Crazy fishing.

The morning of June 19th marked the start of my inaugural trip to volcano country in the northeastern corner of California. A driving time of 5 hours and 30 minutes would bring me to my destination at the east edge of Lassen National Park, roughly 93 miles south of the Oregon border and 40 miles from the Nevada state line.

Shakey's SpecialTM Pizza

Like many fly fishing trips, it began with food. When it came to my attention that Oroville was home to one of the few Shakey’s Pizza restaurants in my end of the Golden State, I appropriately adjusted my route. Pulling into Oroville, a town surviving on the generosity of travelers passing through, the old school design of the Skakey’s was a good sign. Not so good was the new school menu. That meant no Bunch of Lunch buffet (a $9.95 lunchtime experience) for me. The pizza, however, was a memory inducing event. Shakey’s pizza, at the older restaurants mind you, is one of the few foods that matches what I remember from childhood.

After dosing the body with slices of Shakey’s Special and Diet Coke, it was on to Chester, where I met up with Tom Maumoynier, owner of The Lake Almanor Fly Fishing Company. Tom’s passion about the area and the fly fishing it has to offer can be contagious. He’s so passionate about fly fishing, and his wife apparently very understanding, that Tom seems to spend many an evening “testing” various venues around Lake Almanor, and the lake itself. With advice from Tom, a close examination of an area map and a handful of flies, it was time to wet a line in Yellow Creek.

I checked into the modest but quite comfy Cedar Lodge, and headed down Hwy 89, along the western shore of Lake Almanor. A few miles later I pulled onto one of the nicest Forest Service roads I’ve had the pleasure to driven. Tom told me it was eight miles to the creek. Thankfully, signs to the Yellow Creek Campground kept me on the right path. Until I crested a hill to find the road branching in four directions.

I’d like to say I took the macho course of action (Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, catch a tiger by the toe…), but that hill was a blessing. Wimping out, I checked the cell phone for a signal and called Tom back at the shop. It was the middle road, he told me, clarifying that just about the time you think you missed a turn a few mile back, you’ll arrive at the campground. He was right.

Yellow Creek is a fantastic medium-sized creek, meandering through a meadow nestled within a gentle valley. It doesn’t offer much fishy water immediately downstream from the campground, at least not early in the season, when most of the moving water in the area is high. A 15-minute hike, however, brings nice looking riffles and pools into view.

I rigged up with Tom’s recommendation of a light green drake, which had worked well for him the previous evening, with a pheasant tail nymph dropper. Casting as I walked, the first take came a few minutes later and yielded a small, wild brown trout.

Yellow Creek Brown

I believe that, like many things in life, confidence is a big factor in fly fishing. So, after 30 minutes of a lot of nothing, I switched to my “confidence flies”: a yellow-green bodied stimulator trailed by a bead-head A.P. Nymph.

A few minutes later, an 8-inch brown ate the nymph. Another nailed the stimulator on the surface. The total for the next 90 minutes was five browns and one rainbow to the net, twice as many missed strikes, and the farming of one of the “toads” I was warned about.

That toad, perhaps a fair 12 or 13 inches (big for a creek this size), didn’t hesitate when it took the nymph. Stunned that it had been fooled, it didn’t move for a minuscule but still discernable amount time. Then it exploded downstream, jumping three times before turning upstream and burying its nose in the weeds at my feet. Gaining the angle and applying gentle pressure, I turned the fish back into open water. I blinked, and with one final jump, he was off. Good times.

While I collected myself and gathered up my net, allowing my flies to swing in the current, I missed another strike. That’s a hint how fun the fishing can be on Yellow Creek.

The downside of tracking down more remote creeks and the wild fish in them is the drive out on unfamiliar dirt roads in the dark. Let’s just say that I was grateful to find pavement after a wrong turn that had me, for the first time, thinking I might have to spend the night sleeping in the car.

Instead, I got a restful night’s sleep at the motel. Good thing, too. I would soon find out that I needed it.

The plan Sunday was to head back towards Yellow Creek, but to stop short at Butt Creek, which I crossed the previous day. I had been warned that the unseasonably cold water and air temperatures were limiting insect hatches, and thus trout feeding, to the evenings. But I was there and I had the means to cast a few flies.

