I had set him up last Wednesday with my three-year-old $125 Cabela’s 5 wt. fly rod, the one I learned with. Set him up with leader, tippet and five different types of flies. I did take Sean fly fishing, for the first time, about two months ago, but gave him a quick refresher course. Too bad Sean can’t take the fly fishing course in September…

I’ll be the one (hopefully) teaching Sean more about fly fishing…

The weekend didn’t turn out as long or relaxing as I had hoped. I had to wait at work for the phone guy to switch some lines, postponing my departure Friday afternoon until five-thirty. While traffic was relatively light, my arrival in Twain Harte was later than I would have liked. And five o’clock the next morning came awfully quick.

I was on Moccasin Creek by six-thirty but spinners were being flung and bait drowned in many of the prime locations. But having spent more hours that I’d care to count on this rivulet, I knew a few productive spots were blatantly ignored by the meat fishermen.

My first target was a relatively fast-flowing run — maybe about 20-feet long — where an indicator with a couple of beadhead nymphs can lure a few fish out of hiding. Sure enough, after no more than four casts it was “Fish on!” A nice brook trout to start the day. I proceeded to pull another five fish out — rainbows and brookies — before moving upstream to nice pool that is divided midway by a fallen tree. Fish stack up below the tree at the tail of this pool and above the tree in the cascades pouring into its head. After a bit of catching here, I continued moving up river.

As it neared eleven o’clock, when I was left alone after the fishermen with their limits had headed home or those without headed to lunch, I stopped counting the fish I brought to hand. No real reason to keep counting past forty, I figured.

After a lunch break I switched things up, challenging myself, by rigging up a dry fly with a dropper. (A floating fly with a sinking fly tied onto the hook.) I don’t usually use dry flies, but the trout seemed to be both slashing and slurping, indicating that they were both chasing insect nymphs rising to the surface and sucking in insects already floating on the surface.

I’ve yet to master the technique of setting a hook with a dry fly — one needs to pause just a bit to let the fish turn away, otherwise a set simply pulls the hook out of the fish’s mouth — but it was amazing to see a fish rise to my dry fly and take it. The ones I did manage to hook went wild!

I spent much of the afternoon using the dry/dropper combination. Sometimes targeting specific fish I could see. Such as a fish that would hug an undercut bank and zip out for an occasional snack, leaving me to plan my cast to place the flies in the fish’s feeding lane at the right time. Other times I’d target likely areas though I couldn’t see fish. And more than a couple of fisherman commented, as they waded past me, that I seemed to be hooked up every time they looked.

I ended the day, after more than ten hours on the water, going after a fish sticking close to underwater weeds in an area that would be called a “prime lie”: a place where a fish can get shelter as well as easy access to food floating by. It took good drifts to get this guy to even glance at my flies. Finally an excellent drift and the fight was one. And true to expectations, he was a big one, maybe fourteen inches of brook trout.

The best part of the day? Driving the other fishermen crazy with my constant catch and releasing numerous fish. Ha!

However, I ended up spending two fun days - Thursday and Friday - fishing (and catching) on the North Fork of the Tuolumne River, upstream and downstream of the River Ranch Campground, at the confluence of the Tuolumne and Basin Creek. Since the object of this trip was no-stress exploration, I was on the river about 10:00 a.m., suited up and ready for wading. For those who haven’t been, it’s a nice little stretch of river with both planted and wild rainbow trout.

Looking down to the river:

Boy, did I get lucky on two counts. First, no crowds…only two campsites occupied and I had the river to myself. Second, the recently planted rainbows (confirmed by a visit to a DFG hatchery were Eagle Lake strain…they sure put up a better fight than some other planters I’ve hooked.

In six hours on the water Thursday, going about a mile downstream and a mile upstream, I worked the water with a lot of side-arm casts and roll casts. (No room for even one overhead cast!) Thankfully there were only two campsites occupied and much of the time I was the only fisher on the river. This stretch offers plenty of distinct and easy to reach seams, pools and runs, out of which I hooked 22 and landed 17 (C&R’d), ranging from a three-inch wild guy to a beefy 14-inch stocker that gave me a run for my money. Based on girth and length, this fish probably weighed 1¾ to 2 lb. When I arrived a good mayfly hatch was going on and the fish were feeding.

