Some will say that it’s confidence that keeps a fly fisherman on a piece of water long enough to call the day a success in terms of catching. Not so here. It’s this same uncertainty that propels my return to familiar waters and expeditions to new waters.

For the five or so years I’ve been fly fishing, I’ve occasionally wondered how it might feel to be one of those “confident” fly fishermen. You might know him. The guy who walks up to a river, points out what he believes is the fishiest spot, then with a perfect loop sets up a perfect, drag-free drift. It might take a second cast, or even third, but in short order he’s hooked up to a trout worth of a magazine cover.

The reverse works for me. Uncertain that I’ll hit every fishy spot, any spot that hints at the remotest chance of holding a fish will get two or three casts. When it comes to flies, I may start with the local recommendation, but have no qualms switching to my “confidence” flies, even if the only similarity between these and the local favorites is a hook. The beauty of this method (I wouldn’t call it a strategy) is that it inevitability sets me up for a child-like surprise when a decent fish takes my fly.

The trout I’ve met have fooled me enough to foster this uncertainty. I’ve “matched the hatch” with the most realistic patterns, with decent drifts to boot, only to be ignored. A switch to something that looks “buggy” but not like any insect in the western hemisphere will then lead to strike after strike.

As I’ve mentioned before, I don’t consider myself to be a great caster. Guides no longer feel the need to grab my rod and cast for me, but there’s vast room for improvement. This room for improvement feeds the internal questioning of whether my last cast and drift were good enough is my personal justification of that “just one more cast” attitude when it’s time to move on or nearing the end of the day. I’ll finally know I got it right, and finally drop that uncertainty, when that last trout rises, turns and bends the rod.

Anyway, I’ve certainly got some thinking to do for this weekend. It’s a foregone conclusion that the boy is likely to use a “fly ‘n bubble” setup on a spinning rod. The question is the venue. One small stream may require too long and bumpy of a drive down a forest service road. A nearby stretch of water will offer willing hatchery trout, but easy access may mean a crowd. The better creek isn’t too far away, but may mandate wet wading during cooler morning hours. Guess we’ll see how much this young man wants to fish.

Whatever the choice, at least one morning we’ll rise early enough to say hi to Mr. Sun while near or standing in clear, cold trout water.

Here’s to hoping this weekend will be one of many child-like surprises. For me and the kid.

I had certain designs for this trip and can happily report they were fulfilled.

Except for the fishing, I really didn’t put any preplanning into the other days I’d be in the Evergreen State. But there were two goals nestled in my subconscious.

The Washington Nephews.

Only the ‘phews can gauge my success, but I can honestly say that, at the very least, I’ve given them memories that shouldn’t vanish for quite a while. Just ask Nick and Nathan about the crazy snow dance.

Tuesday allowed me to fulfill the second goal: securing Encores direct from Boehms Candies in Issaquah. It’s a tradition: never return home to The Wife without Encores in hand. Not a bad deal, considering I get to enjoy some as well. I’m a bit worried, however, that this custom may soon loose some of its allure. My sister-in-law mentioned that occasional one can find Encore on sale at a local grocery store. On the other hand, there’s that extra bag of Boehms’ chocolates that enviably finds its way into the trunk, only to disappear during the next two hours or less.

Despite having resided in Issaquah for approximately nine months way back when, I never did visit the (somewhat redundant) Triple XXX Rootbeer Drive-In. It’s less than 1,100 feet away from Boehms, so I availed myself that afternoon of the opportunity to pop my Triple XXX Rootbeer cherry.

The Triple XXX root beer, like many root beers, has its own distinct flavor, but is much closer to the mainstream root beer style we all know. I opted for the Chevelle S/S 396 burger. It was good. Not drive-out-of-your-way great, but good.

There was no way I was going to tempt fate by ordering the “Famous Incredible XXX Burger.” (Check it out at the top of the menu.) A gentleman across the isle — a big, tattooed, barrel-chested guy — ordered it, asked the waiter to take a picture of him, his wife/girlfriend and the burger. He then tired to eat the whole thing. He failed. Were my 20-year-old and 22-year-old sons with me, perhaps with my nephews batting clean up, I might have tried.

Hmmmmmm...wonder what happens if I turn the key?

That evening offered an opportunity to do the uncle thing at the National Night Out celebration in Monroe. I met up with my brother, his wife and the nephews to view the various organizations and demonstrations. There were two highlights: a water rescue and my brother showing the young ‘uns how it’s done at the U.S. Marine booth.

What style, what grace.

My last full day started as usual with breakfast with the folks. My sister-in-law graciously volunteered to pick me up and drop me off to see a movie, the picked me up to spend more time with the nephews. Little did I know, the nephews swore off playing any video games until I could play with them. (I think that shows some dedication on their part!)