If one were to use my results as scientific measurement, there are no trout in Butt Creek. I did have beautiful weather, and after a few hours, enjoyed a streamside sandwich. Fly fishing, in beautiful country, is never a bad thing, regardless of the catch rate.

That afternoon I visited Susan Creek, a portion of which is maintained as a wild fishery. Yes, I only visited it. To say the water was too high would be an understatement.

As darkness descended, I was comfortably secure in my Kamping Kabin at Eagle Lake RV Park. Eagle Lake was less than 200 yards away.

Why I was there:

Eagle Lake. Looking southeast, with conditions looking good.

 
• Surface Elevation: 5,098 ft./1,554 m.
• Surface Area: 24,000 Acres/97.1 km²
• Maximum Depth: 85 ft./26 m.
• Location: Lassen County, Calif. (40°38′42″N / 120°44′38″W)
• Second largest natural lake entirely in the state of California.
• Home to the Eagle Lake Trout, which are uniquely adapted to the lake’s alkaline waters.

During the fishing there will be manly bonding that can only come over fierce friendly competition; competition that likely will be won by guile and cunning rather than youth and strength. In between fishing there will be a visit to our favorite hamburger place. Thankfully, forecasts portend fantastic spring weather. Yeah, a heck of a time.

I can feel your sympathy.

Without a decent laptop, much less a reliable connection to the interwebs, any updates will erratic or nonexistent. In the debate of fishing vs. blogging, well, you can guess the loser.

More words — and taunting — to come. Just can’t say when.

The nice older couple who housed us and bought us underwear for Christmas are in town, doing well enough after 21 days on the road to Texas and back. RSVPs have been made; food’s piling up; table space measured.

Feels a bit like June 5, 1944. Instead of tanks, planes and personnel, it’s boxes of plates, platters, silverware and serving utensils. The opposing force is 21 strong.

It’ll be interesting. The last time I fed this many people at once I was working in Humboldt State’s Jolly Giant student cafeteria.

Happy Thanksgiving!

We’re back now, but here’s to hoping that memories of our trip will pop to mind every time we sip Rogue Brewery‘s Dry Hopped Saint Rogue Red Ale (Mark – Sean and I already have some in the fridge) or the harder-to-find Chipotle Ale.

It was a good, relatively unstructured trip. After twenty-plus years of deadlines, I’m beginning to tend to avoid them on my own time. The only specific goals: beer and crayfish and visiting with the folks and the bro’ and his family.

Bookended by crowded but relatively uneventful flights, our vacation begin last Thursday morning, conveyed in The Buick by mom and dad. Thursday was a day of visiting, catching up and re-introductions between the cousins/nephews and the cousin and uncle. Kaden seemed to have a fuzzy recollection of who I might be, or at least the idea that I wouldn’t bite. Levi was a bit standoffish, or perhaps a bit more focused on grandpa and oma’s toy selection. It was an enjoyable afternoon.

Friday’s mission was beerucation. Fueled by a pancake breakfast and skewered meat for lunch, the boys-Sean, Mark, dad and me-it was off to Issaquah Brew House. Among the beers we tasted were the aforementioned Saint Rogue Red and Chipotle Ale, as well as Brutal Bitter, Chocolate Stout, Hazelnut Brown Nectar, Juniper Pale Ale, Morimoto Imperial Pilsner, Old Crustacean Barleywine, White Frog Ale (a favorite), and Ménage À Frog Ale (an abbey tripel, my personal favorite). It’s a great place to enjoy a variety of Rogue and “guest” beers. A place we should all hope to visit again.

Unfortunately, all of my research was conducted online, so our next stop was the actual brewery, and without a taproom it was on to the Black Raven Brewing Co. Tucked into an industrial park, the Black Raven taproom offers somewhat of an upscale, almost yuppy-ish setting. (Dad asked the barkeep if coffee might be available, and got a resounding “no.”) The selection of beers is limited to Black Raven’s production, but we enjoyed a flight, with Kristale Wheat bring one favorite, as well as an unfiltered version of a German weizen beer.

The next stop was predicated on hunger. Knowing that Redhook Ale Brewery tends to be popular and crowded, we stopped anyhow, hoping to grab some beer and grub. But a 40-minute wait didn’t sit well, so a short drive later we dropped in on Teddy’s Bigger Burger. Pretty good place; clean, well lit, with good burgers. And dad learned that a 7-ounce burger is much more filling than a 5 ounce.

