Taos, New Mexico

Before Taos, before the rivers, and before the Airbnb that probably should have come with a warning label, there was Mike Mancinelli.

Mike is one of my best friends, someone I have known since high school. Over the years, we have shared the same simple priorities, fishing good water, drinking good beer, and saying yes to adventures that probably deserve a little more planning. He is the kind of friend who has been there for enough miles, riverbanks, and late nights that you do not need to explain much anymore. You just ask, “You in?” and wait for the answer you already know is coming.

So when I told Mike I had been offered a job in northern New Mexico but needed to drive down to Taos for a required drug test, his response was immediate and perfectly on brand.

“Cool,” he said. “We should bring rods.”

That sentence alone tells you everything you need to know about our friendship.

The first thing I remember about arriving in Taos was not the mountains, the river, or the feeling that my life might be changing. It was the immediate realization that the Airbnb might have been a terrible decision.

We pulled in after dark, headlights cutting across what looked like a deserted duplex sitting alone in the high desert. One side appeared to be used for storage, or possibly abandoned after a bad decision. The other side was, allegedly, where we would be staying. As soon as we stepped out of the truck, motion detected floodlights snapped on like we had tripped an alarm. A small sign pointed toward the door and read, This way.

Nothing inspires confidence like floodlights and vague instructions in the middle of nowhere.

Inside, we discovered a single pull down bed designed for one person and apparently intended to test friendships. The bathroom was accessed through old saloon style swinging doors. Adobe walls, pitch black skies, high desert silence. It felt less like a rental and more like we had crossed into another world.

As it turns out, that was a pretty accurate introduction to Taos.

We were there because I had been offered a job as a water quality biologist with Taos Pueblo, and the only thing standing between me and employment was that drug test. What should have been a quick, professional errand turned into a fishing weekend, because Clay’s Drift, even before it had a name, has always been about turning obligations into experiences.

Once the job officially started, my days revolved around water, but not just in a technical sense. Managing water quality across Pueblo lands meant collecting samples and measuring dissolved oxygen, temperature, pH, and specific conductance, but it also meant understanding why that work mattered.

The people of Taos Pueblo have lived along these waters for over a thousand years. Long before fly rods, taprooms, or data sheets, these rivers supported agriculture, ceremonies, food systems, and daily life. The same water that carves canyons and holds trout today has sustained generations through droughts, winters, and change. Water is life is not a slogan there, it is a truth that has been lived, protected, and passed down.

Working alongside the Pueblo reshaped how I thought about stewardship. Protecting water was not about compliance or reports. It was about responsibility. When water quality is good, fields grow, fish survive, communities endure. The work connected science to something much older, and much bigger than a career.

That reality comes into focus the first time you stand above the Rio Grande canyon in northern New Mexico. The river does not just flow there, it carves. Volcanic rock, high desert, sheer walls dropping into cold, clean water that has been shaping the land for thousands of years. Standing above it, watching that water cut through time, you realize you are a visitor in something ancient.

Down in the canyon, the water runs cold and clear, holding strong, beautifully colored trout shaped by current and stone. These are fish built by honest water. You do not just catch them, you earn them.

Then there is the Red River, smaller and more intimate, winding through alpine country where every bend matters. Clear flows, tight seams, fish that glow when the sun hits them just right. It is the kind of river that rewards patience and reminds you to slow down.

And if you really want to understand what protected water looks like, you head north into the Valle Vidal, where the Rio Costilla moves quietly through open grasslands and timber. Wild fish, cold water, no shortcuts. The kind of place that makes you lower your voice without even realizing it. Everything exactly how it should be.

Fishing these rivers made the science real. Measuring dissolved oxygen and temperature during the week, then standing in those same waters on the weekend, it became impossible to separate data from experience. Good water quality is not theoretical, it is visible in the way fish move, feed, and survive.

Mike figured this out faster than I did.

“If the fish look happy and the beer tastes good,” he said, “we are probably doing something right.”

Hard to argue with peer reviewed logic like that.

After long days on the river, Taos delivers exactly what it should, cold beer, honest food, and taprooms that feel like extensions of the water you just fished. Places like Taos Mesa Brewing and Red River Brewing Company, where dusty boots are normal, rods lean against the truck, and missed hook sets somehow turn into great stories.

These are not just places to drink. They are part of the system. Clean mountain water in the glass, local ingredients, beer that tastes better because you spent the day earning it.

That is the Clay’s Drift formula, even if I did not know it yet.

That understanding deepened through my friendship with Bill Gaydosh, the owner of Taos Mountain Outfitters. Bill was a former natural resources practitioner who understood water, systems, and people. Many of our best conversations happened over beers at Taos Mesa Brewing after days on the river.

Bill used to tell me that eventually the bureaucracy would wear thin. That no matter where you worked, you would reach a point where you would want to build something of your own. Something rooted in place, something honest, something worth protecting. He was not rushing me. He was planting seeds.

What stuck was not just what Bill said, but how he lived. Faith driven, family first, grounded. He understood that protecting water, fishing rivers, and sharing a beer were not separate parts of life, they were the same story told from different angles.

Bill passed away in June of 2024. He never got to see Clay’s Drift fully take shape, but his influence runs through every word of it.

Clay’s Drift exists because good water matters. Because healthy rivers create wild fish. Because those rivers sustain communities, cultures, and livelihoods. And because when water is protected, it leads to unforgettable days on the river and great beer worth traveling for.

Mike and I still talk about that trip. We laugh about the Airbnb, the fishing, and how a drug test somehow turned into a weekend that changed everything.

Good water leads to healthy fish.
Healthy fish lead to unforgettable days on the river.
And good water makes great beer worth traveling for.

This story, and Clay’s Drift itself, are for Bill.