fishing for words

(and tossing out random thoughts)

Category Archives: Fishing


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I’m good enough, I’m smart enough, and doggone it, I’m a winner! (and an Opening Day tradition)

Things are looking up ‘round here.

The countdown to Opening Day stands at 67 hours and 5 minutes, and though I won’t be on the water, that’s fine. It’s become tradition the last few years for me to assist with our club’s fly fishing novice seminar every Opening Day Saturday. It offers an opportunity to pass along an education I received through the very same class and the off-the-water rewards are substantial. Many of the students continue on in the hobby, are involved with the club, and more than a handful have joined the outing I lead in the Eastern Sierra. The class also offers me a reminder of basics that I may have forgotten during a fishless winter. Also, the free lunch is a very good thing.

How Winning Requires New Skills

As ffw followers already know, I’m an unabashed nymph fly fisher. While other uptight purists fly fisherman would rather take a nap than fish with anything other than a dry fly, I go to where the fish usually are: well beneath the surface.

Oh, I’ll toss out dry flies when that’s where the action is, but it’s not too often.

Zudweg-Style Bunny Leech

But now I’ll be going subsurface with a slightly different tactic thanks to Jason over at Fontinalis Rising. According to Outdoor Blogger Network member Jason I should be expecting some awesome looking Zoo Cougars, bunny leeches, and lightweight shiner imitations.

So I’ll have to work on my casting of big flies a bit. These streamers will be good candidates this summer and fall for the East Walker, Upper Owens and West Walker rivers. Then there’s this midsized tributary I know in the Western Sierras, where brown trout spawn in the fall. Anyone have any other suggestions where these streamers might work well in the Central or Northern Sierras?

Thanks again to Jason!

As for what we see this week…


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my favorite outdoor food really isn’t mine… (and breakfasts of legend)

This post brought to you by the writing prompt “Share Your Favorite Food“
from the Outdoor Blogger Network (OBN)

I’m a food lover.

That’s why it’s difficult to narrow down my list of favorite outdoor foods to a single dish. Or snack cake. Or junk food.

When I’m in the Great Outdoors, usually fly fishing, it’s an opportunity always seized upon to graze freely. Though not out of doors, there’s always In-n-Out on the drive to or from the Family Cabin, the forward base of operations. A short few minutes away is Diamondback Grill. (Yes, we likes our hamburgers, though I favor the buffalo burger, medium rare.)

If I make it to the Eastern Sierras, there’s Bodie Mike’s Barbeque and the Whoa Nellie Deli for sandwiches in Lee Vining. And trips with the club to “The Eastside” come loaded with calories: pork posole stew, pasta, and barbecue beef sandwiches, all washed down with homemade beer.

While the above can be consumed out of doors, none are truly portable in the Great Outdoors.

That said, I’m not afraid of roughing it. I’ve spent time sleeping on rocks under a canvas roof or in the back of a questionable fly fishing vehicle (e.g. minvan). But age brings on a certain requirement desire for comfort. That limits much of my outdoor eating to the time I’m on the water.

Breakfasts of Legend*

Old-School Campsite Grill/Griddle

The source of Legendary Outdoor Breakfasts

I’d be remiss to not mention those breakfasts cooked by dear ol’ dad on the ancient heavy steel griddles that seemed to dot every campground we visited when I was a kid. You know the ones. They were made of ½-inch steel, attached to a matching steel fire ring or two “walls” made of cement and indigenous rocks.

Who knows how long the detritus of the forest — pine needles, sap, bird droppings, dead insects — accumulated on that griddle. But the first morning in camp dad would take a scrub brush to it and stoke up the fire to “sanitize” it. Once only coals were left, the cooking of one of the best outdoor breakfasts began.

There was a specific order to the cooking of this morning repast. Sausage or bacon came first, and a lot of it, to ensure a good layer of grease that was necessary in an era before Teflon®. Then the eggs, popping and sizzling like nothing you’ll see today in today’s non-stick skillets. Last, and certainly not least — and my favorite — bread slathered with real butter and “toasted” in the grease and any bits of eggs still stuck to the griddle. These were the breakfasts of legend.