Saturday started with stomach stretches as a prelude to a good ol’-fashion crayfish boil. With a Pacific Northwest twist. We occupied our time in the morning visiting with Mark and family, and Kaden beating me at Mario Kart on the Wii. Mark whipped up some salsa and guac’ to tide us over. Then Sean, Mark and me headed out to visit our hosts, Joe and Toby, then drooled over a few motorcycles before returning to the house, where dad was waiting.

When judged by Northerners, and even West Coasters, crayfish don’t top the list of foods with which we have much of a relationship. However, boiled with just the right amount of Zatarain’s seasoning and accompanied by king crab legs, shrimp, clams, three varieties of sausage, corn on the cob, and potatoes, crayfish become more than food-you-can-play-with. Add to that plenty of beer, ranging from Coors to Pacific Northwest craft brews; a sweet and deceiving alcoholic beverage with “vixen” in its name, side dishes, and desserts, and you’ve got a food festival. Between the crowd rushing the table as each pot’s contents were poured out, the kids running around, and the socializing, it was an awesome time. (Public thanks once again to Toby and Joe!)

Sean and I crashed at Mark and Kenna’s house that night…crashed I say thanks to Mark-made apple-tinis; only to awaken Sunday to a Breakfast Nirvana of stomach-stickin’ buttermilk pancakes, Lil Smokies sausages, and bacon. Kenna and Kaden had a party to attend, so Sean, Mark, Levi and me took the nickel tour of the area and took a man-walk around Snohomish, which is basically an antiquing town. After a stop in a coffee house, it was back home…

…and after doing laundry and filling our suitcases with clean clothes, we all met at the Ixtapa restaurant in Duvall. A nice ending. It was a great trip.

Just means we’ll be back again. Hopefully sooner rather than later.

Below are the rest of the pictures…

I’ll be winging it north Thursday morning with Sean the Older Son; part of a pact sealed a few years ago and relating to his reaching the legal (alcoholic) drinking age. Countering the idea of that this entails the consumption of mass quantities; the hopeful lesson of this trip will be the appreciation of quality.

It’ll be another 43 hours before we join the herd filling coach seating on an Alaska Airlines 737-900. After one hour and fifty-seven minutes we should be on approach — then a few minutes later the ‘rents will zoom out of leisurely leave Sea-Tac Airport’s cell phone parking lot, hopefully to offer us a seat, instead of the trunk this time, for the ride to Duvall.

With the exception of a neighborhood crawdad boil to which we’ve invited ourselves, there’s no definitive calendar of events for this trip; only a punch list of things to do.

Photographic evidence A photographic diary may be in the offing, and at the very least we’ll take the easy way out to throw a jumble of words and blurry cell phone pics photos on Facebook.

Life is about to take on a welcome hectic pace that comes with cramming a bunch o’ fun into a few days away.

See you on the highway, in the air and eventually on the ground.

My lookalike devastatingly handsome cousin Bill and his wife Laura (and dogs Meika and Eugene) rolled into town in The GRYWHL on Friday. To hear Laura tell it, the familial visit was a ruse, but I’ll take that as a compliment to the staggering number of attractions in our immediate area; namely wineries and birds. And a few wineries named after birds, I’m sure.

The wife and I set out the everyday dishes – the fact that we set out dishes at all is an honor itself – and enjoyed a tremendous dinner and conversation. The wife outdid herself with a home-baked version of store-bought rotisserie chicken with the always welcome mashed potatoes. The visit also served to reinforce the similarities between Bill and me. That’s not a bad thing. Rest assured, it’s a compliment to be compared to someone so handsome, steadfast and just an all-around good egg.

Saturday our two groups took separate paths in pursuit of beverages – wine and beer for Bill and Laura and apple cider and related concoctions for us. A visit to Apple Hill is a 15-year-plus tradition for me, and no fall seems complete without a taste of apple cider straight from the press. We mixed it up a bit this year, arriving early enough to make apple cider doughnuts a part of our morning repast. This was followed by obligatory visits to a few other orchards, crammed full of craftsfolks and their wares, tubs of apples, refrigerators full of cider, and piles of baked apple goods. A heavy discount prompted my picking up a carved trout that will become part of my future fly tying room. And the wife got her world’s-best corndog for lunch. Throw in four gallons of cider, and you’ve got a great day.

