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(and tossing out random thoughts)

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inaugural m/c trip, part 2 (the good stuff)

The inaugural Konoske Boys Two-Wheel/Fly Fishing Road Trip 2010 is in the books. We’d talked about this trip for a couple of years, and almost on a whim, it became reality.

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

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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.

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East Walker Brown

I switched flies, taking cues from the hatch of small mayflies to choose a size 20 WD40, and trailed behind it a size 18 Broken Back Tiger Midge. I’m no expert, but my experience on the East Walker suggested that the fish would be hugging the banks, calling for drifts on seams no more than 3 feet out. Sure enough, just before it was time to head back to meet Sean at the bikes, I was rewarded with a decent tug at the end of a nice drift. Without room for a net on the bike, landing this 11- to 12-inch brown trout required a little more play and care. It was a nice reward for a bit of harder fishing.

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.

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High Sierra Brook Trout

I tried to meet this challenge with a long leader of 13 to 14 feet and 6x tippet. My leader terminated with a size 18 red humpy trailed by a size 20 zebra midge — standard fare for the high Sierras. I paid the price for forgetting that the first cast is the best opportunity to hook a fish by missing a strike at the dry fly by a decent fish. That’d be my only strike in this stretch. Sean couldn’t get a rise either, so we decided to hike downstream a bit to a truly roadside section (one can stand on the edge of the asphalt and cast into the stream).

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.

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@the Tioga Pass Entrance Station (Yosemite National Park)

 
For me, the entrance station at Tioga Pass has held grander significance that its small dimensions suggest. Many years ago, it was a welcome sign that the family camping destination for more than a few summers, Tuolumne Meadows Campground, was a only few minutes away. On this trip, it was evidence that three quarters of our route was behind us and that we were entering some of the prettiest high country you’ll find anywhere. It also meant that, with a good pace, we’d be dining on buffalo burgers in a few hours. The only question was Sean’s bike, which stalled out as we stopped to fish Lee Vining Creek.

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
(Use “Compatibility View” in Internet Explorer if pictures overlap.)
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post-m/c trip deconstruction……in reverse… sort of

Chronological order be damned; the middle often is the best. Bread is the handy carrier for PB&J. It’s the cream filling that makes the Twinkie.

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.

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


 
Thanks largely to me, Sean was riding his ’82 Honda CB650SC (my first motorcycle), and I was riding my ’97 Honda CB750. Both shod with fresh rubber and recently inspected by the shop. Saddlebags hung from their haunches, fly rods balanced on their tails.

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.

Sean's Stocked Rainbow

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.

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The where we were.


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our (cruise) story in pictures

Sometimes it’s better to let the pictures tell the story. Before that happens, a few high points of our recent vacation and cruise (Vancouver and Victoria, B.C., round trip from Seattle):

• Fun time all around with mostly good to great weather.
• Spending time with the folks who raised us and The Bro’s family.
• Meeting a fellow fly fisherman/author who happens to live in The Parents’ hometown.
• Vancouver. Loved it.
• The cruise itself. Already planning another cruise.
• The food on the cruise.
• Meeting with The Wife’s online knitting friend and family.
• The fact that The Brother and I ate frog legs.
• Butchart Gardens. Amazing.
• Did I mention good beer?

Enjoy! (If the gallery pictures run together in Internet Explorer, try using “Compatibility Mode” by clicking the broken page icon next to the address bar.)

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congratulations to a boy (and his parents)

Sean was awarded his A.S. in Criminal Justice/Law Enforcement last night. That’s an accomplishment in itself. So was sitting through a ceremony that seemed a bit protracted and through speeches by speakers who sometimes veered away from the reason we were there: the accomplishment of these young people. I guess that’s almost to be expected today, when some people use every opportunity to push their agenda.

We’re proud of Sean’s work and accomplishment. But they don’t hand out degrees or certificates of achievement for those who both attend school and work one, sometimes two jobs while attending college and maintaining passing grades. That’s something in which Sean should also take pride.

Lastly, some photos below. Sean looks almost too happy to have this part of his education journey behind him, don’t you think?

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opening day 2010 – new wild places

Each Opening Day Weekend — with or without company — I charge into the Sierra Foothills in pursuit of the first trout of the season. This year Older Son Sean accompanied me.

Sean left earlier than I could Opening Day — I had a commitment — and he had some luck flogging a few spots before my arrival. We met up at The Cabin late in the afternoon. Sean brimmed with confidence that this would be the year he outfishes dad. The refrigerator was stocked with beer and the pantry with basic staples and, with daylight waning, we opted to warm up on the surprisingly trout-friendly irrigation canal behind town.

Opening Day brings nearly half the town to the canal, knowing that sometime during the prior week, days or hours, that the state DFG hatchery truck will have dropped a load of pan-sized rainbows into the water. I’ve seen everything brought to bear on the canal — the ubiquitous baits of questionable manmade formulations, bass lures, even 10 foot saltwater rods — with the results being full stringers, as well as the seemingly inevitable string of injured, dead, or dying stocked rainbows. (Wild or not, wasteful in my book.)

