rooftops, mountains holding their winter silence, and the whole valley slowing down in a way that forces you to breathe a little deeper. One of the perks of her choice, of course, is proximity: just an hour away sits my favorite tailwater, the Taylor River below Taylor Reservoir. It’s a place that can be magical, maddening, or overcrowded depending on the season. For that reason, I refuse to fish it except during the winter months. Cold has a way of restoring a river’s honesty.

The week before leaving, my son and I spent an afternoon at the tying bench prepping for the trip. There’s something special about tying flies with him—the quiet conversation, the little jokes, the concentration as he tries to match proportions. Together, we filled a small box with the patterns that have always treated me well on the Taylor: poison tongues, red midge larvae, black beauties, and purple juju baetis. Just seeing them lined up in the foam gets me excited in a way that never really fades, no matter how many years I’ve fished.

I’ve always loved winter tailwaters. Most anglers shy away when temperatures sink below freezing, choosing to wait for the comfortable hours—or not go at all. But in my experience, winter reveals a simpler truth about trout: this time of year, they’re pure opportunists. They can’t afford to be picky. A well-presented fly on 5X tippet is about as close to a guarantee as a fly angler ever gets. The cold bites at your fingertips, ice forms on the guides, and yet the fish are still there, doing their best to make it through the lean months.

On this trip, that truth unfolded beautifully. When I arrived at the river, the world felt completely still. No boot tracks in the snow. No competing headlamps or voices echoing off the canyon walls. Just the soft push of water and the kind of quiet you only hear in winter. It’s rare to have the Taylor entirely to yourself—almost unheard of in warmer seasons—but on this particular day, it was mine alone.

I fished the entire stretch once, then again, working methodically through every seam and soft pocket. The fish responded in a way that made the cold irrelevant. Over twenty trout came to hand—thick-bodied, vibrant, winter-strong fish that fought harder than they had any right to. Each one reminded me why I make the effort, why I bundle up, why I wait for winter rather than battle the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds of summer.

Roughly three hours later, I walked back to the truck with my fingertips numb and my soul full. There’s something incredibly unique about seeing a fishery that’s typically littered with anglers stripped down to its purest form—just river, trout, and time. Days like that don’t come often, and when they do, they stay with you. This one certainly will.

[By Russ Davie. Feather Craft Ambassador. Colorado]