Hi, I’m Patrick and I’m a fly fisherman. I cast my last fly…
Late Summer Lament
It’d soften the blow to say that I fell off the wagon this summer. The truth is that I nearly missed the wagon entirely.
There are plenty of excuses for not fly fishing as much as I’d have liked this summer. Sure, high water on many of the rivers for much of the summer is another lame excuse. Thankfully, I’m gainfully employed, which while providing the funds for fishing, also limits the time in which to do so.
I did squeeze in some quality and numbers of fish on the few trips I did make, but it’s been too many days. I’m feeling the shakes. The hope is to get in a quick fix next weekend.
But here in California summer won’t wane until late September, although the high country where I prefer to chase trout will have a light dusting of fall colors by then. That’s when we’ll expect to make up for lost opportunities. It’s the annual club trip and my time there this year will be nearly doubled. The chance of larger fish will also be raised with the hope of spending many of those days on a favorite lake that’s lately been giving up some big brown, rainbow and cutthroat trout.
In between now and then, we’ll be heading to Alaska via a cruise ship, giving devoted attention to The Wife, and there will be no fishing. We’re saving up for a week-long fishing trip in The Last Frontier sometime in the coming year. Or the next.
More Adventure on Two Wheels
The Wife surprised me a while ago. “So, when are you going to take me on the motorcycle?”
There’s no telling if it’s the experience gained over a few years of riding or the miles, or maybe the idea of snuggling at speed, but it was clear she was serious after a little discussion. I knew she used to ride, back when rashness of youth focused on the “bad boys” with their Harleys motorcycles.
After buying a helmet last Saturday (not pink and no rhinestones, thank you), we rode on Sunday. Not too many miles, about 15, but enough for me to get the feel of having a passenger. All went well, no doubt helped along by The Wife’s previous riding experience.
Having a wife supporting her husband’s hobby is pretty near; to join in, definitely a bonus.
When Fly Fishing Wasn’t a Political Photo Op
During some general browsing of the web, I came across the article below from the Ottawa Citizen, dated August 28, 1943. It struck me as an illustration of the resolve of leaders not too many years ago. Despite the troubles of the world, time was taken to enjoy a favored pursuit (albeit during a secret meeting codename Quadrant). A reminder, despite the troubles of today, to slow down and savor that which we enjoy.
Churchill Goes Trout Fishing after Secret Conference in Quebec, from the Ottawa Citizen, Aug. 28, 1943 (via the Google News Archive)
There’s something so very American about rooting for the little guy who’s dreaming big.
Kirk Werner, aka Unaccomplished Angler and children’s book author, certainly seems to be one of those guys. [Insert joke about height here.] Ignoring what he might think of me, I consider him to be a shade more than a passing acquaintance, definitely a friend in the fly fishing fraternity, and now role model when it comes to unbridled ambition.
Maybe some day, Olive...
Kirk’s launched a campaign he hopes will lead to one or all of his books based on the character Olive the Woolly Bugger (also a little guy fly) being made into an animated movie. He might just have a shot. Just not for the obvious reasons.
It’s right there in his chosen moniker: Unaccomplished Angler.
Reading Kirk’s blog you’ll see that he’s certainly endured enough heartache at the fins of taunting trout. Though he doesn’t appear to display overt signs of depression, he’s suffered for his work like many a better-known author; possibly putting him in the company of F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Samuel Clemens, Virginia Woolf, Robert Louis Stevenson and, fittingly for a children’s book author, Hans Christian Andersen.
And, in my humble opinion, the Olive books — to use industry buzzwords — offer nice pacing; quirky, likeable characters and interesting plot twists.
So, being sucked into Kirk’s delusion of grandeur, I’m not only dropping a little image into the side bar supporting Kirk’s efforts in the hope, but offering public words of encouragement.
It never entered my mind that there may be a commission if this all pans out.
Teaching fly fishing requires enthusiasm. Teaching it well requires a bit more. A little curiosity helps.
It was my brother who provided the curiosity. Not openly, but in that tone of voice we’ve all heard before.
We were discussing ideas for his first visit to California in eight years and our trip to, up and over the Sierra Nevadas. “I’d be willing to try fly fishing if you have some gear I could use,” he said over the phone.
I’d thought plenty about offering such an opportunity but hadn’t mentioned it. Everyone has a story about how they were introduced to the sport. Mine surely isn’t unique, but it did imbue me with a belief that a curious mind opens the door to the best first fly fishing experience.
Along with the gear, I’d bring considerable enthusiasm. (It’d help to understand that my sister’s family has given me the nickname of “The Herring Merchant.”*)
That’s how Mark, Sean and I found ourselves on “Hatchery Creek,” not too far away from the cabin, just as sunlight touched the top of the hills. With borrowed waders, boots and a wading staff but minus an overloaded vest, Mark looked just about as silly as I. (It’s a tenant of fly fishing that fish don’t care how one looks.)
[singlepic id=1188 w=325 h=244 float=center]
Mark on a fish.