These days another of my favorite foods is more of a meal: lunch on a guide boat. The phthalo blue of the open water, fresh air carried on a slight breeze, and the ribbing about the last missed hookset become condiments to whatever’s on the menu. Like that awesome pastrami sandwich from the local deli, piled with provolone, pickles and peperoncini on a rustic roll and slathered with spicy mustard. Sure, it tastes mighty good, but even better is that inevitably the “bite” will turn on with a vengeance as I chew that first mouthful.

As alluded to above, the Great Outdoors can lend a flavor to even the simplest of foods. Most of the lunches I toss together before heading to a stream or river are simple. Beef jerky, an apple, water and maybe a granola bar. (The less time taken to assemble lunch means more time on the water.) And every time, that apple carelessly thrown into my vest tastes so much better when eaten streamside — while a hatch starts, of course.

Nowadays, my favorite outdoor food is the one I never finish eating because I’m up on my feet again making that next hookset because the fish are the ones eating a favorite food.

* I believe my brother will whole-heartedly agree that there nothing that compares to our memory of these breakfasts, if not the reality. I think he’d also share my opinion that although there’ve been great breakfasts in the intervening years, there’s still nothing like breakfast cooked outdoors on these griddles, and eaten in the cool morning air of the Sierra Nevada high country.


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fishing for words turns five after fourteen years in the making

fishing for words (ffw) was born on April 19, 2006. However and without knowing it, my blogging started fourteen years prior to that.

During the mid ‘90s — the beginning of the end for most grunge bands — I joined the few civilians who could make sense of this thing called HTML to launch a website with the unoriginal title “My Little Corner of the Internet.” It was a kooky little site for which every new entry required incorporating text into hand-coded HTML.

The trend at the time was to post a relatively static website about one’s self, and looking back one can see that the early “posts” — stories about trips or family events — popped up once or twice a year from August 1997 through July 2003. There seemed to be more to write about starting in 2004. I don’t know if was the fact that the kids were growing up and it didn’t take a trunk full of diapers, bottles, food and a stroller to travel more than five miles, or the fact that my new wife actually encouraged me to enjoy some adventures on my own.

My writing was largely directed at family and a few friends. Though a student once thanked me for my page on Aloha shirts (apparently it aided him in writing a term paper), I suffered no delusion that anyone would take an interest in what I wrote if they didn’t know me personally.

The Future of Outdoor Blogging

Perhaps the future will bring a new immediacy to outdoor blogging. (That’s not me...it’s my son with a wild rainbow on Stream X.)

Things changed in 2006 with this stuff called CMS and easy-to-use blogging platforms — both of which coincided with my first experience brandishing a fly rod over a Sierra Nevada stream. It was all in place: a website/blog that could easily be fed and a hobby that could provide material.

Now, 139,512 words and 458 posts later, I still resist defining my blog. It remains a place for family and friends…with a loose definition of “friend.” Over the years, nearly everyone in my immediately family has made an appearance in my blog — whether they liked it or not. Friends run the gamut: fly fishing club members, fellow bloggers I’ve surprised by actually showing up on their doorstep met face to face; folks who thanked me for suggestions on where their kids might have a good first fishing experience; even a few buddies met online with whom I eventually shared a fishing trip or two. Every reader is a potential friend, just like the older gentleman and younger guy wearing waders that were too clean and waving barely used rods.

While ffw doesn’t subscribe to any specific definition, it’s definitely been about sharing a personal story. It’s about stepping out of my little universe to share encouragement, a laugh, an experience, a tip or a trick. And every once and a while I’m pleasantly surprised to learn that my words do encourage or earn a chuckle.

Some folks might lament about how much things have changed in five years. I’d say that it’s only our methods of our interaction that have changed; the folks behind it remain much the same. Take a look at the Outdoor Blogger Network, for example — a group of good folks coming together over common interests. They’ve got to be good folks; they let me and my little blog join in the fun. And fun it’s been, sharing my misadventures and adding a couple of new readers every year.