This was the biggest fish of the trip…14 inches and 1.75-2 lbs!

I decided Friday, since I couldn’t get to another river I wanted to explore, to head back to the Tuolumne. This time I went a bit further upstream, where I got into a bunch of smaller wild fish, and a bit further downstream. This day I hooked 18 and landed 15 rainbows (also C&R’d), with another one in the 14-inch range as the trophy of the day.

All in all, I had a great first time on this stretch of the Tuolumne. I’ll be back!

Saturday morning found me on the Lower Stanislaus River below Goodwin Dam. Only had about three hours there and much of that was occupied by hiking and exploring as this was my first visit. Did drift nymphs through a stretch on the other side of an island below a wide pool and got one strike that gave me a fish on the line for a few seconds. Just enough to let me know the fish were there.

I hit Two Mile Bar about nine o’clock Sunday morning. Amazing weather—a great day to fish regardless of the catching. Best of all, I was the only one on the river until approximately noon. After that there were only two other fishermen there until five o’clock or so.

I first headed to the Oak Tree spot on what I would all the north shore of the river. I began with an AP nymph with a prince nymph dropper, but when I notice a small hatch going on — looked like light-colored midges — I switched to hare’s ear with a zebra midge dropper. (Both were flies that I tied during the last few weeks.) A few more casts and I was into what might very well have been the largest wild rainbow I have hooked so far. He went to the bottom of the swift water and after about a minute battle the stubborn rascal, I had put exerted enough pressure to bring him closer to shore and slow water, but this fish was having nothing to do with that. So he jumped. As in his whole-body-cleared-the-water jumped. And threw the fly at the same time. Now some might say that the size of a fish increases in direct proportion to the distance at which it is LDR’d, but I’d say this guy was an easy 14 inches. And beefy. If a trout can perform a belly flop, this guy did. Great way to start the morning!

After walking downstream to “the bed,” I fished my way back upstream. No action to speak of, but it was nice to be out. The water was just about right, though I think I like it a tad lower.

Along about noon I met up with a fellow fishing above the Amphitheater. After discovering that we both lived in the same town, there was quite a bit of sharing of information on tactics and flies. We went different directions, and after a bite of lunch, I ended up on the south shore of the Oak Tree area. After about an hour of chucking various nymphs at various depths at various seams, it was fish on again. This time I was granted a close just-about-to-the-net look, but again was foiled by a quick release.

The fishermen I had met earlier caught up with me and we fished back upstream and, just as the shadows were hitting the water, ended up at the big pool just downstream from the wooden footbridge. I wasn’t to get any more hook ups, but the other fisherman brought a couple of 10 inchers in hand by throwing BWOs at rises. BTW, we saw only a small, quick hatch in the afternoon.

Oh, besides it being a great day, and besides the pleasure of fooling two trout into taking my flies, I had the beejezus scared out of me during the late afternoon, in the small pool just above the Amphitheater, when what I would identify as a steelhead measuring at least 20 inches, if not 24 or more, decided to perform a full-body breach about a rod’s length in front of me.

No fish to hand, but a great weekend nonetheless.

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.

This section of the Stanislaus River is limited to barbless flies and catch and release only and is inhabited only by wild trout. I started fishing a near seam in the “Oak Tree Pool” and was rewarded about a dozen casts later with a small but beautiful guy who tried to go deep. He had the dubious honor of being my first trout caught on a fly (an olive WD40, #20) in this section of the Stanislaus River.

A bit later, on the far seam (created by two currents of differing speeds coming alongside each other) and the same WD40 fly, I was able to pick up another small rainbow. Much of the time we practiced – with guidance from our club coaches – various casts, with roll and reach casts being put into use quite a bit.

Upstream a bit, in some shallow riffles near the confluence of the three channels, I was shocked by a 13 inch trout that slammed an AP nymph (#18, a fly that at the same time looks like nothing and everything) and took off downstream, with me following. Unfortunately, my coach who had volunteered to grab the fish, let him go on an accidental quick-release. But I guess that fish’s buddies took pity on me as in short order I was into the small guy below, who also headed downstream and had be led to a pool before landing.