This creek tucks against a hillside and, controlled by a powerhouse, is nearly always fishable regardless of spring runoff. Though near a main highway, it’s sheltered by heavily treed banks, and — except for the occasional burps of a Jake brake — the outside world is easily left behind. Though the outcome of our day had yet to be determined, the absence of other fisherman was a welcome sign.
After gearing up and giving a primer on the creek, I led Mark toward one of my favorite runs. It’s the same piece of water on which I educated both sons as to the nuances of hydrology. On the surface it looks fast, and most would call it too fast for fish. The most obvious (and dependable) spot for trout here is near the far bank, where the water’s velocity is slowed by friction. Perhaps because of constant shadows and the lack of light, it’s difficult to see the nearer telltale seams that suggest hidden trout. As both sons learned years ago, a little bit of patience and a passable drift in the proper location will surprise you. It’s also a great spot to swing a fly at the end of the drift.
We were rigged up with nymphs under an indicator. It was too early for dry flies, and to my knowledge this creek is devoid of any real insect hatches, with only occasional dry fly takes in the afternoon.
There’s nothing more conducive to learning than doing, and my strategy was simple: talk, walk, fish and hope that Mark would get into at least one fish while doing so. I would take on the role of guide. I’d assemble leaders, tie knots and select flies. It would be Mark’s “job” to focus on hooking and landing a fish.
It Ain’t Pretty, But Works
For those who haven’t fly fished, casting nymphs (often heavier, underwater flies) with an indicator (yeah, like a bobber) is an inelegant affair. In this case it was more of a lobbing action. After a bit of discussion about this technique and a quick demonstration, Mark made his first casts. Occasionally I’d offer a bit of advice. The suggestion of a casting target that’d offer a better drift into a good trout lie. A recommendation to keep a tight line between the rod to the indicator, then a gentle admonishment to keep an eye on the indictor for any movement that didn’t seem “normal.” A description of the slight lift the rod should be given at the end of every drift.
It was that last piece of advice that gave Mark his first surprise. He’d made a good drift with no takers. Toward the end of the run, the rod tip was raised, the movement of the indicator slowed, and the flies below rose toward the water’s surface, as an emerging insect might do.
That’s how Mark hooked his first trout on a fly rod. Just as quickly as it was on, it was off.
It didn’t matter that we didn’t land that fish. It’s the confidence and faith that washed over Mark’s face that mattered. His big brother wasn’t just blowing smoke. An unseen fish had risen to take a fly presented just as he had advised. Without any encouragement from me, the training wheels were off.
Heading upstream, Mark stopped at a suspect pool while I ventured toward a stretch where riffles tumbled into a long, deep run that abutted a boulder, which in turn created a pool that offered a long tailout. Sean had fished the area earlier, but had since headed downstream.
When Mark moved to the pool behind that boulder, just below me, I futilely tried to keep an eye on my indicator as well as Mark’s. I needn’t have. Before I knew it Mark had set the hook. Encouraging him to keep the rod tip up, a bend in the rod and to allow the fish to tired ever so slightly, I dropped set aside my rod, grabbed my net, and headed downstream.
Mark was broadly smiling as the rod tipped danced. Not an acrobatic fish, it splashed enough to put on a bit of a show. Soon Mark turned its head and we had a decent trout in the net.
[singlepic id=1189 w=480 h=640 float=center]
Mark and his first fly rod fish.
Mark waded over for the obligatory fish photo. Excitement shifted to quiet contemplation. We talked of wetting hands before handing trout, the ease of removing a barbless hook, and keeping the fish in the water until all were ready for the photo. Photo taken, we let it rest in the net. It was a remarkably clean, deep bellied and heavily dotted hatchery rainbow trout measuring an honest 13 inches; a admirable first fly rod fish.
It quickly recovered and, as discussed, Mark softly cradled the trout as I lowered the lip of the net. Often, it seems to me that time slows in the minute or so before a trout finally swings its tail and darts for the familiar safety of deeper water. I never asked Mark if he felt that same sensation, but the look on his face confirmed that he had discovered the magic of catch and release fishing.
The Lesson Learned
At that moment I got it. A curtain parted ever so slightly, giving me privileged insight into why fly fishing guides, those who truly enjoy what they do, do what they do.
More could be written about that day. About the other fish that Mark stalked, hooked and landed, and his amazement that he could do so while hardware and bait fishermen struggled for even a single fish. About Mark’s discovery of trout in places he previously might have dismissed as holding fish. About a simple enjoyment in finding that sharing of one’s love of fly fishing can spark the beginnings of such a passion in another.
But looking above, there’s not much else to worth writing about Mark’s first fly fishing experience and how it rekindled in me renewed appreciation for the little things, beyond the fishing, that bring such joy to the sport.
