fishing for words

(and tossing out random thoughts)

Category Archives: Fishing


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finding a fly fishing fix not far away (and why a 3 wt. was a poor choice)

I usually eyeball them through jaundiced eyes. Though instinctively taking inventory of every feature — shelter, shade, structure — I’d normally pass up a puddle made even more unappealing by strategically placed CalTrans-orange barrier netting.

But I missed Opening Day of trout season last Saturday. So, while a preference for good hygiene precluded any thought of sullying waders in the tepid water, it was hard the next day to pass up an opportunity to soak a line to test a presumption that life might be found beneath the surface.

My son’s tales of casting spinners to willing small bass brought me to this containment pond, barely five minutes from the house. Not much more than 50 feet across, there was nothing remarkable about it. The setting was serene enough, being that it is behind a [location redacted]. Trees line the south bank, providing a bit of shade and shelter. Reeds sprout near a corrugated culvert pipe and a darkness that comes with depth suggested a smaller drop off about five feet from shore.

“Nothing much over eight inches,” he had said.

Parked on a nearby street, I returned the 5 wt. to the trunk, selecting the 3 wt., thinking the smaller rod would offer a more sporting fight. We hiked over sidewalk and up a dirt embankment to get there.

Lacking any need for sophisticated assembly of a rod or the puzzling about the appropriate fly, my son and his girlfriend were soon throwing spinners and eliciting strikes. I maintained a semblance of dignity, but it’s a bit unsettling to publicly rig a fly rod while visitors to the [redacted] came and went by, while the sound of compression braking floated up from a nearby Bay Area highway. Being predisposed to size 20 Parachute Adams and even smaller nymphs, my choice of suitable flies was limited. A bluegill-ish streamer pattern was the ultimate choice.

The superiority advantage of fly fishing was immediately apparent. After three casts I managed to land the “largest” fish my son had seen pulled from this urban lagoon. All of 10 inches, it was a fun match for the 3 wt. This pattern continued, with more fish missed than hooked.

Previous encounters with bass — actually, lack thereof — left me a bit dismissive and a bit underprepared, but playing these little fish helped reduce a twitch developed during a winter devoid of any fishing. But the contentment that snuck up on me vanished in an in-your-face demonstration of the circle of life; a demonstration of an oft-told fish story that I had never personally experienced.

Like any of the half dozen other six-, eight- or 10-inchers, this small bass offered up a small tussle, until a large shadow shot forward and engulfed it. Any leader that was visible quickly disappeared as the shadow returned to the depths. A short tug of war ensued. Just as quickly, my line and rod went limp. It was more than I bargained for, but a welcome reminder why I enjoy this sport.

Big bass from a small pond.

Big bass from a small pond.

In a cloud of optimism but without any expectations, my box of streamers was re-examined and a heavier, bead-head yellow woolly bugger tied on. The smaller bass paid a bit more attention to this fly, though it was equal to at least a quarter of their body length. After a few casts, I remembered to let it settle a bit, hoping that might present the fly to the fish a bit longer. This tactic worked well enough, and I landed about 24 inches of bass six to eight inches at time.

The wind made casting a bit of a chore with a big fly on such a small rod, but soon enough I was more consistently hitting promising water. Finally the fly landed where directed. I paused; stripped in line, paused again, stripped. The line stopped in mid-strip. Being more accustomed to embedding a hook in an underwater log or moss-encrusted rock, it wasn’t until my line shivered that I realized there was a big(ger) fish on the other end. The choice of a small 3 wt. rod and reel was quickly called into question; the reel’s drag screaming painfully and the rod bending into an uncomfortable semiellipse.

There’s no gingerly playing a big fish on a small rod. Do so and you’ll probably lose this fish. Horse a fish too much and you’ll probably break equipment.

Without a net, I was unprepared for a fish of any size. But the fishing gods must have been smiling on me. Time seemed to slip away, eventually the fight ebbed and a lip was gripped.

In the end, I found my temporary fix last weekend far from clear, cool streams in which I’ll be wading when you read this.

An anatomy of urban fly fishing.

An anatomy of urban fly fishing.


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another part of the why there was no post last week

Rock Creek Sunrise

Heading up the canyon early in the morning, somewhere close to 10,000 feet.


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grinding the nose in between what really matters

“We’ve been busy…” would be the applicable excuse to explain the lack of posts here, and it’s true in more than one way. The nose has certainly been to the grindstone, but thankfully interrupted by (multiple) visits from out-of-state family rarely seen south of the 47th parallel, too much food, copious beer tasting, and the celebration of one of those big steps down the path of life. The yard lies ignored.