I was a bigger gamer back in the day, and still dabble now and again. However, that afternoon we were playing Super Mario, a game that arrived on the scene long after I had moved on to first-person shooters. But as with anything habitually practiced, gaming muscles seem to have a memory. Soon I was keeping pace with these half-pints and we were all having a good time. Then an opportunity arrived to ratchet up the Cool Uncle factor.

Don’t ask me the level we were playing ‘cause I don’t know; but it was difficult. After a few attempts to get through, Levi was knocked out of the game. Kaden and I were trying to climb our way up, jumping from moving stones to swinging platforms and through zombies. Kaden’s character fell to his virtual death. Four eyes were flitting back and forth between the television screen and this uncle from California. Sweat beaded on my brow. This was no time for button mashing. With a little bit of luck great deal of skill, I completed the level to an exclamation of “Awesome!” from Levi and “That’s what I’m talking about!” from Kaden. I think Kaden was even more excited when he discovered that the newly opened level was underwater, where he could swim his character while fending off fish and avoiding huge scallops.

I figure this is a memory that will stick around for a while. At least until another Cool Uncle memory comes along. A nice thing is that this coolness goes both ways. I’ve got some pretty awesome memories of time I’ve spent with nephews. (If you’ve noticed, I’ve not mentioned nieces. I don’t have any.)

The afternoon faded away. The nephew’s dad returned from work. We loaded everyone into the truck and it was off to a last dinner out with the folks and my brother’s family at one of the many fine family dining establishments in Duvall, Wash.

____________________________________
The Evidence
(Use “Compatibility View” in Internet Explorer if pictures overlap.)

Sunday was only the day between the days that I’d be fishing. Saturday was set aside for salmon. Monday would be time for more gentlemanly and sporting fly fishing; dad’s first experience of fly fishing, ever, and my first visit to the Yakima River.

Looking downstream on The Yak.

The plan called for hooking up with guide Derek Young in Snoqualmie at eleven o’clock that morning, meaning a leisurely drive from Duvall under gray skies. As with many of my guided fly fishing trips, there’s months of anticipation and correspondence, including probably too many questions from me, followed by the first face-to-face meeting.

Derek’s one of the growing number of guide/acquaintances who are forcing me to come to grips with age. Used to be I’d expect a guide to be a fellow with at least a few years on me. No so much anymore. Young(er) is fast becoming my description of the guides I’m meeting.

We climbed into Derek’s truck after quick introductions, and took off east on Highway 90 towards Ellensburg. The drive offered a good opportunity to set goals and expectations for the day, peppered by an abbreviated education of the scenery passing our windows, its geography and its history. The miles were marked by a slow transition from the wet side of the Cascade Mountains to the dry side, and overcast gave way to clear, blue skies. A quick stop was made in Ellensburg to arrange for shuttle service, and then it was off to our put-in point.

As one who typically wades into trout waters, larger rivers can be intimidating. The Yakima was no exception this day, running somewhere near 3,000 cubic feet per second. Derek placed The Green Drake, our boat for the day, in the river. Rods were rigged and safety stressed. We’d be doing a float of about five miles through the Farmlands section of the river, with a first stop shortly downstream to warm up our casting arms.

Derek holding court.

Dad took up the seat on the bow — often referred to as the ‘hot seat’ as it’s the first part of the boat to pass fishy water — and I perched on the stern. It was warm, verging on hot, but the cool water of the river, with sort of glaciated green cast to it, offered natural air conditioning.

It was a short ride downstream before Derek pulled alongside a small island near the far bank. Derek was recommended not only a great guide for the Yakima, but as a teacher. Besides getting me on to some fish, the hope was to ‘learn’ my dad a bit about fly fishing. Throughout the day Derek would work alongside dad, offering guidance on casting, reading the water and answering questions about insects, the river, trout and darn near anything.

I wasn’t left entirely on my own. Remember, most everything I fish in California can be waded across without much trouble, but with a bit of direction and some pointers Derek sent me toward some fishy spots. Meanwhile, Derek would get dad acquainted with the tools of the trade and casting.

Class in session: dad and Derek seeking fish.

This first stop put me in position to target the bank with an upstream cast, tossing dries under some overhanging branches and along grassy edges. Either that sixth ‘guide sense’ kicked in or upon seeing I was without much love, Derek suggested I cast towards the middle of the river, targeting a seam created by gravel bar.

Sure enough, it was fish on. These small Yakima rainbows were rising to my CDC PMD. (For non fly fishers, that’s a Pale Morning Dun tied with Cul de Canard — that’s French for duck bottom — feathers, highly waterproof feathers that sit on top of or near the preen gland of ducks and geese.) Half a dozen or so ‘bows came to hand. An occasional ten- or eleven-inch hatchery Chinook offered a pleasant surprise. I sure hope that years down the road I still feel that sense of magic that comes with fooling that first fish in unfamiliar water.