Later in the day we headed to the far downstream riffles, where I fished above the riffles, targeting some bigger fish in a pool just underneath a huge boulder. Didn’t catch any big ones there, but being able to get longer drifts (a new accomplishment for me) picked up a strike at the tail of the pool (behind me in the pictures below), just as the water became a bit more shallow. The result was the little guy in my hands below. (Also on an AP nymph.)

Throughout the day we also mingled with llamas that are found in the area, found a huge crawdad head, observed an osprey dive and claim a decent-sized trout from the river, and watched a few big salmon head upstream. It may be obvious, but it was a great day with good weather, friends and fish.

Two cars converging on the Old Donner Pass Highway scared a bear who had wandered into the middle of a bridge causing it to jump over the side. The massive animal managed to arrest its fall and sat on a support for the 280-foot-high for a day until animal control darted it, pushed it into an army-surplus nylon net with a pole, and then lowered it to the ground.

This comes from Backcountry.com, with more pictures at Snopes.com.

Thanks to my father, I can look to an example that serves me well. I can’t recall when a rod was first entrusted to my small hands, but this lack of recollection assures me I was quite young. So, it was only natural that I would humbly consent to take a family friend’s seven-year-old son, Connor, on his second adventure in fishing. This consent, however, put me in the unenviable position of living up to a reputation cemented when Connor was about two years old, when I was able to put him on a decent size fish during his first time fishing. Thankfully, I had a plan.

Over the last few years, as I have developed my rudimentary knowledge of fishing the 108 corridor of the Western Sierras, I have come to affectionately think of one particular stream as My Outdoor Classroom. A particular stretch of this stream originates from a reservoir, allowing for a consistent temperature all summer long, and is just as consistently stocked by California’s Department of Fish & Game.

I’ve taken my nephews to this stream, where they learned a bit about fishing and perhaps much more about its inhabitants, having chased various insects and crawdads on a warm afternoon. As a new fly fisher, I use this stream to build my skills, knowing that it is likely that I will be able to practice more than just casting and presentation if a trout – even if it is a hatchery rainbow or brook – obliges me with lessons in hooking, playing and landing. So it was decided that Connor would join me on this stream the morning of the Saturday before Labor Day.

As is the fashion of fishermen, before the sun was up I was driving through the golden Sierra foothills. Geared up and looking goofy as fly fisherman does, I headed into the small canyon where I would be guaranteed cool shade all day long. With history as my guide and no other fishermen in sight, I settled in a few feet downstream from a boulder and directly across from a seam (the edge between sections of water flowing at different speeds) that delineated the eddies of nearly still water behind the boulder and the faster flowing shallows closer to the opposite shore.

I would be casting my flies into the inky water without any hint that fish might be present. I had not seen any evidence of feeding. I also could not see beyond the stream’s still-black surface.

Six or seven casts later I was rewarded with a decent-sized rainbow that broke the surface chasing my Zebra midge. My reel sung as the fish first headed upstream before sounding for the bottom. I muscled him out from behind a rock only to apply pressure to keep him out the weed beds that lined the stream bank. What a great start to a day that was just dawning! During the next two hours before Connor would join me, this scene was replayed numerous times, and in the end, I could count sixteen fish hooked and fourteen landed.

With the arrival of my seven-year-old student, I set aside my fly rod and rigged up a spinning rod, then gave Connor a crash course in how to cast and retrieve the little Panther Martin at the end of the line. He caught on rather quickly and did a great job of listening to my direction. Within a few minutes he was casting a fair distance, though not always in the best direction, and was learning to retrieve the lure at a good pace.

Wanting to show him the best location to land the lure, I made a cast myself, and wouldn’t you know it, it was “fish on!” after two cranks of the reel. Having learned many years ago that for a child the thrill of fishing lies in the catching not the watching, I suppressed the involuntary urge to bring the fish in and quickly handed the rod to Connor, offering guidance on playing this trout. Shortly, he was rewarded with a very fair-sized rainbow. I was rewarded with a big grin.