Another road trip begins in just over 24 hours, an annual trek that’ll put us in the middle of a pretty fishy — and pretty — spot east and a smidge south of Yosemite. We’ve fished there before quite a few times, but this year, conditions seem to be a couple weeks ahead; more of what might be expected later in the month. The upside is that a small river not visited before may be a prime candidate this year.

At any rate, life’s been good lately, and now that we’re on the downhill slide into the holidays it’s hard to believe another year is closing fast.


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(relatively) word-free Friday

Since pictures are worth a thousand words, and it would take many thousands to tell of the adventure and fun enjoyed last week with my brother’s family, below is a gallery of photos that tell the story than I could. The days were filled with swimming at the local lake, visiting a historic gold rush town and panning for gold, more fun — swimming, sliding, diving, building sand castles — at the lake, hiking, mini golf and a trip to Yosemite. Enjoy!

Due to loading issues, the gallery has been moved here.


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continued: two brothers’ excellent fly fishing adventure (or, part two of a two-part payoff)

Finding willing wild fish in an unexplored small creek still brings out the kid in me; there’s unfettered excitment, a little bit of a booty dance (at least inside) and everything, no matter how inconsequential, adds to the splendor of the place.

It wasn’t easy going, and there were a few scrapes along the way, but we walked off that creek I won’t name happy that we took a chance on a stranger’s advice.

The younger brother and I were a bit at loose ends two Saturdays ago. We’d previously spent Thursday fishing a Skykomish River tributary with guide Derek Young and buddy Kirk, and Friday out again with Derek on and near the Snoqualmie River. We learned a lot and caught enough trout to feel a bit more confident on waters not too far from my brother’s house.

It didn’t take long for Mark to show symptoms of the addiction. Throwing out newly learned jargon, he suggested we do some ‘bluelining’ along the U.S. Route 2 (Steven’s Pass Highway) corridor. We were out the door and on the road with little clue where we might end up.

For the first 20 minutes or so, we pondered possibilities that were soon rendered unclear in the absence of a copy of the WDFW fishing regulations. Along this stretch of road there aren’t many places to pick up a copy of the regs. Then fate stepped in.

We’d come up on a wide spot in the road and a small, rustic store stocked with an odd collection of the types of goods that only campers might buy when lacking any other choices. The store owner, a bearded guy who looked the part in jeans and a plaid shirt, told me they didn’t have any fishing regulation booklets. He tries to keep a copy in the store for reference but it always seems to sprout legs and walk off.

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A downsteam look.

It’s certain that I’m not the first to do this, but I carefully formed my response to include a mention of ‘fly fishing.’ And that, as has happened before, opened the door.

The store owner leaned a bit closer and I could swear he cast a conspiratorial glance right and left before saying, “Then I can give you the story on what’s going on ‘round here.” Mark walked up to the counter sometime during the description of a creek not too far away and a semi-concealed access point. Walking out the door, Mark and I agreed that if the payoff was as described, we’d return to buy a drink or something as a token of thanks.

After another 15 minutes of driving on a well-graded Forest Service road, we found the secondary road as described. At the end of it we purposely parked the truck out of view from the main road. Gearing up was expedited by the nearby sound of the creek, and perhaps more so by the buzzing of a large number of bees circling the flowering vegetation.

Dropping over a small berm, it was immediately apparent that moving up or down this creek would require a lot more wading. It was small creek, and it was clear that my 7-foot, 6-inch 3 wt. might be a bit too much rod for this water.

Less adventurous fisherman wouldn’t have ventured far either upstream or downstream on this creek. Unlike the water we fished the two prior days, this creek doesn’t get the flows necessary to soften the ragged edges of what is probably basalt. We scrambled over these rocks when we could, carefully climbed where able, and took more cautious routes when warranted.

We had no problem finding the fish. My biggest problem would be deciding whether or not to replace the yellow stimulator that would be battered and a shadow of itself by the end of the day. It’s a question I never really mind facing. (I never replaced it.)

The point at which we first saw the creek was a plunge pool that emptied into a wider, shallower pool interrupted by large rocks sprinkled throughout. I took the first pool while Mark edged along the bank downstream.

Within the first few casts we’d both elicited frenzied strikes. In that first pool I landed what would be the biggest cutthroat of the day, maybe close to 11 inches, a fish I believe my brother caught again near the end of our day. These trout were that hungry.

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Younger brother with one of the bigger cutties of the day.