As for the fly fishing, the places I fish usually are not covered in the slick pages of magazines. These are places that can be reached with relatively modest means and without a 4×4. (I did learn last year that a 4×4 would be helpful on the roads to and from Yellow Creek.)

My hero shots find heroism in fooling small wild and skittish brook trout with a fly tied with my own hands. (This summer, hero shots may include a fly rod built with those same hands.) And though the “body count” isn’t so important to me anymore, it’s still about duping that first dozen fish and the story that comes with it.

I’m hoping that there will be many more fish to write about.


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modest proposal suggests concrete amusement parks for the catch-and-keep folks; good ideas for catch-and-release fans

At first it’ll likely prompt feigned outrage as the bait and hardware crowd wail and gnash teeth, claiming that the real goal is to enjoy the outdoors… That’ll die down once the realization sets in that it’ll mean easy access, flat surfaces for lawn chairs and coolers of beer and a near-guarantee the freezer can be filled without breaking a sweat.

Hatchery Fishing

Buried deep on the California Fish & Game Commission website is a little pdf titled “Trout Hatchery Production for Angling Opportunity” that suggests opening a raceway or two at one hatchery to recreational angling.

This is only one of a few proposals and changes at California Dept. of Fish & Game growing out of the Center for Biological Diversity’s 2006 lawsuit and subsequent proceedings. Now that I’ve moved up the ethical pecking order to become a catch-and-release fly fisherman and have washed away any lingering odor or memory of ever using bait, it’s easy to write with a straight face that perhaps this isn’t such a bad idea. (Not to worry, this modest proposal still allows for an outdoors experience with the stocking of mutant triploid trout in reservoirs.)

Most of us are guilty — at one time or another — of enjoying the rewards of a 100-plus-year-old stocking program but the commission may be on to something here. It’d be easier to outlaw deadly barbed treble hooks on streams and rivers when the option for Power Bait aficionados is a raceway brimming with stupid hungry trout.

Though the state is trimming the budget, there’ll be no need for access fees…lure in the crowds, and there’s new income to be found in raceway-side concessions.

Besides the reduction of streamside competition accumulation of empty Power Bait jars and Styrofoam worm containers, there just maybe a bigger upside for fans of catch and release.

In addition to increasing triploid production for future years, DFG is developing greater capability to successfully produce and stock heritage (native) trout species. Currently, four native species are being produced in DFG hatcheries. Kern River Hatchery is being modified with a water delivery back up system and other infrastructure upgrades for production of the native Kern River rainbow trout. Establishment of a broodstock is expected by fall of 2011. Five heritage species should be in production by January 1, 2012, with 25 percent of overall production to be comprised of heritage species. The feasibility of rearing Lahontan cutthroat trout for the Lake Tahoe basin restoration…

If it means an opportunity for me everyone to target more of our native species, that’s a sacrifice I’m we’re all willing to make.


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how bad do you want to meet mr. whitefish? — a few guides’ thoughts on clients bringing gps receivers along for the ride

Guides & GPS

One mid July day my guide both admonished me to maintain a straight line to the indicator and cheered good hook sets even though I missed more strikes than I should have. New to fly fishing then, I remember having a novice’s fascination with the almost magical wisdom guides showed and shared.

More important that day was my education. It’s a simple truism of fly fishing that one day on the water with a good guide can offer a learning experience equal to many trips alone.

But is there a limit to how much a guide might be willing to share beyond techniques, flies and presentation? This question bubbled up in my mind a few weeks ago, when an online poll conducted by Blood Knot Magazine asked fly fishermen for their opinion regarding bringing a handheld GPS receiver on a guided fishing trip. Of 100 random readers asked if it’s “okay” to do so, 41% answered “Hell yeah!” while 40% answered “Hell no!” The remaining 19% had no idea guides might care…

Flipping the question around in an admittedly unscientific and limited survey, I asked the same question of a few fly fishing guides, and the results offer interesting insight into what is a genuine desire among guides to share with clients. As a public service to both sides of the argument, I present in this space what I learned in informal conversations with a guides up and down the West Coast.