In typical family fashion, Sunday centered around food. In an attempt to overwhelm offer Bill and Laura an opportunity to also meet my sister and her family, a group dinner was in the offing that evening, with plenty of visiting beforehand. My sister’s family – including my now-all-too-tall nephew – arrived in the early afternoon, after the rest of us had time to lounge, watch a bit of football and rave about our respective Saturdays. Though not said directly, I think that even Laura was a bit astounded at the sheer number of wineries only 20 minutes from our doorstep. And it may be a safe bet that if Bill can work it out, they’ll be back with motorcycle in tow.

Dinner was a simple affair of make-it-yourself tacos, but sharing extended family time was the main part – and most enjoyable – of the meal.

But mostly, it’s a great thing to have weekends consumed by family and fun. Eventually, Monday initiates the humdrum workweek (except for those retired or traveling without a firm itinerary in a big RV), and the weekend seems all the more cherished.

The previous post hints at the end of my visit last week to the Evergreen State. It was a good visit that began on the previous Friday. The wife and I dropped the last kid off at school and barreled down the highway to Oakland International…expecting traffic but instead arriving with plenty o’ time to read the newspaper.

Maybe it’s a sign of the times: our flight was at 70-80% occupancy. The two of us shared three seats. A little turbulence was followed by the always surprising decent to Sea-Tac. This flight was an experiment of sorts for me. It was the first time I hauled my fishing gear through the air.

Voula’s Offshore Cafe

Mom & Dad’s Taxi Service picked us up. Next stop: Voula’s Offshore Café.

After seeing it on Food Network’s “Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives,” we volunteered a late lunch at Voula’s on the way home. Nothing like breakfast for lunch. My dad went for one of the hobo scrambles, mom for the salmon scramble and the wife a plate of biscuits and gravy. I opted for the amazing and very savory Eggs Benedict, made with pork smoked on the premises and chipotle hollandaise.

Once in Duvall we met my cousin Bill and his wife Laura, for the first time, then tried to walk off some of Voula’s excellent chow with some dog walking. The weather was good, but before I left we’d experience everything from sunshine to hail and downpours.

Saturday was the manufactured excuse reason for our visit. Though I lived there for a short nine months I missed out on the Issaquah Salmon Days Festival and during the summer decided it was about time I got up there to see what it’s all about. The day was full of drizzle as well as fun in the sights and sounds. Just your normal festival with craft booths and monstrous salmon plowing up the nearby creek. The Issaquah State Salmon Hatchery is a great facility that speaks to the success of a grass-roots effort. That evening my brother and his family invited all of us over for dinner and entertainment (provided by my two nephews, Levi and Kaden).

Sunday started with mass at my parents’ parish, followed by a breakfast spread that apparently only comes out when visitors descend on the house. I swear my dad was missing the usual morning meal composed of twigs and pebbles. After another visit with the nephews and their mom, it was off for an early dinner with mom, dad, the nephews, my sister-in-law and my cousin and his wife, before delivering the wife to the airport.

Monday saw me on the forks of the Snoqualmie River with fly rod in hand. Unfortunately, the upper reaches of the South Fork of the Snoqualmie were a little bigger than I envisioned. I flogged the water best I could…may have had only one take…but not a fish to hand. Spending a day on the water is always good, and I was treated to sporadic sunshine near Snoqualmie Pass and drizzle further down the hill on the North Fork. After stumbling upon a couple of camouflaged gentled carrying rifles, it was time to call it day.

Tuesday and Wednesday were typical of the best types of vacation days…days without any plan and composed of reading the newspaper, running into town for a turn signal bulb, visiting with a gentlemen who repairs microscopes and refractometers and hanging with the bro’. And as you know, getting a rather unique ride to the airport.

P.S. I haven’t processed the pictures yet…I’ll put ‘em up soon…probably in a separate post.

Almost like leaving Northern California’s salmon desert for the land of milk and honey and plenty o’ salmon.

And the debate still rages within whether to haul the fly fishing gear through the airport of a single day of whipping local waters.