During the float to our next stop, dad was characteristically full of questions and Derek was the man with the answers. As mid-afternoon approached, we pulled up at the end of a side channel. I was told it was my turn to learn a little something. Fly fishing’s so far been a single-handed affair for me. But I wanted to swing flies, and that meant trying out an Orvis switch rod.

The fly rods familiar to most folks entail a single handle in front of the reel. Switch rods, the lighter cousin to the larger and heavier two-handed Spey rods, can be cast with one or two hands, and like Spey rods, offer additional length and casting power. Derek waded next to me to demonstrate the grip, rolls casts and Spey casts. And caught a few small trout during the demonstration. Yeah, a little humbling, this not-even-trying-yet-still-catching thing that guides do.

Me, attempting to swing a wet fly.

Left on my own, while Derek and dad targeted the side channel, my tentative casts with the switch rod put a wet fly out and down, with the tip of the rod following the swing. The idea is to cast and swing a few times, bringing the fly into the edge of downstream riffles, then taking a step downstream to repeat the process. Casting’s not been my strong point over the years, but both my roll and Spey casts got a bit better. Good enough to hook two Yakima trout.

Though I could have stayed and swung flies for a few more hours, it was time to pull anchor and float to lunch our next stop. Upon sidling up on the rocky finger of another island, dad and I tested the waters while Derek set up the table and chair and laid out a great lunch of sandwiches, salad, fruit and the enemy of waistlines everywhere, chips. I don’t know if it’s the physical exertion of fishing (apparently dad came to realize that fly fishing is much more than tossing a line in the water and sitting back in a ratty lawn chair with a cheap beer), or simply being outdoors, but food takes on more vibrant flavors when consumed riverside.

Lunch on the river. Doesn't get much better.

Fighting off the inclination to nap, Derek led us to another side channel he knows to hold fish. He again demonstrated the not-even-trying-yet-still-catching trick, getting a few trout to rise to casts to indicate where we should lay our flies. I was able to reach up and under the overhanging branches to bring up a fair share of rises, but the strikes seemed a bit half hearted. But, being one who tends fish with flies underwater, it was fun to elicit splashes at the surface.

A Yakima Rainbow pull up with a nymph.

Knowing that I pride myself on adequate nymphing skills, Derek rigged up a rod with two nymphs, one a stone fly of his own modified design. After a few passes through a deep pool just downstream of our lunch spot, a few strikes indicated that fish were home and hungry. A few more passes and two fish came to hand. (Now dad knows what I mean when talking about “dredging up some big fish on nymphs.”)

The day began with the hope that good hatches would show up around sundown. They never materialized. The last mile or so involved my chucking nymphs toward the banks as we floated by. The take-out came up fast. The boat was trailered, rods disassembled and our weary bodies loaded into the truck.

I’d like to say with certainty that it was a big fish that broke off a few flies in the logjams during the last mile or so. Maybe. Maybe not. I hope to find out next time.

There will be a next time.

My intention was to follow up our first Alaska fishing trip with a second this year.

Intentions, however, have a tendency to be fleeting. The rising cost of airfare, family commitments, and life in general pushed aside any still-unformed plans for a triumphant return to Alaska.

Which is when the idea of trying for salmon in the waters off Washington began to germinate.

Suggestions of a multi-day stay in Westport faded away amid concerns of storms closing down fishing. In the end, the agreement was to hire a charter to chase Puget Sound king salmon.

Why is this man smiling?

It’s that same anticipation that lends an almost laughable seriousness to the pace of my preparations. I was up, fed and ready in fifteen minutes. Dad was still seeking that eyelid-opening fight sip of coffee.

Greg, dad’s neighbor, was one of three guys joining us, with my brother rounding out the six pack. Greg impresses me as someone who also takes fishing seriously. The plan was to be on the road at 4:00 a.m. Greg was backing the Tacoma Double Cab into the driveway at 3:50 a.m. Dad shoveled down some breakfast, and with coolers loaded, we hit the road long before any reasonable commuter would even roll out of bed.

I called Mark to let him know we were on the road and the drive dissolved into friendly chit chat. A second call revealed that Mark was a short distance ahead of us, and we caught up with him on the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge, crossing Lake Washington. A quick stop allowed Mark to park his truck and join us; then it was north to the Shilshole Marina.

At the dock, under heavy overcast, we arrived before the charter captain as well as Rowland and his son Jessie, the last of our group. The captain and deckhand showed up a few minutes later, leaving instructions to head down the dock when our last two fishermen were on scene. Rowland and Jessie pulled up a bit later, and down the dock we went.

