It all started late and slow as less adept drivers transformed former automobiles into too many ready-to-be-recycled bits strewn along Hwy 680. We picked up speed through Livermore, grabbed a sandwich dinner in Dublin, then came to a stop in Manteca. Younger son Christopher needed his first look at a Bass Pro Shops store and a few pieces of gear. Eyes suitably glazed over, it was a quick 70 miles to the cabin and an early bed time.

There’s a benefit to regularly falling getting out of bed during the five o’clock hour. It’s that much easier to hit road early when fishing. On the road in the dark, with Christopher asleep and few episodes of “Ask About Fly Fishing” queued up on the iPhone, the 93 miles to the upper East Walker River quickly slipped away.

Mother Nature was nice enough to cooperate, and the weather was exactly as if I had ordered it up…cool, crisp and high-desert clear. I don’t think it was much above 40° and never rose much above 50° on the EW. The nicest surprise is that this would be the first time I would been alone on the East Walker, if for just the first hour.

Once we were bugged up and on the river, the rest of life drifted away. Cast, mend, watch. Repeat. That went on for a total of, oh, maybe ten minutes before the confidence inspiring first strike. That’s the way it was to be all morning. Grand total: twelve browns in three hours. Not a one less than twelve inches long and some stretching to fourteen. Nice fish. All fat, sassy and seemingly ready for winter. There we’re bigger fish around to be sure. In a slower moving, slick surfaced stretch we caught sight of a wake that would do the Lock Ness Monster proud. Big fish to the net or not, it was a great start to the weekend.

Eating lunch on the go, it was south to Tioga Pass Road. We tried a familiar lower stretch of Lee Vining Creek, but most of those fish were holdover stockers that had earned an education over the summer and weren’t having any of what we were selling. So it was onwards and steeply upwards to the upper sections of Lee Vining Creek and other high-mountain creeks, where I know of a few wild populations of brook trout just right for the 3 wt. rod.

It had become a mandate that I visit these little trout. I did so during May, only to find a few fish, and those few fish unwilling to fall for any of my offerings. This time it was to be different.

The air temperature was, at best, in the high thirties, and a stiff wind whipped down off the snow fields. I mentally marked the time: one thirty. ‘Cause I had just walked into what seemed to be one heck of a hatch. Or at least a feeding frenzy. Pods of brook trout, dazzling in their spawning colors, slashed at the surface. Others breached like freshwater whales in miniature. And I could do no wrong with a size 14 Royal Wulff, off which I hung a size 22 “Ghost Midge” of my own design. (Simply tie a tiger midge with gray thread instead of black, with a small flash tail if you’d like.)

I stopped counting at twenty. A number of ten-inch trophies made up for lack of length with brilliant colors. Yes, that’s a trophy fish at 9,990-something feet in the Sierra Nevada mountain range. There’s something amazing about fishing a small, crystal clear mountain creek, no deeper than 12 inches and landing fish after fish. I would have liked to have spent the entire afternoon there. But we had older son Sean to meet and some one hundred-plus miles to go.

Sunday dawned cold and clear again. Soon we were packed up and ready to return to reality home, but not without one last cast or twenty. On the road home there are a few small West Slope streams that feed into Don Pedro Lake; good places to delay our reentry into the world by a few hours. The morning started off slow and Sean wandered downstream. I should have seen the signs. No witnesses. No one to man the net.

It could have been predicted. It was a soft take. Subtle in fact. Muscle memory set the hook. Then all hell broke loose. Apparently a torpedo had attached itself to my line. It accelerated upstream. Three leaps later the fish made the mistake of almost grounding itself in shallow water. Then I could see its back – a big back – break the surface. A short second of indecision preceeded a downstream charge; a charge powerful enough to take me with it. In the end, fifteen minutes later, and 100 feet down stream, a slab of a fish was in the net. Barely. Twenty four inches of rainbow. The biggest trout I’ve landed in moving water. And no witnesses. Only the camera to trust to tell the story.

The rest of the morning was filled with multiple double hook ups as Sean and fished favorite spots side by side. We landed a number of DFG-raised rainbows, with just enough casts required between strikes to keep it interesting. Sean was lucked enough to bring an eighteen incher to hand. I got another good fish of twenty two inches. I also had a repeat of last year. I’d heard years ago that in the fall some wild Don Pedro Lake browns occasionally find their way upstream thanks to spawning urges. This was proven to me to be fact last fall went I landed an eighteen-inch brownie. Got one again this year. Even if it was only ten inches, I’ll count it.