Fly fishing guides, of course, understand that they’re in a business that often requires catering to clients, but do so in a sport that’s long recognized as one of the more genteel pursuits. One can attribute the fact that half of the respondents with an opinion in the Blood Knot Magazine poll declared a GPS receiver verboten on a guided trip to this gentleman’s code. Guides’ expectations fall in line with this mind-set, hoping that clients will ask before slipping out a GPS receiver. And, if asked, most guides don’t have a problem with a client using a GPS receiver.

The Fly Shop Director of Outfitters Michael Caranci spent the time to carefully sum up his thoughts, many of which were echoed by other guides…

As a guide, I’ve never had a problem with people bringing a GPS along. As an outfitter, I know there are some guides who wouldn’t mind, and that there are surely some guides who would find it offensive. The way I see it, if you’re hiring a guide just to find out where to go, you’re missing the boat. A good guide has so much more to offer than that. And, at the same time, just knowing where to go isn’t all that much help sometime; the real knowledge and experience of guides is knowing how to approach a spot at the different times of year, times of day, flows, seasons, types of techniques, species, etc. One could GPS a spot they had great fishing one day with the guide, and return another time to the same spot and find it seemingly void of life.”

The reason behind the use of a GPS receiver also plays into a guide’s willingness to allow its use. Emerging Rivers Guide Services owner Derek Young shares that he’d be okay with a GPS receiver used for personal reasons, such as “…safety…or to better remember the experience.” But don’t pull out a GPS receiver if its use involves commercial or financial gain. “If a paying client is going to make a commercial financial gain off of my services, they can find someone else to do it with,” wrote Derek.

Mutual respect is a resounding theme with guides. Chris O’Donnell of River Runner Outfitters underscores this, expanding upon the idea by writing…

Personally, I feel that it is the client’s right to use a GPS to record fishing spots, just like gleaning other information about rigging, reading water, and catching fish. I do feel that using a GPS without asking displays a complete lack of respect for the guide. Just ask. I’ll tell you yes, and I will feel much better about it.”

These thoughts were shared by nearly every guide, though a few are less concerned about the use of GPS receivers, if for no other reason than they fish in plain sight on lakes. Tom Loe and Doug Rodricks of Sierra Drifters Fly Fishing Guide Service often ply the waters of Crowley Lake, Bridgeport Reseroir and Eagle Lake, and as Doug explains,

I wouldn’t mind if clients brought a GPS on their trips. Most people on the boats see us catching fish and will gravitate to that spot the following day. Conditions change and one day differs from the next so we don’t worry about it too much. There are always other spots on the lake to go catch fish.”

Tom gets down to brass tacks, clarifying his feeling that, “Trout migrate and conditions change so often in the areas I guide that it is foolish to get upset or worry about someone being on your numbers!”

Another guide fishing open water, and author of “Fly Fishing the California Delta,” Mike Costello, reiterates the idea of trust and discretion between guide and client, and how the development of a relationship opens the door…

I have had clients bring a GPS on my boat but they have asked me ahead of time and I trusted them that they would be discreet and not try to abuse the guide/client relationship. I am fortunate that the majority of my anglers have been fishing with me for a very long time and I am usually very open and helpful with my guiding information.”

For many guides, the idea and expectation of respect extends beyond the guided trip. Michael C. spells out this view on using knowledge gained with a guide…

…I think it’s important to realize that if you do learn some great spots by fishing with a guide, there should be a courtesy about it in the future. If you return to that place, and the guide is there working, it’s best to let them have it. If guides consistently find their favorite places taken up by past guests, they’ll quickly learn to be careful not to share those secret spots. Respect the information, and the countless hours and days of exploration that it often takes to discover those locations in the first place.”