The water was dark and the boat not ready. Perhaps a sign, but one easily ignored in our excitement. Soon we boarded and began to motor towards Whidbey Island. Less than half an hour out, lines were in the water. During that time it also grew clearer that the captain had enlisted a friend to act as first mate — a friend who wasn’t too familiar with the captain’s usual techniques.

[Now would be a good time to lend some perspective. When Mark, dad and I fished for halibut in Alaska’s Cook Inlet, Captain Daniel and First Mate Dylan operated as the proverbial well-oiled machine. Their boat was squared away and each knew what to do and when to do it, with little wasted motion and maximization of the fishing experience. Maybe we were spoiled by this experience, but it’s the bar by which my brother and I now measure any charter boat and its crew.]

The question arose as to who would be first up, and my gracious companions agreed that as the organizer of this little adventure, it would be me. I didn’t have to wait long. The tip of port-side rod seemed to stutter, then went down. I grabbed the rod, set the hook, and it was fish on. Trolling means there can be 100-plus feet of line out, and our first look at this king was quite a distance out, but close enough to elicit ‘oh my God’ or ‘holy mackerel’ from my boat mates.

The King Jumps

After what seemed like thirty minutes but in truth was probably closer to five, I had gained line. About thirty feet off the stern the fish slowly crested the surface, then dove. It quickly took back some line and jumped, nearly lifting its entire body out of the water, shaking its head. The plug suddenly flew towards my head. I ducked. I cursed. I wondered what I did wrong.

Humbled and shaking my head in disbelief, I slumped in a chair. A buzz of excitement lingered in the moist air, only to die away when it was discovered that the hook broke. My disbelief shifted.

Thankfully, the morning bite was on. In short order it was Mark’s turn up. The starboard rod went down and he was fishing. His fishing was cut short when the line broke. My disbelief grew.

Dad was next up. All eyes were on him to change our luck. Fish on and he was in the fight. He uttered something about the fish being gone and was admonished by the captain to keep reeling. Sure enough, like kings will do, this fish was running toward the boat. Slack was taken and line tension regained. Finally, a nice looking fish was brought onboard.

It was soon clear that the fishing this day wasn’t going gangbusters. Some boats were still without even a hook up. The rest of the morning disappeared as we continued to troll, leaving behind the bulk of the “fleet” to chase bait balls in deeper water.

Time gets lost in the gray of an overcast ocean, but within a couple of hours Rowland and Jessie were able to land fish.

Rowland & His King

Jessie & Big Fish of the Day

Jessie’s king was crowned Big Fish of the Day. Unfortunately, I don’t think anyone can be certain if Greg missed the hookset on a few fish or not.

The trip back to port always seems much longer when a boat hasn’t limited out. Did we have a good time as a group? I think the answer is yes, it was a good guys’ day out.

However… Reflecting upon our halibut experience in Alaska didn’t help Mark and me to find a way of reconciling what we’d come to call hardware failures. There won’t be a next time. We’d rather put the money towards the next trip to Alaska.

I’m already eyeing dates in 2012.

Thrust back into the routine, I’ll be back at work today, and have the weekend to recover, in between yard work and car washing. In the rear view mirror are great memories that began a week and a day ago.

This trip was marked with my first experience flying with fly fishing gear, including two rods and matching reels. Despite worries that TSA personnel might consider fly line a strangling risk, not once did I have to submit to questions or a strip search of any kind. I did, however, leave desiccant (a white, nondescript powder to non fly fishers) at home to avoid the whole anthrax issue.

The retired folks who raised us took time out of their busy schedule to provide transport to my lodging, which, funny enough, they also provided, and without any hint of compensation. (We’ll get back to that.) I’d love to say that Mother Nature welcomed me to Seattle with blazing sunshine, but, well, it’s Seattle: overcast and gray. I interrupted the ride home with a stop for lunch in celebration of Mom’s birthday. My brother and his family, in a surprise appearance, joined us. It was a fun family meal.

The first beer I've met that I didn't like.

Next I knew, it sounded as if cartoon characters where running around the house. Nephews Kaden and Levi were up and it was time to begin some “uncling.” I don’t claim any particular knack for this art, but there’s a certain pride that comes with one’s nephews (or nieces, but I don’t’ have any) knowing you’re the uncle. It’s even better when they remember you because of fun times. (Insert comment here about me acting their age.)

Fair is fair, so Mark and I stayed with the boys to allow their mom a bit of away time. As an uncle who grew up when the biggest video game was PONG, it was natural that I’d join the ‘phews in a game of Super Mario. With a timer set to ruin our fun at any moment, we jumped into the game as I struggled to recall how to play; all the while watching the boys go Donkey Kong all over me. Called back to reality by the buzz of the timer, we gobbled down some breakfast and assembled for a walk in the woods along the Skykomish River.