My last hurrah for Trout 2009.

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I knew it’d be a whirlwind (long) weekend, with Christopher and Katelyn dropping in Friday night for some fishing Saturday, followed by Sean and Kirsten arriving Saturday night for more fishing Sunday. (Both boys are at that age during which young men seem to test the devotion of girlfriends by dragging them around to all sorts of questionable activities.) I did not know that temperatures would soar those three days, breaking thermometer bulbs up and down the Sierra foothills. The car thermometer read 107°F at one point. While I’d rather not believe that figure, the psychological toll came nowhere near the physical.

But we managed to have fun. Christopher wanted to test the waters of the South Fork of the Tuolumne River, up the road from Groveland, so we did. Sean and I had visited this stretch of the river on Opening Day, only to find the flows quite high. This time around we found nice pools and decent fishing. I initially headed upstream, finding a welcome strike or two; finally landing a decent rainbow after casing upstream to a likely pool from behind a boulder. Christopher and Katelyn chased after some fish they saw lingering in a bigger pool.

My attention turned downstream. Fruitless casts into some bigger water prompted a switch to a dry/dropper set up (dry fly with a trailing nymph). This produced at least a dozen takes and a few smaller fish landed, including what might have been my first Sacramento pikeminnow, in juvenile form. After the Tuolumne we played at Moccasin Creek for a while. With the blame for the tougher than usual fishing placed firmly on our late afternoon arrival and the high pressure system that brought the searing heat — I still managed to hook and land four decent rainbows.

The remaining daylight after dinner found us, as promised, fishing a small pond near Lyons Canal for bass and sunfish. We all caught something. The bass were small but willing to hit nearly anything. Christopher and I threw streamers to hook numerous bass, while Katelyn landed one on a spinner. We closed the fishing for the day with a stroll along the canal, where Christopher landed a decent-sized brown trout. Later, Christopher took first in a round of miniature golf, with dad behind by one stroke. Then Christopher and Katelyn left and dad collapsed.

Sean and Kirsten were ready to roll about 6:00 a.m. Sunday and we were on Moccasin Creek by 7:15. The fishing was again a bit tough. I’ll blame my lack of fish to hand on the fact that Sean borrowed my 5 wt. fly rod because Kirsten was using Sean’s/my backup 5 wt. fly rod, leaving me to use a too-limber 3 wt., which made strong hook sets difficult. However, when all was said and done, dad out-fished Sean by two trout. I think it was 7-5.  Kirsten also hooked a few and landed one.

The post-dinner fishing was again targeting bass and sunfish. Sean had a frustrating time with a streamer. At my suggestion he switched to a dry/dropper and was immediately on to the small bass. The fun continued after I tied on a damselfly imitation to elicit some awesome top-water strikes. But let’s just say that the dad vs. Sean competition wasn’t even close in this venue. (Grasshopper, when you can take the fly from my hand, it will be time for you to outfish your father.)

Another game of miniature golf showed my consistency…again one stroke behind the son. This game, however, sure brought out Kirsten’s competitive streak. She was ready for an immediate rematch with Sean.

Did I mention it was hot all weekend?

Give a son a fish; you have fed him for today. Teach that son to fly fish; and you will have to answer constant questions about where, when, how…and tie a bunch of flies for his next camping trip.”

Sean and Christopher are back after a three-day fishing/camping trip in the high country around Tuolumne Meadows. And the fishing went well.

The first report trickled in from a pay phone…at least once Sean figured out how to use it. I’m hoping he didn’t immediately leave the stream to seek out the phone, but it was great to get a message that he’d caught his first wild brown trout using a fly rod. Later I’d learn that he caught other trout, including two wild brookies in a section of Lee Vining Creek where I know it’s tough to get any interest in a fly. It’s also cool to note that he caught them on dry fly. I believe that’s the first time he’s hooked a trout on a dry.

It would have been nice to be there…and I’m still awaiting photographic proof…but it’s nice to know that Sean put to use skills and tactics taught by his ol’ dad to fool some fish. (Just need to keep enough secrets to myself so he’ll never outfish me!)

Apparently though, Christopher resorted to spinners and, of all things, that stinky, unnaturally colored man-made bait to land a bushel or more of trout. Guess he won the weekend on sheer numbers, if not on the elegance of the method. (Insert acknowlegement of a certain bias toward fish caught on the fly.)

It seems that for me days of fishing, and catching, have been somewhat of a rarity so far this year. Here’s to hoping that next weekend I’ll get in some make-up fishing.