Since the casting in this section of the stream requires a healthy ability to target a small area, I next set Connor up with salmon eggs. (Yes, I’m typically a catch-and-release fisherman, but knowing that these were not wild trout, that there would be a limit to Connor’s take, and that they would be eaten, I was willing to allow for the use of bait.) It looked like a picture composed by Norman Rockwell: Connor in his striped shirt holding a pole out over the bank of the stream and anxiously watching his line.

In short order he was into another fish. Not as big as the first, but still plenty full of fight for young man. Connor’s mask of concentration dissolved into a smile as I netted this fish. Quickly he was ready to cast again. In between untangling line, Connor did get a few other strikes, but didn’t hook up. Setting the hook is another lesson for another time.

With Connor’s line once again in the water, I returned to fly fishing. My time on this water has taught me that about mid morning that the “catching” typically slows, particularly when it comes to bait or spinners. But for some reason, a fly seems to capture the attention of these trout for a bit longer.

Casting over the heads of Connor and a few other fishermen who had joined us, I again drifted my flies along the seam. I allowed for a longer drift, expecting the fish might be spread out a bit more after being flogged by spinners for a few hours. During the next hour or so I was into a rainbow every few minutes. Even after all the other fisherman had left, I was hooking fish. Eight more fish brought my total to twenty-four trout hooked and twenty landed. Not too shabby for three and a half hours.

The fishing was good this day. Best of all, my seven-year-old friend seems to have been inspired by his second time fishing (and catching). The morning we were preparing to leave the cabin he asked, “Are we going fish?” I hope the answer will be “Sometime soon.”

Sunday was a day of travel and the end of our adventure in Eastern Sierra fishing, probably for this summer. (Fall is coming up though!) We headed up Hwy 395 for Hwy 120, and made a quick stop on Lee Vining Creek just below Tioga Lake. The water was low and the fish were slow. A few bumps and some following lures, but no bites. Quickly moving along, we were over Sonora Pass and at the cabin by two thirty that afternoon. Soon after we were sitting on the sand at Twain Harte Lake with my sister and her boys.

In planning this trip I had given thought to taking a chance on a local put-and-take creek, figuring that any fish that weren’t caught over the weekend might be good targets Monday morning, when I hoped only a few folks would be fishing. Five thirty Monday morning came and I was up. I poked Christopher but he opted for extra sleep rather than extra fishing.

I was on the creek about six thirty, with the sun still behind the ridge. This creek is in a canyon of sorts with plenty of streamside trees keeping it cool. Without sunlight the water had an inky cast and I could not see beyond the surface of the water. Guess at likely holding locations for feeding trout, I cast a dropper/midge in position to float it (looking natural I hoped) through the pool.

On my fifth cast it was “fish on!” In fact, it surprised me so much that I involuntarily made a good hookset (in other words, I jerked my pole). Soon I had landed a decent thirteen-inch rainbow trout, my fist on my fly pole. For the next few hours it was constant action with a mix of fish to the net and a number of LDRs and missed strikes.

When the sun finally began to filter through the trees, I could make out quite a few trout schooling in two different locations. But off in the distance, about ten feet downstream, a single fish was watching a specific feeding lane. Based on the color difference in this trout’s profile, I figured it just might be one of the broodstock brook trout that were put into this creek weeks ago. Maybe one in ten of my casts were good enough to float down the feeding lane, but my dry fly did get some attention. I lost count of the number of casts and of the passing time, but on one particularly good cast he attacked the dry fly, breaking the surface and immediately turning downstream. A quick tug and he was hooked. These brook trout put on a good fight…a lot of head shaking, jumping and runs…so it took about three or four minutes before I had him in the net. It was a big fish. But I had misjudged how played out he might have been. With a mighty flop of his tail he was out of my net and back into the stream.

It was a heck of a morning that Monday. Eighteen rainbow trout and the single brook to the net with probably another ten LDRs and half a dozen missed strikes. I was finally off the water about eleven o’clock, when the bite died down. This little adventure surely falls under the adage “The early bird catches the worm.”

Monday afternoon and Tuesday were filled with typical fun cabin activities. We spent time at the lake, visited Columbia, played bingo, and ate well. I did, however, take time to clean off all of the cabin gear, so we could just store the equipment when we got home.

I will remember this trip fondly. I found out that I can indeed catch trout on a fly.