The Nephews at the Skykomish River

If there’s any one thing that I like about the upper King County/Snohomish County area, it’s the easy access to nature, whether woods, rivers or mountains. It was a good time walking on trails in the Al Borlin Park, which parallels the Skykomish. A good place to get some fresh air, throw rocks into the river and just be outside. Also an opportunity for an uncle to show off his mad rock-skipping skills.

We closed the day with a late and long lunch at the folks’ place.

Then it was time to hit the sack early. Alarms were set for 3:30 a.m. in anticipation of Saturday’s salmon fishing. For some of us it would be fishing, hooking, but not landing; but that’s the next post, which should be number two of three.

The there where I’ll be, and am as you read this, is roughly 18.5 miles east northeast of downtown Seattle. It’ll take a plane, a train and automobiles to get where I’m going.

We’re on day two of our visit with the folks who raised us and the brother who bothered us, and his family. Tomorrow starts at oh-dark-thirty to chase Oncorhynchus tshawy in Puget Sound with dad, bro and friends. It ain’t Alaska, but a beer budget limits the distance we can travel; but it should be fun.

Sunday is open to possibilities. One hope is that thanks to imposing on the generosity of former strangers, there might be some learning on local waters. Maybe some Snoqualmie trout.

Monday morning will find us on the way to unfamiliar waters with dad and fishing guide Derek, with hopes for a day made up of more than a few firsts. A first fly fishing float on the Yakima River for both of us. The first fly fishing at all for dad. Our first gourmet shore lunch. (No pressure, Derek.) If all goes well, a first Yakima River cutthroat for me; dad, too.

In between there are no great plans, more of a continuation of a previous visit with relations, young and old. (I’m beginning to believe that long-distance relatives you want to see should be seen at a frequency no less than three months and no greater than eight months.)

It’s pretty certain that beer and good food will figure into things.

Happy summertime, y’all.

Branding is “in.”

It used to be that it was the tools of the trade that identified fly fishermen — rods and all kinds of gear stacked in the back of the vehicle, maybe the driver sporting a logoed hat or jacket, an ash tray full of used-up flies and split shot, and a cooler of local hop juice. Now it’s decals, displaying one’s choice in rods, reels, fishing guides or philosophies.

Some might argue that the number of decals equates to experience and perhaps skill level. True or not, the fact that more than a few fly fishermen care enough to display their predilections on the back window of anything from a ’78 Chevy Stepside to the latest Range Rover offers an opportunity to decipher a sort of shorthand that can reveal a bit about the personalities you might meet the water.

My Tribe

While fly fishing brands will forever be debated with great intensity, “tribal affiliation” decals announcing a favorite brand — usually Sage, Orvis, Ross, Abel, and the like — broadcast a general level of cash outlay for gear. Thankfully, there is no proven direct correlation between the expense of the gear and angling ability. (I did well enough with a $100 L.L. Bean rod/reel/line combo to be encouraged to continue down the path of financial ruin fly fishing enlightenment.)

Fly fishing decals make a declaration. “Zero Limit” is just such an oft-seen decal (also seen on t-shirts). This isn’t an argument; there is no discussion to be had. These pronunciamentos are designed to end, not start, conversations. (I, however, will gladly fish waters near a parking spot in which most of the vehicles sport this decal, subscribing to the thought that “The finest gift you can give to any fisherman is to put a good fish back…”)

There also are more benign messages signaled by decals announcing a favorite guide service or club.

A basic outline of what decals can mean:

• More Expensive Brand Name** (Sage, Ross, Orvis, Simms, etc.): “Sure, I may not be catching as many fish as you, or even the biggest, but I look better doing it.”
• More Affordable Brand Name (Redington, St. Croix, Cabela’s, White River, Etc.): “I don’t need no stinkin’ brand name, I got skills.”
• Any Guide Service: Don’t make eye contact with these people. Seriously. They want you to ask about XYZ guide service, then will proceed to regale you and anyone within earshot with the 151st, hour-long retelling of their best day fishing ever.
• Fly Fishing Club: Friendly people, who, when they don’t get out to fish often enough, live vicariously through others’ fishing reports.

**In all honesty, in response to economic conditions, most manufacturers now offer more affordable gear, but the premise remains sound.

Pride, Guide or Warning?

A better indicator of who you might meet on the water may well be found in the number of decals. In many cases, this simply may be a sign of the owner’s pride in being part of the sport. However, in some cases, the quantity of decals may serve as a warning.

A 2008 Colorado State University study concluded that drivers who place bumper stickers and other decorations — or “territory markers” — on their vehicles could be 16 percent more likely to engage in road rage. These decorations “…predicted road rage better than vehicle value, condition or any of the things that we normally associate with aggressive driving,” said researcher and psychologist William Szlemko in a Nature News interview.