It began Friday when the new hard drive for our Series 3 Tivo arrived. The old hard drive decided to take a permanent vacation, presenting the dilemma of either purchasing a new Tivo, meaning we’d loose the lifetime subscription that has paid for itself a few times over, or trying to drop in a new hard drive. Either way, it would cost about the same. The hard drive install was quick and easy, and after running through the guided set up our resurrected Tivo was running smoothly with our lifetime subscription still intact.

Saturday afternoon the wife and I visited a fellow fly fisherman and his wife with the express purpose of combing though some fly tying materials. Comb through we did. About an hour and a half later I was putting a grocery bag in my car full of materials, including seven dozen spools of thread of all sorts of colors and hues. All that and a dinner date with my wife.

Sunday’s event was courtesy Honda. As a participant of an online Honda Owners Panel (which conducts surveys about once a month) I was awarded two pass to the IndyCar race at Infineon Raceway. Christopher and I arrived about ten that morning to enjoy a continental breakfast in the Honda tent, which was set up at turn two. (An uphill right-hand sweeper.) After walking around the various exhibits and watching the Historic Gran Prix cars head out to the track for warm up, we headed back to the tent for a great rib lunch. Lunch gave way to a visit by the Ryan Hunter-Reay (driving the ethanol-sponsored Rahal/Letterman Racing #17), then a tour of the garage area. Though I wouldn’t pay for the privilege, it was fun seeing the race in person. Helio Castroneves (Team Penske #3) won, with Ryan Hunter-Reay finishing 18th. Gotta love free stuff.

I’ll be the guy looking for more freebies…

While circumstances conspired to prevent my celebration of Opening Day of trout season (April 26) by actually fishing, I did head to the cabin with Sean and Christopher Saturday night, with plans to hit Moccasin Creek. Sure, Moccasin is stocked, but trout is trout. We stopped at Diamondback Grill to enjoy some burgers, then headed for the cabin and hit the hay.

Sunday morning, Hit Moccasin Creek we did. Christopher, Sean (with my old fly rod), and I (with my new 5 wt. fly rod) were on the water by 7:00 a.m. Sunday. The surprising lack of fisher folks allowed us to pick the best spots. Again, the creek was full of larger brook trout and soon all of us had a fish on the line.

Sean did well for his first time fly fishing, even if it was nymphing, which isn’t what one imagines when fly fishing is mentioned. (Nymphing employs weighted wet flies, which are presented to the fish in their feeding lane underwater.) While Christopher left close to mid morning after pulling in a few fish, but Sean and I spent much of the day on the creek, and in about ten hours Sean had landed a dozen trout. I stopped counting at a dozen. Later in the evening, I fished by myself and right about sunset literally hooked ten trout in thirty minutes, all out of a small pool.

Knowing it was to be a short trip, Monday morning Sean and I headed back down to Moccasin Creek to spend a “little time” on the water before we had to head home. Well, a little time stretched into hours. But I blame it on Sean’s illness…he caught the bug. When I asked if he was ready to leave, his response was “One more cast.” We had fun trying to entice some fish in a deep pool by the dam, fish we could clearly see. I think we both pulled a couple of fish out of there, thanks to my expert fly selection!

A busy but tremendously fun two days.

Finally understanding why fly fisherfolks collect numerous rods, my son and I attended, bid and doled out cash at the Diablo Valley Fly Fishermen’s annual auction. Parting with the green stuff was facilitated by our knowing that it would eventually end up helping any of the various conservation groups supported by the club.

Initially prompted by Christopher’s living and working on California’s north coast, Humboldt County to be exact; we hatched a plan earlier this year to find ourselves fly rods suitable for steelhead. We needed something on the order of 7 wt. rods with matching reels. And that’s exactly what turned up on the auction list.

The bidding was a bit infectious for Christopher but in the end he and I walked out with new Redington 9½-foot, 4-piece 7 wt. rods and CD 7/8 wt. reels. At a heck of a price. I also picked up a Redington 9-foot, 4-piece 5 wt. rod to replace the stick I learned on, an entry-level L.L. Bean 5 wt. rod I hope to hand down to some soul who might want to try a bit of fly fishing. Sean’s first on the list.

Once we get line on the 7 wt. rods it’ll be time to consider steelheading; despite all warnings…adverse weather, high flowing and cold water, and sometimes fickle fish that are constantly on the move.

Yeah, it’s a little bit crazy.