Mountain Whitefish

If you see too many of these guys while targeting trout, you might have crossed the line with your guide...

Inversely, disrespect will get you nowhere; and maybe no fish. If you break out a GPS receiver without asking, let’s just say that a guide might be inclined to take you only to spots to which he/she wants you to return. Slide Inn owner and Fly Fish TV host Kelly Galloup succinctly spells it out:

We all learn water the same way. We go fish and then we watch other guides set up in the runs and see how they do. It is a time tested, earn-your-right-to-be-there system… If I found them using it [a GPS receiver] with out me having been told, I would instantly…either row out or start fishing in the more whitefishy water and see how few fish I could catch the rest of the day.”

In Chris O’Donnell’s view, a client’s use of a GPS receiver suggests the trip is a one-night stand…

I would not take action, other than possibly taking them to fishing spots that I want them to return to…busting out a GPS on a guided trip pretty much tells the guide it’s just a one time deal.”

Generally, these guides haven’t had too many bad experiences with clients using GPS receivers, perhaps because the majority of their fly fisherman clients subscribe to the same code of behavior and the idea of an “earn-your-right-to-be-there system.” Shasta Trout owner/operator Craig Nielsen has had several folks bring their GPS units but hasn’t had an issue with their use as he was asked beforehand in every case. Chris O’Donnell did have “…one client GPS my fishing spots…he didn’t ask, just started plugging away.” Using your imagination, you might guess as to the fish count on that trip.

At least one guide is considering employing GPS to enhance the guided experience. Derek Young mentions embracing the technology, considering the use of a GPS receiver to tag “…client photos so that they could revisit the experience with both a photo and location.”

With the above in mind and other tidbits I’ve left unshared for lack of room or other reasons, it’s a roll of the dice when you break out a GPS receiver on a guided trip.

But before you do, ask.

Or risk fishing that whitefishy water.


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thanks to dad, we were lucky to simply survive experience the great outdoors

This post brought to you by a writing prompt from the Outdoor Blogger Network…

I’ve been a dad for more years than you’d think and with that has come amazement that the number of candles on my birthday cakes made it to double digits.

Sure, everyone my age grew up without seat belts, car seats, and medications without child-proof lids. Many of my contemporaries rode bikes without helmets, ate sandwiches made with white bread and drank drinks made with real sugar.

Personally, I’m more amazed that I and my siblings survived family vacations in the great outdoors.

I can’t figure out if dad was fearless, just wasn’t being smart or placed such importance on exposing his kids to the outdoors that the risks outweighed the rewards. Maybe it was the fact that we didn’t have innumerable television documentaries underscoring man’s inability to win in a one-on-one battle with nature. Whatever the reason, we were lucky.

There are photos that I won’t share here of me in diapers, in the wilds of Yosemite Valley. That might have been where it all began, but the memories are foggy.

Tuolumne Meadows Campsite

Where we camped for many years, long ago...

What I do remember are the multiple summers we spent in Tuolumne Meadows. At 8,600 feet elevation the weather was changeable. This made day hikes, already an adventure thanks to steep elevation gains and decomposing granite, unpredictable.

While there’s debate among my family as to the name of the lake that was the destination on one ill-fated hike, it’s clear that dad had pushed the limits on that cold and overcast day. With the distance of the hike limited by the length of my youngest brother’s legs, I’m guessing the hike in took no more than a couple of hours. Much of the trail wound in and around trees before rising and emerging onto a wide meadow. Crossing the meadow put us on the shore of a lake nestled up against granite peaks. Back then we carried spin fishing gear, and it wasn’t more than a few casts before a trout made one of the most dramatic, leaping strikes to swallow dad’s Mepps Agila. Small as the fish was, dad stumbled back in his surprise at the strike.