So next time you’re wandering down to the river, take a look at he vehicles parked in the lot or alongside the road. Count the number of decals on each one.

You’ve been warned.

* Credit to Bill Engvall for this post title.

Want a second or third opinion on this fascinating subject? Check out today’s posts at The Unaccomplished Angler and Fly Fish the Yakima.

It began on a Saturday morning. The sun was rising, the air was just this side of chilly. It was time to mount up.

Sean and me @Sonora Pass (State Route 108)

The first leg of our trip would wind up the central Sierra Nevada via Califorina State Route 108, finally peaking at the 9,624-foot high Sonora Pass, then descend with a good many twists and turns on the way to U.S. Highway 395 and our first stop near Bridgeport. It’s a scenic drive, but the open-air experience of a motorcycle brings nature just a shade closer. Especially the seemingly suicidal chipmunks and squirrels that would dash into the roadway, only to reverse direction inches from Sean’s wheels.

We knew I’d be comfy in my full-on riding gear. Any question regarding Sean’s comfort was quickly dismissed with references to youthful vigor and his machismo. He’d only have to tough it out a few times, when we passed through sheltered valleys kept cold by overshadowing mountains. That’d change at the pass. The sun is always brighter on the Eastern side of the Sierras, where high desert terrain takes hold. Via hand signals and the occasional tap on the horn, we’d coordinate stops here and there so I could describe to Sean the lay of the land. About 9:30 a.m. we pulled off the road to park alongside the East Walker River, our first of two fishing venues.

Blue skies and warming temperatures greeted us as we changed from riding gear to waders and assembled our rods. The river wasn’t so welcoming. It was a tad high for my tastes. I gave Sean a few suggestions regarding fly selection and possible fish locations.

The East Walker’s always been friendly to me, or at least the trout that live there have been willing to play during previous visits. This time there must have been a collective agreement to make me work for my first and only fish of the day. Sean wandered off and I moved upstream to some likely riffles.

East Walker Brown

The ride from Bridgeport to Lee Vining is easy, with good pavement, multiple lanes much of the way and incredible views of Long Valley and Mono Lake. The back up plan for lunch was Whoa Nellie Deli in the Tioga Gas Mart, but Bodie Mike’s Barbeque caught our eye midway through town. Splitting a tasty sampler plate, we enjoyed an outdoor table and great weather for a spell.

After topping off the tanks at Tioga Gas Mart, we began the ride up Tioga Pass. We’d be rising 3,162 feet in less than 12 miles on State Route 120; from Lee Vining (elev. 6,781 feet/2,067 m.) to Tioga Pass (elevation 9,943 ft./3,031 m.). We’d stop just short of the pass to wet the lines again.

A favorite roadside “tailwater” of ours is a small section of Lee Vining Creek, just below Tioga Lake. This area takes on a wholly different flavor with the seasons of the year. Spring seems to offer the greatest challenge. The reeds are still bent, dead and brown from the killing cold of winter, offering little protection for the wild brookies and dramatically reducing an angler’s ability to camouflage an approach. Even though it’s controlled, the water is a bit high. The channels and pockets of this upper section had dissolved into wide flats extending across gravel bars.

High Sierra Brook Trout

This is typical high Sierra freestone stream, with granite pebbles and larger rocks providing perfect concealment for trout, particularly brook trout. It requires reading the water and picking pockets. I found a few such pockets and was able to bring a few fish up to my flies but without hooking them. Sean tried a few other sections as we walked along.

Though this stream rarely offers channels deeper than 12 inches, I had put on my waders knowing that the meadows through which it flowed would still be more of a marsh. So I left Sean behind to continue further downstream, where the higher volume of water forced the creek into multiple braids. (Later in the season the creek would settle down into two main channels.) In customary high Sierra fashion, the creek would expand to a few feet in width to bubble over runs of granite stones, then shrink to less than a foot across, rushing through bends to create undercut banks.

I finally found more brook trout in the small tailouts at the end of those undercut banks. Thanks to the velocity of the water, they hooked themselves well enough that I landed three. Small, as one would expect at an altitude where the growing season is four months at best, but good wild fish. Soon we saddled up to head over Tioga Pass.

@the Tioga Pass Entrance Station (Yosemite National Park)

The road through Tuolumne Meadows, in addition to passing the meadows and the Tuolumne River, passes Lembert Dome (there’s a family story about how not to descend it), Tenya Lake, Olmstead Point (overlooking Yosemite Valley), and the Tuolumne Grove of sequoias. Thankfully, we were able to bump start Sean’s bike the 3 times it was necessary. Nonetheless, we kept our stops to a minimum and made good progress. The ride took longer than expected as a motor home, which should be anticipated on these roads, kept our speed well below 40 mph.