Took a quick weekend trip to visit Christopher. It was cold and drizzly on the way up, but not too bad. Picked Christopher up about 10:45 a.m. Heading north to the lagoons, where we had hoped to fish, it became apparent that he was suffering from the onset of the flu or a severe cold. So, trying to be wise, we shelved the idea of fishing in the cold rain and instead poked along, stopped at a visitor center, got some gas and checked into the hotel in the early afternoon.

I let Christopher nap while checking up on e-mail and such. Since he wasn’t too much in an eating mood, I opted out of plans to head to the
Samoa Cookhouse and took myself to Rita’s Café & Taqueria. It was good, but that’s for a separate post. On the way back I picked up some cough drops, DayQuil and 7Up. Christopher stirred once and a while, mostly due to fits of coughing, before I put head to pillow.

While it wasn’t the most opportune of time thanks to some little viral bug, it was good to see Christopher for a bit. I also got to see some of the areas in which he’s been working. The photo to the right is of a beach where he and his CCC crew are charged with pulling European Beachgrass (Ammophila arenaria), an invasive weed that infests beaches in the Redwood National and State Parks. Christopher even amazed me with his newfound knowledge of invasive plants on California’s north coast.

We spent Sunday morning sleeping in, and later drove around a bit. I showed Christopher the Samoa Cookhouse and parts of Eureka, recalling the good times I had in college with few worries and despite even fewer dollars. We grabbed lunch at the

Fresh Freeze Drive-In, decent and authentic 1950’s burger joint. With the clouds seemingly threatening to release a deluge, I dropped Christopher off at the center (with instructions to get rest and recover), and plugged home into the GPS.

The drive home was interesting. On one stretch of the South Fork of the Eel River I saw an inflatable raft with six people in colorful PDFs struggling to move upstream…yes, upstream…in the swollen and muddy river. Insane, I thought, until I noticed a truck on the side of the road indicating that they were a swift water rescue team. On and off the rain came down hard enough to limit visibility as I played leapfrog with various cars with out of state license plates. It also became apparent to me, while passing through Willits, that only the things that matter less don’t change in a small town. With the exception of the Safeway, the only places that have kept their names are the carwash, the Laundromat, and the small convenience store/arcade (TnT), which I believe was frequented by my brother.

Two hundred and fifty-five miles later I was home.

What I had hoped would be an afternoon and evening in the water turns into an hour and a half of twilight wading. But it turned out to be a good ninety minutes.

The destination was Beardsley Afterbay. I had heard hints that the afterbay was a great place to fish in the fall and I wasn’t led astray. I first picked a good pool with a strong seam about three quarters of the way across. After fishing the near water, less than a dozen casts later, a small 6-7” rainbow hint my prince nymph harder that one would normally expect. (I apologize for the blurry images related to this post.)

Without another fisherman in sight, my son and I moved, bypassing some “flats” and ending up across from some undercut banks. I picked up a small, maybe 7-8” rainbow in an eddy behind a boulder. Taking a bit of time to watch upstream, I spotted some subtle rises about two feet out from the undercut bank. Getting lucky, I set my dry/dropper right in the lane. The dry dipped and with a quick strike I had the biggest fish of the evening, an honest 12-13” rainbow.

With bats chasing our dry flies and the sun’s light disappearing, we headed back toward the car and I was rewarded with one last fish, a decent rainbow; wild from the looks of it.

Then the climb began. I estimate it only took 30 minutes, but it was a tough climb. (Remember that before this hike we were wading and boulder-hopping in the river. And now it was nearly dark.) Obviously, we made it up the hill. Panting, we shed our fishing gear and started the drive back. Again, the GPS was looking for the shortest route down these single-lane, rock-strewn forest service roads. Just as it began to look unfamiliar we were confronted by a deep ditch…the same ditch that our friend with the 4×4 had to gently navigate. But I had to turn around. Thank goodness there was a wide turn just behind us. We finally made it to the highway and breathed a sigh of relief.

Saturday morning we slowly showered, dressed, changed the bed sheets, etc., and about 11:15 a.m. were fishing Moccasin Creek. I was counting on some fish still being in the stream even though it hadn’t been stocked in quite a while. Last month, when Sean and I visited, it was brimming with fish.

My guess was correct, and a few casts into a deep pool and I had a chuck ol’ planter in hand. We spent the next hour or so casting ‘n catching. Christopher had a few strikes and brought one fish to shore. I netted about six, with a few lost to LDR (long-distance release). About an hour and a half later we were on the way home.

It was a quick but fun fishing adventure.