It wasn’t what might be called ‘crazy fishing.’ The average fish was seven to eight inches, but they set themselves apart from bigger fish I’ve caught with beautiful, though darker, coloration. And each pool, seam or eddy had to be rested once the first fish had been played in that section of water; sort of ‘stick-and-move’ fly fishing. The upside was the abundance of good-looking water.

I enjoyed pointing out promising pockets to Mark just as much as I think he did finding fish where he might not have expected. Frankly, I’m still amazed every time that happens.

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Beautiful. Aggressive. Fun.

We spent more than three hours enjoying some of the most strenuous fly fishing I’ve ever experienced in my short time in the sport. More prepared fly fisherman would have loaded a day pack with lunch and fished this creek all the way to its confluence with the South Fork of the Skykomish River. Maybe next time.

This time around we enjoyed a treat alongside the highway, at the store where this all began, quietly letting the day’s events burn into our memory.

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another reason why it’s safer fishing that small creek

Apparently you never know what will find you when chasing salmon and halibut in the salt off Vancouver Island, B.C. via New York Daily News


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my very best Goldilocks impersonation and the chance encounters of fly fishing

Last week in a nutshell: Trout weren’t caught where expected; a good many others landed where only a few were caught before. One river was frustrating; another too low; one just right. Fellow fly fishermen were met and their company enjoyed on the water.

Some folks won’t understand the almost 200 miles traveled to catch and release the trout I finally found. But a quiet sense of urgency seems to settles in after the summer solstice, an urgency that leads to miles of driving before sunup.

With water in many Sierra rivers, creeks and streams low this year, this urgency demanded a trip, however quick, to the Walker River Basin. It’s a watershed I’ve visited less than I should, considering the beauty of the country traveled distracts from the time it takes to get there. Breakfast is light and handy, the air cold and crisp as I crest the Sonora Pass. Horizon-to-horizon cloud cover dulls the day.

Morning commute traffic means something entirely different here. Before reaching the high desert of the Eastern Sierras, the two lanes of Hwy 108 winds through forests of pines and aspens near the Leavitt Meadow Campground, and though its twists and turns demand slower speeds, both lanes are usually vacant. But not this morning.

Thanks were muttered to the mechanic who last worked on my brakes as a cowboy sidled alongside to suggest it best that I pull to the side of the road and wait. I did and prayed just a little as a herd of cattle gave me the close up and personal experience I never wished to have, as well as one of those encounters that makes a journey all the more memorable.

A few miles more and two hours after my departure, an internal debate of where to fish the East Walker River was quickly settled by the absence of vehicles near the “miracle mile.” After a few wrong turns (caution is warranted driving a sedan on these dirt turnoffs), it was time to gear up. A lack of competition other fishermen tends to eliminate a subconscious desire to rush this process, and I stood there looking like a sausage standing on end while wishing another angler “Good morning.”

East Walker Brown

The single East Walker brown that came out to play…and on a red-butt zebra midge tied by yours truly.

His accented response was explained in the resulting conversation. He was visiting from France, working his way up the Sierras, and with admiration in his voice told me he enjoyed a quite a time on Hot Creek the day before. We talked techniques, and in a bit of name dropping I mentioned that three-time French Fly Fishing World Champion Pascal Cognard had recently spoken at a club meeting. (The French team has been ranked #1 by the International Fly-Fishing Federation for a number of recent years.) I mangled Pascal’s last name but once it was clear I was talking about competitive fly fishing and who I talking about, my new friend told me that he had competed against Pascal. Small world.

We spent a bit of time within sight of each other and I spent time watching his strategy. That French nymphing brought the first fish to the net within half an hour before I wandered downstream.

The East Walker has become my nemesis. It’s never not given up a fish and admittedly I haven’t spent much time fishing it. This day I poked and prodded likely pools, riffles and runs, with only one small brown to show for four hours of effort. Hungry and a bit frustrated, it was time to retrace my route, with stops at the Little Walker and West Walker rivers.

Though “little” is in its name, the Little Walker was too low for my tastes since I was hoping to fish stretches holding the wild trout that live there. It was back down another dirt road to the highway.

Bank on West Walker River

Rewarded will be a nice cast to within a foot or so of this bank on the West Walker…

The idea of unknown possibilities kept at bay a creeping despondency that was nourished by the still overcast sky, an unwetted net and the aches that come with age exertion. The West Walker is typical of the rivers in the Eastern Sierra…you might miss it if you didn’t know it was there. It winds through high desert terrain, below banks that conceal its course. Parking the car alongside the handful of trucks emblazoned with one military insignia/motto or another, I loaded up and headed out the half mile to a bend that seemed to interest a handful of anglers.