It was probably a good thing we were operating at a reduced speed. Just short of Tuolumne Grove, out from a stand of spring-green trees shading a sharp turn bolted a buck with a decent rack of antlers, crossing the road directly in front of Sean. I never did ask Sean if he needed to stop and change his underwear.

The rest of the ride was relatively uneventful. We cleared the western entrance station, filled up at Big Oak Flat, where Sean declared a “butt break.” We enjoyed buffalo burgers at Diamondback Grill, and Sean treated me to some goodies at the Candy Vault. Then it was a short ride to The Cabin.

The stats:

263 miles
11.97 gallons of fuel
43.94 mpg
1 platoon of suicidal chipmunks
3 daredevil gray squirrels
2 stops to fish
1 brown trout
1 shared lunch of 4 ribs and 1 chicken breast
3 brook trout
1 crazy buck
2 buffalo burgers

The dream is now a memory. Our arses may never be the same again.

The Trip in Pictures
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So, in this tale we’ll shove the more mundane stuff out of the way first.

The last Friday in June, Sean and I loaded up the motorcycles with more gear than each has ever been asked to carry. A quick review of the route, and we began the inaugural Konoske Boys Two-Wheel/Fly Fishing RoadTrip 2010. The fishing looked iffy. The weather looked good. We knew the scenery would be great.

Two bikes, two fly rods, two reels and an extra gallon of gas.

Our first multi-day m/c trip would push the total mileage into triple digits three days in a row. Call it a trial run.

The thing about a trial run — “a test or rehearsal of something new or untried to assess its effectiveness” — is the haunting expectation that something will be found to be ineffective. Skipping ahead to the end of our last day, that’s when the battery on Sean’s bike went kaput, thanks to a charging system known to be most effective above 5,000 rpm. A few attempts to bump start the engine ended as quickly as started. Thankfully, we weren’t so far from The Cabin that we…actually Sean, it’s his bike after all…couldn’t push it back.

So our fantastic weekend ended on a subdued note. Sean rode my bike home as he had to get to work and I awaited rescue. A few hours later The Wife delivered a battery tender.  Sean’s bike was charging and I was headed home.

Forty-five hours and 408 miles earlier Sean and I had only edged onto Hwy 780. Somewhere around Livermore any idea of membership in the Iron Butt Association was out the window. In the end, the biggest “trial” of this trial run was butt endurance. Actually, lack thereof. Our longest run without a stop was 62 miles. My butt went numb at mile 46. You can bet I’ll be researching custom seats during the coming months.

Luckily, short breaks were all it took to restore a semblance of normalness to our gait. And with a smaller tank on the CB650, we made up excuses and stopped often enough. Of course, there was the traditional A&W root beer stop in Oakdale.

Thankfully, the road just outside of Oakdale twists over rolling hills; a welcome change from the monotony of the highway slabs. We pulled into the driveway less than an hour later, unpacked and sat for a spell.

The decent stocked rainbow that surprised Sean at the canal.

Then Sean began to give me the eye. He’s so keen on fishing that, apparently, it was ill-mannered of me to take time to rest my weary rear when there’s trout to play with. A quick ride to the outskirts of town put us on the canal. Most of the time we’re hard pressed to entice anything but wild browns that live there to take a fly. I plucked about 5 out. Sean pulled out another of the wild brethren as well as a decent stocker rainbow estimated at 14 to 15 inches. Deeming that 2 hours or so was enough of a warm up for Saturday, we headed off to fill the tanks and grab dinner. We discovered, however, that the only gas station in town no longer dispenses fuel. We’d solve that dilemma later.

In hindsight, the 40 miles from Oakdale to The Cabin presaged the fun we’d find on Hwy 108, 395 and 120 the next day.

But that’s next week’s post.

The where we were.

Sunrise on Eagle Lake, June 22, 2010

Tom Loe, who owns the guide service, kindly allowed me to hitch a ride to the marina, while Darryl (guessing at the spelling here), another client, regaled me with claims of incredible fishing and trout of unparalleled quality.

Then it all came to a screeching halt.

I was asked if I had my license. I glanced at my chest. No lanyard, no license. Damn. Rookie mistake. A quick run back to camp. Frantic searching of the car, the bed, the cooler. Nothing. My license was in my backpack. Which was back at the dock. Lesson learned. I should trust in my preparations.

The sun creeping over the mountains signaled that the time had come to head out. Fifteen minutes later our guide, Doug Rodricks, was doing the “guide thing” — watching the Lowrance, peering into the crystal clear water, on the lookout for rock piles and drop offs. Soon enough, anchors were thrown, nymph depth checked, and Don, my fishing partner for this trip, and I cast out. We were fishing.

