fishing for words

In a world where only extremes (and extremists) seem to make the news, the above photo is extremely frightening. California’s dry spring, preceded by a very low snowpack, have left Yosemite Falls high and dry. According to the Modesto Bee, drinking water is being packed into the Sunrise High Sierra Camp and showers — always a camping luxury — are being rationed in Tuolumne Meadows. However, as Yosemite falls is barely a whisper of itself, Bridalveil Falls showers the cliffs across the valley.

Photo by Graham Jenkin via Flickr.

It was one of the easiest drives over the Carquinez Strait; this morning we were part of a 300-car “First Drive” motorcade on the new north-bound span of the Benicia-Martinez Bridge. Though the morning greeted us with gray overcast, but the sun was shining by the time we were waved by CHP and local police officers through the streets of Martinez, winding through the outskirts of town and past oil refiners. Vehicles ranging from CHP motorcycle escorts (as well as a two white CHP Camaros) to a few vintage cars — some with rumble seats — christened the new George Miller Jr. Bridge. (The late George Miller Jr. served in the California State Assembly from 1947 to 1948, and in the state Senate from 1949 to 1969). And we were part of it. Pretty cool. Something to tell the grandkids…

Pictures here: Benicia Bridge Photo Album
Read More: First cars drive over new Benicia Bridge
See More: New Benicia - Martinez Bridge Now Opened (CBS5.com)

This summer I was fishing Rock Creek, in California’s Eastern Sierra Nevada mountains.  I came to this place during five days of camping and fishing, intent upon bringing newfound fly fishing skills to bear upon its finned population.  Since those days I have been haunted by an undisclosed embarrassment.

Despite my trepidation of venturing into these waters without any certainty of christening my fly rod with its first trout, rather frequently and surprisingly I would hook a small wild brook trout.  I can’t help but think that some of these trout discussed before my arrival the idea of obliging this budding fly fisher by hooking themselves.  Some would just as frequently educate me on how fast a wily fish might escape a single barbless hook.  Perhaps these fish apparently weren’t in on the aforementioned discussion.

My strikes were incredibly varied.  Even a poor cast would draw a brookie into a mad rush under the water for my midge.  Another would suck my dry fly from the surface.  Yet another would timidly tap either fly without commitment.

A good many of these members of the species Salvelinus fontinalis charged upstream to investigate one or maybe both of my flies.  But they would stop short of striking.  Perhaps an equal number of brook trout would strike when I was not ready, or distracted, or lulled into the belief they had stopped biting.

Midway through my evening, while making a dry cast, simple laziness allowed my flies to briefly rest in the water’s surface tension.  In the blink of an eye I began a backcast.  As my line lifted from the water, I suddenly felt unusual tension in my pole and in a lazy arc a very small brook trout flew through the air.  I swear his eyes were wide as he splashed down a few feet behind me.  He disappeared in a swirl of irritation. 

I fished on, without drama, catching and releasing a dozen more brook trout.  I didn’t take a fish worth mentioning the rest of the day.

Rather than lament that I can’t brag about the size of my first trout on a fly, I’m content to chuckle — with some embarrassment — at my flying fish.