Just about then or shortly thereafter (my memory was muddled by the excitement), the gray of the sky gave way to small granules of something best described as light hail or heavy snow. Not being as keen on fishing, my sister and brother were huddle with mom near what little shelter was offered by a wind-stunted tree. “Jerry,” my mom said, “I think it’s time to go.” Nearly 40 years later I can understand that when fishing, time flies by but those same minutes are painfully slow to pass when you’re shivering in the high country and miles from the remotest fingers of civilization. Grudgingly, dad decided it was better to leave the fish for the sake of his children and, perhaps, his marriage.

The first time we pitched a tent at the Tuolumne Meadows Campground, where, by the way, there are no public showers; my dad’s solution was to take advantage of what nature had to offer. He proudly explained to us that we’d be using biodegradable soap. (It was a novelty back in the 1970s.) Our water source would be the oh-so convenient Tuolumne River. A river that originates from two forks — the Dana Fork and the Lyell Fork — both of which originate from the huge snowpack in the high peaks of the Sierra Nevada. There’s something about bathing in water that only 24 hours ago was in its frozen form. Yet another time we dodged hypothermia.

Then there were the bears. We knew they were there. We saw them occasionally during the day. It’s the times we didn’t see them that still give me chills. There were mornings we’d wake up and dad would show us the bear tracks through our camp; tracks that weren’t there yesterday and must have been made during the night, when I stepped out of the tent for a trip to the bathroom and could have become a tasty midnight snack for one of Yogi’s cousins.

Sierra Cup

The fateful faithful Sierra cup.

Those mornings dad would tempt fate yet again by preparing breakfast on the flattop griddles that years ago were standard equipment in every national and state park campsite. These griddles were nothing more than flat plates of steel welded to a grill, on top of a three-sided steel box, and naturally were exposed to the elements all year long, accumulating sap, rust and the occasional animal or bird dropping. Dad’s ritual involved stoking the wood underneath the grill with the idea of sterilizing it, then throw on bacon to lube it up before tossing on eggs and toast. While it’s entirely possible he did manage to sterilize the griddle, I can help but wonder if some of the “seasoning” entailed small bits of rust and other things.

In that vein, I also remember being so proud of our Sierra cups. My brother and I would loop them under our belts, and like little men, dip them into the clear streams to quench our thirst. Try that nowadays without worrying.

These are only snapshots of my childhood adventures in the wilderness, and there are other, less dangerous memories of other hikes, more fishing and just being a kid in the great outdoors. Those I’ll save for another time.

I was lucky to spend so much time in the great outdoors. All of these adventures never fail to bring a smile to my face.


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anticipation: the early edition

For a few weeks now it’s either been raining like cats and dogs or bitter cold. At least for this neck of the woods, where anything below 40 degrees is uncommon. A day ago it was -18 degrees in the in the Sierra Nevada’s Long Valley Caldera, a little volcanic crater of roughly 200 square miles that I’m not likely to fish at such temperatures. If I do, it’ll be via snowmobile and with a supply of Glen Morangie.

It’s good weather to mark on the new year’s calendar the days that’ll be dedicated to fishing. They’re adding up nicely.

It’s not that I’ll be sitting on my hands until the general trout season reopens. There’s a fly rod to be built and flies to be tied. We’ll finish the rod by early February during a series of Saturday sessions. Fly tying will include giving guidance to a son who wants to learn. Then there are trips to plan.

I think it was about three years ago that the realization set in that there was pleasure to be found in the planning of fishing trips. Planning can be a pain in the arse, sometimes literally, because the Internet has opened the doors to a crushing abundance of information; then it took a while to learn to let go of the niggling worries about the actual outcome of a trip.

So, rather than wantonly throw out New Year’s resolutions that are likely to remain unachieved, my inclination is to etch things in wet cement as soon as possible. Things were set in motion this year by that preference and petitions for early planning from some of the folks who’ve participated in the club-sanctioned trip I lead in the Eastern Sierra.

Lest anyone think that there’s an inherent selflessness in these acts, the record should be set straight. Part of my willingness to teach Sean to tie flies is rooted in the self-serving belief it’s high time that he lose his own flies. It’s with as much resignation as can be mustered that I’ll inform The Wife that I must again act as ‘fishmaster’ for the club’s Eastern Sierra trip, quietly omitting the multitude of benefits it offers.