Snow along the way, in late April.

Snow along the way, in late April.

The first full day began with a five a.m. departure. This year it meant driving east on Hwy 108 during at dawn. Not surprisingly, remnants of dirty snow appeared at approximately 4,500 feet and drifts defined the snowplow’s reach after 5,000 feet. Most summers I will end up driving this route at least six times. Sometimes to destinations before the summit; other times to traverse Sonora Pass as I make tracks for the East Slope of the Sierras. So, knowing full well (and happily) that Old Man Winter laid down a healthy snowpack, we set out Sunday morning to reach the Promised Water, the Clarks Fork of the Stanislaus River, which is littered with boulders and sprinkled with wild trout and their domesticated brethren.

Outside the car windows the air was crisp and cold, and snow began to dominate the landscape. That should have been our warning. Apparently the road to Clarks Fork doesn’t warrant the same attention as the highway when it comes to snow removal. Disappointment was tamed somewhat by the acknowledgement that we were taking risk this time around by checking on waters never before visited this early in the season.

The next attempt to reach unvisited water— Sand Bar Flat and Spring Gap on the Middle Fork of the Stanislaus River — was prevented by (1) lack of signage and (2) lack of a Stanislaus National Forest map. Fishing near Spring Gap can legitimately be called epic: a few years ago Christopher and I stumbled upon it late in the afternoon; late enough that we had about two hours of fishing, but those two hours yielded some beautiful wild rainbows. But Sean and I weren’t getting there this year.

Apparently gluttons for the punishment doled out by Forest Service roads, we threw caution to the wind to set the GPS for Wild Trout Stream X. It’s been mentioned here before as a location revealed in confidence by two old and grizzled fishermen who appreciated the fact that Sean and I were fly fishing and practicing catch and release. We had visited the stream in the off season, when flows were about half of what we’d find, and saw a good number of dark shadows that presaged good times. It’s about ten miles from pavement, on roads littered with potholes (and mud at this time of year) winding through dry pine forests, by meadows and over one river and a few creeks. Sean claims that no matter which direction we were headed that the potholes seems to line up on his side. It certainly wasn’t my driving.

Was the long, 20-miles-per-hour drive worth it? You betchya.

Smaller streams are always a great excuse to get out my smaller 3 wt. rod, so while I was getting that ready Sean nearly ran to a pool downstream of an old-school stone bridge. You’d have to ask him, but I would swear that it wasn’t more than one drift before I heard an exclamation affirming a hook up. Sure enough, a small wild rainbow was the first of many rewards for the torturous ride in.

What I call a Trophy – a wild rainbow in Stream X.

I’m always amazed to find trout in streams like this one. It was rarely more than six feet across and more than two feet deep. Its crystal-clear water danced over the rocks, creating riffles and small plunge pools. Short stretches offered a riffle-pool-tailout configuration in miniature.

This small stream made the day. There’s nothing like wild fish. Particularly in light of The Unaccomplished Angler‘s “Adages as Pertaining to Smallish (Wild) Fish”:

  • What they lack in size, they make up for in beauty.
  • A size 22 fly in the mouth of a 2-inch fish is equivalent to a size 2 fly in the mouth of a 22-inch fish. Or something like that.
  • It’s not about the size of the fish in the fight, but the size of the fight in the fish. And little fish are scrappers.
  • There’s more fishing than catching big fish.
  • Small fish, in the hands of those with small hands, look relatively large.

While I hear that Mr. Unaccomplished is good in the small hands department, it’s not so true for me. We’re in agreement on everything else.

Sean on Stream X.

Sean on a fish.

And the wild fish at Stream X were h-u-n-g-r-y. We were casting a dry/dropper rig (a dry fly with a dropper, i.e. a subsurface nymph imitation) and these little guys chased both flies with abandon. Even the dry fly, despite it being a size 12 stimulator in my case. (The dropper was a size 18/20 Copper John.) As a relatively new fly fisherman who cut his teeth on nymphing as a nearly surefire way to dredge up trout, the last two years I’ve gained a greater understanding for the pure joy of presenting a dry fly in a manner adequate enough to elicit a strike.

Rubber-legged stimulatior doing the job.

Rubber-legged stimulatior doing the job.

Steam X also offered plenty of dry fly fun. Sean spent much of his time at the downstream pool, while employed my shorter rod in dappling various riffles and plunge pools as I made my way upstream. Disappointment was rare. Fish would rise out of bubbles of plunging water to inhale the rubber-legged stimulator. Others in riffles would pounce on the dropper at the last minute, just as it began to drift toward the water’s surface on the swing. Nearly four hours flew by. We capped the day with a great buffalo burger at the well-known Diamondback Grill in downtown Sonora.