Don's First Hookup Monday Morning

Helping temper our expectations was the knowledge, reinforced by comments from Tom and Doug, that calm water doesn’t make for good fishing on Eagle Lake. Especially with fish that seem to be a bit more photosensitive than most.

Managing expectations is a good thing; it makes that first takedown all the more sweet.

That sweetness came within the first thirty minutes.  Don’s rod went bendo, big time. Neither of us were prepared for the strength of these trout, nor the overall quality of every fish brought to the net. Soon came my first takedown.

My First Eagle Lake Rainbow

One doesn’t simply horse these fish to the net. And each fish brings a distinct fighting style to the game. Head shaking was common. Some would sound for the bottom. Others “play possum” until the boat is in sight, then make a wild dash. A number of fish would take us on blistering runs as far as they could. A few would jump, often more than once.

I quickly learned to hate jumping fish. More than one trout successfully resorted to this tactic to throw my hook. Keep in mind, they threw the hook. I did nothing wrong.

Soon enough, the coolness of the early morning air went unnoticed as Don and I brought a second, third and fourth Eagle Lake trout to the net, slabs of fish rarely measuring less than eighteen inches. Photos were taken; photos much like many seen before, but now featuring these beauties in our hands.

One reason the bite was on, the Goddard Caddis.

The number and quality of the fish in Eagle Lake are astonishing. There’s no getting used to such strong, larger and exquisite trout. Whether hatchery raised or wild born, all display full fins, with particularly massive caudal fins, and incredible coloration. The main difference between the wild and hatchery fish is in the markings. The wild fish are almost leopard like, with a dense collection of black spots extending from the tip of the nose to the end of the tail fin and below the lateral line.

Doug called it a tough day of fishing. Probably because he had to haul the anchor and reposition the boat more than usual, adjusting to the faint winds. I, however, don’t think a ten-fish day is all that bad.

Don’t get me wrong, we weren’t getting takedowns on every cast. Stillwater nymphing is less about figuring where these trout are; it’s more about finding locations where one can intercept them. Without wind to create ripples, it’s up to the fisherman to impart some action to the flies. More often than this amateur fly fisherman might deserve, a twitch would elicit a strike. Even unintentional twitches, such as the result of a bad mend, would mean fish on.

Monday would end with a boat total of approximately 20 fish to the net. We probably took photos of at least 19. Flies for the day were pheasant tail nymphs, midge pupa and “Agent Orange.” The afternoon was dedicated to caring for sore wrists and forearms.

the big day

In retrospect, Day 1 was a warm up. Tuesday morning brought predictions of increasing winds and the promise of a better bite. The excitement was palpable as we pulled into “Shrimp,” so named because of nearby Shrimp Island. We would end up staying there all day.

Slanting early morning sun and a breeze wrinkling the water equated to a quick start to the catching. Multiple doubles throughout the day would bring twin trout to the net. Intermittent winds marked the first half of the day, and the catch rate was directly proportional to the wind.

Don's awesome Big Fish of the Trip

Agent Orange was the name of the game. So strong was this fly’s power to entice a grab, Doug doubled up our rigs, using Agent Orange as both the top and bottom flies.

Once and a while Doug would reposition the boat, adjusting to a shift in the wind, and we’d glimpse large fish cruising the shallows.

After one repositioning, I let my flies dangle in the water while Doug adjusted the depth of Don’s rig. I wasn’t paying attention and soon felt a familiar, slow tug hinting that I had snagged bottom. Starting to flush with embarrassment and moving slowly as to not catch Doug’s eye, I carefully angled the rod to help free the fly.

Line began to peel off the reel. I ended up landing a nice, fat Eagle Lake rainbow. The slowest and the easiest hookup I’ve ever experienced fly fishing. I hope that Doug appreciated this hookset; he’d admonished me the entire trip to slow down in setting the hook.

My Best Looking Eagle Lake Rainbow, a Wild Fish

Then a few funny things began to happen. I’d solidly hook a fish, only to have the reel scream as the trout ran, possibly jump, and eventually throw the hook. This happened five times. Doug swears he didn’t straighten my hooks.

Also, as the afternoon wore on, the wind would die, leaving Don and I to believe we’d get a respite from the wrist straining action. Not so. Contrary to expectations, the bite continued despite the mirror like surface and I, for one, ignored hunger pains so as to keep my flies below the surface as much as possible.

Eight hours later, and with over 50 fish between Don and I, Doug gave the 15-minute warning. Both Don and I made good use of the time…both landing one more Eagle Lake Rainbow. The wind was picking up just as we headed back to the marina, but that good feeling fatigue that comes with a day of hard fishing guaranteed only a half-hearted lament.

Crazy fishing.

The Evidence:
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