Most fly fishermen will ascribe good fishing and great scenery to favorite fishing venues. The Eastern Sierra excellently fits that bill and hopes are high that this year it will be even better. The snowpack is in great shape and water levels are good; both point to fantastic things in the fall. For those who’ve never been, the attraction of the Eastern Sierra can be modestly measured by the six folks who’ve already committed to a trip that doesn’t take place for another nine months. Those benefits that need not worry my wife: good food, home-brewed beer and great fishing far away from clocks and everyday concerns.

This year my volunteerism will extend to kindly offering to aid a fellow fly fisherman to get acquainted with Crowley Lake.  We’ll spend our first day on the lake with a guide I’ve employed a few times each of the last several years, as an introduction to Crowley for my friend and an opportunity to update my knowledge of current conditions. During the subsequent days there might just be an occasion or two to spend more time on the lake fishing from my friend’s boat. As you know by now, in no way did this influence my desire to help.


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thinking ahead, and behind

As the days between fishing trips grow more numerous, my thoughts wander. Thoughts coalesce into an inexact catalog of flies that need to be tied and new patterns to be attempted, the fuzzy details of the rod to be built during midwinter, and a rough outline of next year’s fishing trips, mostly of the multi-day variety to out-of-the-way or unfamiliar water.

Then there are the memories. Recent thoughts floating to the surface center on How It All Began.

Flying fishing came later in my life. Prior to that, my limited exposure to the sport was the occasional, distant fly fisher who seemed less fisherman and more of an aerial artist using fly line as his brush. Having more than once employed the fly-and-bubble technique with my spinning rod, I knew that this technique mysteriously allowed the casting of impossibly small flies.

Fly fishing snuck up on me. It was a conspiracy of the fishing gods to bring together opportunity and motive.

My son and I had made an impromptu late August trip to a small stream in the Eastern Sierras. Still an hour or so away from our destination, as can happen in the high mountains, a torrential rainstorm obscured the view of Mono Lake. The spirit of youth overcame the concern of age, and we found ourselves seeking a campsite at least moderately protected by aspens.

I was left to lash a tarp between the trees and the minivan while Christopher bounded though the rain towards the somewhat swollen creek. He’d later tell of how folks he met along the way dismissed his chances of finding any willing fish.

He proved them wrong. Casting a now unknown fly and allowing it to drift below overhanging bushes, he found his first trout with his new fly rod. It was a decent brown, a trout that neither of us had the pleasure of meeting face to face. He returned with a contagious joy. The campsite didn’t seem so damp after all.

Again, as can happen in the Sierras, the next day dawned bright and cloudless. The storm had passed, leaving behind a freshness. Vivid green aspen leaves sparkled with water droplets. From the damp ground wafted a pleasant earthiness. The creek ran clear.

A couple of miles along a graded dirt road, among yet more aspens quaking in a light breeze, is a bend in this stream; upstream, where it emerges from tangled braids of nearly impenetrable brambles. It’s one of those typical Sierra streams, small enough to wade across in three or four strides without getting your knees wet, peppered with small, rounded granite rocks and flowing with gin-clear water under dappled sunlight filtering through pines and aspens. This day, trout were stacked up in riffles near the opposite bank.

Small, lightweight Panther Martin spinners got their attention. In a relatively short period I had landed more than my share by tossing a spinner on the opposite bank, gently pulling it into the water, and letting it drift almost haphazardly downstream to the pod of rainbows. Despite using an ultra-light, 5’6” Fenwick rod the thrill of fooling these trout abated after an hour and half of non-stop catching.

The Compleat Angler or the Contemplative Man's Recreation

The Compleat Angler or the Contemplative Man's Recreation

It was time for something a bit more challenging. I asked and borrowed my son’s L.L. Bean fly rod with God-knows-what fly attached to a leader that was probably too short. Though it was more akin to lifting and dropping a wet noodle than a real cast, I got the fly onto the water and floating downstream into promising riffles. I cast again. And again.