Monday would mark Sean’s last day of the trip and a responsible but unfortunate decision to leave a bit early to make it to class. His original plan was to skip class to spend a bit more time on what I’ll call Hatchery Creek. (More on why later.) We were on the water just after sunrise, but with the water temperature at 50°F, there was no love that morning. Two hours or so later, Sean made his fateful decision. As for me, perhaps I’m too stubborn. Sometimes stubbornness pays off.

First fish of Opening Day 2010.

Hatchery fish, Opening Day 2010.

Mid morning, with sun dappling the water and the air temperature rising enough so that I could no longer see my breath, bugs began to hatch. A few small mayflies darted here and there. Then the bite was on. During the next two hours I would hook fourteen fish and bring ten to the net. (I’ll attribute the hooked/landed ratio to the fact that size matter that morning…nothing larger than size 18 got their attention.) Every fish was a cookie cutter stocker, ranging from ten to twelve inches. I’ll give ‘em credit, every single one of these fish put on a good show, either jumping multiple times or offering me a challenge by sounding for the bottom. I stuck around through the afternoon, trying to land that last fish. It never came. The evening entailed cleaning The Cabin and packing most of the gear.

The last bit of fishing for this trip came when the last load of laundry was in the dryer. I made the short drive to The Canal and casually walked upstream with drifting a couple of nymphs through likely locations, particularly the undercut bank just underfoot. Things looked good after the second case, when a colorful, ten-inch brown absolutely nailed the lower fly, a Copper John. During the 30-minute walk up to flume I picked up two more trout, both brownies. Below the flume, where the force of the water create a pool full of eddies, another five fish came to hand. (I missed two hooksets as well.)

Overall it was a great Opening Day trip. The catching wasn’t red hot as it’s been during previous Opening Days. Stream X, however, offered the highlight of the trip, the kind of fishing memory that will grow grander with each telling. But don’t ask for the GPS coordinates. You’ll only get there if I take you there. Blindfolded. Probably in the trunk.

First fish of Opening Day 2010.
Wild rainbow from Stream X.
Looking upstream from the bridge over Stream X.
Another look at Stream X.
Rubber-legged stimulatior doing the job.
Nice wild rainbow trout from Stream X.
Good looking fish.
Sean on the Stream X Bridge.
Sean with one of the numerous wild rainbow trout caught that day.
Sean on Stream X.
One of the hidden valleys along the way to Creek Y.
Closeup of coloring.
Sean with an Opening Day trout.
Snow along the way, in late April.


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manly fishing and food

By now you know that the Older Son and I are likely having a heck of a time. We’re headquartered at the cabin, fishing a few rivers and small streams for trout. Maybe even tainting our lines to chase bluegill and bass in a nearby pond.

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.


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the starting line

Stepping up to the plate to help educate novice fly fishers tomorrow morning in the basic skills needed to play and land a fish means shoving aside the desire to fling a fly at oh-dark-thirty on Opening Day of Trout Season 2010. (The offer of a free lunch had something nothing to do with volunteering.)

Unfortunately, there’s 125 miles between the classroom and suitable trout water, which means — without too much traffic — I won’t put a fly in or on the water until sometime after 4:00 p.m. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. That magical twilight hour can mean good times on a few of the rivers and streams on my list.

The plan’s a bit in flux until Saturday morning, when older son Sean will decide on his departure hour and whether he’ll stop at the Bass Pro Shops store in Manteca…and how much time and money he might spend there. (Thankfully, he doesn’t have to worry about a wife discovering that Bass Pro offers something for everyone.) His timing will determine on which water will begin his annual attempt to out fish the old man.

A portion of our arsenal.

It’s certain that we’ll mix it up a bit this year. Water flows will dictate whether of not we visit the Clark Fork of the Stanislaus River. The regular, local spots are also on our list. So is Brook Trout Stream X, a small trickle of a creek discovered last year thanks to two local retiree/fishermen, who gave specific instructions to ‘…go down that there road ten miles and you’ll find it.’ No mention that nine of the ten miles would be Forest Service road. We’re hoping that after a long winter that these wild brookies might be a tad hungry enough to be fooled by adequately presented dry flies.

We’ll have the new waterproof camera with us, hoping it’ll be baptized photographing some decent fish.

Our days are about to flash by at a more frenzied pace, but there are fish in our future and more than a few waters — a well-known lake in Northern California, a Washington river, and untold Sierra rivers and streams — in which we’ll wet our fly lines for the first time. We’ll reacquaint ourselves with familiar waters along the way. Then there’s the long-planned Tioga-to-Sonora Pass Motorcycle Fly Fishing Tour.

We’re packed and ready to go.


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countdown to turkey

T-minus 28 hours and 26 minutes…

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!


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last hurrah ’09

[singlepic id=746 w=200 h=267 float=right]We’re back. The second annual End of Trout Season Trip is history. And we caught more browns, brookies and rainbows than could rightfully be expected.

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.

[singlepic id=745 w=200 h=150 float=left]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.

[singlepic id=747 w=200 h=267 float=right]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.

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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.

The slideshow:

The gallery:
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