The number of fishermen made it a less than optimal situation, but my eye was drawn to flashes on the surface, near the tail of the bend and just below a lone fly fisherman. I walked quietly to a position downstream and behind him. Our conversation began when he stopped to replace a lost fly. He’d arrived at the nearby U.S. Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center only two days ago, heard that the fishing was “on” and now stood on the shore of the West Walker in his fatigues.

He was enjoying himself. Though stocked rainbows, a long pod of fish had stacked up against the opposite bank, next to reeds and in deeper channels, and were earnestly feeding on the surface. Every other cast was welcomed with a bump, slash and, best of all, a solid strike. I was invited to join in and set up on a small point just downstream.

West Walker Rainbow on a Dry Fly

The reward.

The next three hours were filled will double hook ups and an inevitable comparison of our fish, talk of flies and home, and rain, wind and sun. Good fishing makes triumph seem easier in the face of a challenge, and despite powerful wind gusts — gusts that didn’t help casting but allowed the sun to shine — we continued fishing. Sidearm casts two feet off the water got flies close enough to feeding lanes. We never exchanged names but were fast friends in fly fishing that day.

Breaking my rule of never leaving willing fish, I headed back over the pass. My sister and her family were joining me for a three-day weekend, and though fishing is a big part of my time in those mountains, it had been a while since they’d been to the cabin and there was family fun to be had; fun that would be a bonus on top of that day on the three Walkers.


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time well spent on new water, part two (or, why it’s best to go sooner, not later)

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Looking up Beaver Creek.

As alluded to in my last Friday post, the excellent fishing just over a week ago was often centered on a certain little red humpy. Accompanying the good fishing was good weather. I couldn’t have asked for any better; it was in the mid 80°s those four days. The following week the average daily highs climbed above 100°.

When it comes to fishing unfamiliar waters, I’m a big fan of hedging my bets. While specific locations and tactics will be obfuscated in conversations with just-met fly fisherman, and stops at local shops often require filtering out hyperbole, it’s usually fellow fly fishing club members that will usually — with a caveat that certain tidbits never be shared — give the most accurate information.

That’s what led me to Calaveras Big Trees State Park to check out Beaver Creek and the North Fork of the Stanislaus River.

I’ll get the North Fork of the Stan out of the way first. I fished it later in the day and did land a few fish. It’s not my favorite type of river. It’s certainly scenic, shadowed by groves of ponderosa and sugar pines, incense cedars, white firs, mountain dogwood and, of course, giant sequoia redwoods. It looks to offer a great opportunity for rafting and I probably should reserve final judgment until there’s a chance to visit when the water is lower. But it’ not the easiest stretch of water to fish as it tumbles through truck-size boulders that mean edging a few yards downstream might entail a half-mile hike just to get around those boulders.

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Missed hatch on Beaver Creek.

Beaver Creek, however, was a reminder of why I enjoy fly fishing smaller waters; they require a more personal involvement with nature. Though it took bushwhacking to move upstream, Beaver Creek offers the intimate style of water I favor, and that certainly made any difficult terrain less of a burden. My hope was to find the wild fish I had been told about, but if they were there, they weren’t as aggressive as the stocked rainbows. I was pleasantly surprised, however, by a wild brown that nailed the humpy only seconds after it landed near a likely seam.

I fished a few other less remarkable sections of the Stanislaus, revisited Herring Creek, and wet a line in some of the ol’ regular spots. It was a good few days. And when the humpy didn’t work, one of my “confidence” flies, a stimulator of nearly any color, did.

I’m glad I went exploring when I did; it’s likely that within a month some of these creeks will be a bit too skinny.

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When it doubt, Stimulator!


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will El Niño save the coming winter/next season?

We were fooled once before — the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Association (NOAA) predicted a wetter than normal 2012 winter for Northern California last fall — but the same agency’s Climate Prediction Center is now predicting a 50 percent chance that El Niño conditions will develop in the next few months. (The original NOAA synopsis is here.)

If it does, there’s likely to be flooding in this neck of the woods but next summer’s small stream trout season might look a bit more promising.

According to International Research Institute for Climate and Society Chief Forecaster Tony Barnston we’ll know soon enough:

The development of El Niño depends greatly on what happens in the coming two months. If we do not get at least some development by the end of August, then the chances of getting development later become much lower.”

Here’s to hoping for a snowpack that more than makes up for what was lacking this year.


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we’re chasing fish today

Hopefully, today will be a second day of exploration of waters somewhere on the map below. The best outcome will include fishable water, wild fish and solitude.

Where We Will Be

Where we’ll be, fishing or otherwise.