A quick splash was the first indication of a decent cast. A few more casts. The fly drifted further into the riffles and nearly out of sight. Another splash and I hooked my first trout on a fly rod. It wasn’t big, maybe six inches. It was one of the most beautiful brown trout — and the first — I have held in my hand.

Thinking back, it wasn’t so much the landing of the fish that first sparked my interest in The Contemplative Man’s Recreation. (For the antithesis of meditative fishing, see Unaccomplished Angler’s “Sturgeon on a dry fly.”) Despite the numbers and statistics thrown around by yours truly, it was the contest between me and the fish — the act of attempting to fool a fish with what it thought might be real food — that hooked me.

As many trout as I’ve been lucky enough to land, each time I’m on the water it becomes clearer that I won’t live long enough to truly understand these fish. They remind me of this with their unpredictable reactions to my best presentations, and baffle me with their willingness to take a poorly presented fly. In that lies the challenge that lures me back.


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fishing and fun at the cabin

As pledged, I took a 10-year-old boy fishing during our Labor Day visit to the family cabin knowing that it necessitated adapting the use of flies to his abilities. These abilities didn’t include the use of a fly rod.

A later-than-usual departure put us on the water after meat fishermen had occupied most of the best spots. But, predictably, a long, fast run was left wide open.

Connor Labor Day 2010

Connor showing his style...follow those flies...

After reaching this run by making our way through shallow water, I rigged up a fly ‘n bubble on the spinning rod, and rather than the typical dry fly, dropped two weighted nymphs off the end of the bubble. With Connor standing next to me, the demonstration began. I showed him, with a few false casts, how to cast/lob this rig without tangling it. I pointed to the upstream location that would offer the best presentation, then cast to it. I talked about how the bubble and flies should travel to where fish might be positioned. I cautioned him to always stop briefly at the end of every drift, and to slightly lift the rod. I demonstrated this technique. And the bubble disappeared and we got my child-like surprise — a fish on the first cast.

I was excited, so was Connor. After releasing the decent-sized rainbow trout, I handed the spinning rod to Connor, who did a great job of listening, so was able to cast and position the bubble ‘n flies for decent drifts. There was constant urging to take a step or two forward to get a bit more distance, and a few tangles that required my assistance, but he did well.

Well enough to entice half a dozen strikes, and hook most of those. However, there would be no landing of these trout. The fast-moving water, the suddenness of the strikes and perhaps simply a young boy’s excitement might have been a bit too much. I seem to recall that it was tough at that age to remember to keep the rod tip up.

I don’t know if it was this lack of landing fish or just the distractedness that comes with being 10 years old, but after about and hour and a half, Connor was ready to move on to something else. I quick hiked up to a higher position allowed for a cell phone signal and a call to the cabin for taxi service. I did get some additional and somewhat silly fishing in after Connor left. The bite was on through noon and I was able to fool a good number of fish.

I also was able to fool a few wild brown trout during a walk with The Wife and I took along a nearby canal. This is where the family schnauzer, Nevada, got his first face-to-face meeting with trout. I don’t think he liked the fact that I put his newfound friends back in the water.

The rest of our weekend was filled with wine tasting, swimming in the lake, eating good food and generally enjoying time being away from the everyday.

In the end, I’d call Connor’s fishing experience a good one. The proof of success will be in whether he again asks to be taken fishing.

Labor Day Rainbow 2010

A nice 'bow on an Ice Cream Cone Chironomid.


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it’s not a sure thing and I like it that way

I’ve decided that the decision to fly fish has heaped an almost unhealthy dose of uncertainty upon me. I write “almost” because it’s not necessarily a bad thing. Unless it’s 2:32 a.m. and sleep is stalled by seemingly ceaseless questions anticipating this weekend’s attempt to put a family friend’s 10-year-old son on to some trout.

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.