[In the movie “Love and Death”] Boris is in love with Sonja, but she is unhappily married to Voskovec the Herring Merchant (“his mentality,” she complains, “has reduced all the beauty of the world to a small pickled fish“). She takes lovers. (“She takes uppers?” Boris repeats, incredulous, when he hears this news). Voskovec, preparing his pistols to fight a duel in defence of his wife’s honour, accidentally shoots himself. Sonja goes to his deathbed in the company of a couple of doctors. In what is, I think, my favourite exchange in all film, Sonja talks to the expiring man…Here’s the tender deathbed scene:
SONJA: You were a kind and loving husband. Generous and always considerate. (To doctors) What’s he got? About eight minutes?
DOCTOR: (consulting his watch) I think I’m slow. He’s got about three.
VOSKOVEC: Swimming out! Swimming out to the open sea like the great … wild … herring! [Dies]
(You can find more photos here under “The Brother’s Visit – Tuolumne Meadows, Eastern Sierra, First Time Fly Fishing”.)
I’ve no way of checking, but I’m pretty sure hell’s frozen over.
After eight years since his last appearance in the Golden State, my brother showed up with no specific plans. That’s where I stepped in as travel agent, outfitter and guide; apparently a role that suits me better than might be expected.
Lembert Dome viewed from the Tuolumne Meadows Campground, and where we'd be going.
A visit to the cabin is akin to establishing a base camp. In our case, a base camp stocked with beef jerky, beer and an XBox. One might be inclined to think it was something like a “man cave,” but there’s an irony to my brother and I spending quality man time together. Those who’ve been in the proximity when we get together know that we quickly prove the adage that you can’t take the boy out of the man.
Mark lives in the Evergraygreen state and while he said he’d enjoy seeing California family members, it became clear that he perhaps more happy to see the sun. I swung by the airport to him pick up Wednesday evening and we met up with my oldest son, Sean, at the Bass Pro Shop in Manteca. We secured a two-day nonresident fishing license, grabbed dinner and headed up the hill.
Weather-wise, we’d hit it right. Temperatures had peaked that day and would be still warm but slightly lower the next few days, meaning it would cool off at night; something important for a good night’s sleep in a cabin that has no insulation and no air conditioning.
Before Mark or Sean posts a comment below, I will admit that I was adamant that I would I had expected to wake up and hit the road for Tuolumne Meadows early the next morning. I did wake up at 5:00 a.m. But I rolled over and caught a few more winks.
Mark had asked if we might be able to hike up Lembert Dome. He and I had done so back when we were boys, with my sister and dad. It’s a pretty easy drive from the cabin to Tuolumne Meadows, just about 2½ hours. Since Tioga Pass had opened the week before, we would circle our way back over Sonora Pass.
Mark's friend, the Marmot, at Olmstead Point.
It’s been said many times before, but the blue of the sky is remarkable at higher altitudes, and we weren’t disappointed. With only a few clouds in the sky, we passed through the entrance station and soon arrived at Olmstead Point. Reinforcing that he boy stills lives within the man, Mark was all about seeing and getting photos of the marmots of our childhood at Olmstead. A few marmots obliged.
We next stopped at the Tuolumne Meadows Campground, where we spent many a family vacation camping. Sure, some things have changed — mostly manmade things — but nearly everything was recognizable and Mark and I soon agreed upon the location of “our” campsite, partially based on its position relative to the Tuolumne River, which itself was nearly unrecognizably high. I’m sure Sean was somewhat amused by our reminiscing.
Just down the road we pulled into the parking lot at the Lembert Dome trailhead and loaded up. The trail begins with a modest incline, but starting at about 8,600 feet and rising another 800 feet to the dome’s summit, it was soon clear that our lungs would get the kind of workout not seen in years. The gradient seemed to increase every 100 feet, and even if we were on the trail (we weren’t), it would be covered by extensive snow fields that made the hiking more difficult. At one point, Mark fell through the snow into a waist-high air pocket. Undaunted but pausing more often that we’d care to admit to catch our breath, we pressed on. I’m sure it took a lot of patience for Sean to not charge ahead. (I don’t think he broke a sweat or even breathed hard.)
It’s said that the memory grows hazy over time and Mark and I didn’t remember the last stretch up the back of Lembert Dome being so steep or requiring so much climbing. But climb we did, reaching the top. The view was made a tad more incredible by the fact that we had it to ourselves.
Me, Mark & Sean a the top of Lembert Dome. (After Mark and I rested for half an hour just a few minutes.)
It was hoped that we’d also find some water to fish. Without much browbeating Mark had asked if he might get a chance to try fly fishing, and I had plenty of gear he could use. We rigged up and flogged the no-so-high-but-higher-than-usual Lee Vining Creek. It was tough going. I was the only one to get two strikes, but missed both fish.
We refueled our egos with some good barbecue at Bodie Mike’s, then headed north to Bridgeport, and I pointed out all of the water that we might have fished. Every single river was the color Yoo-Hoo.
Traveling creates memories, and traversing the Sierra Nevada Mountains can make for some of the most vivid memories. Then there are other things that one doesn’t soon forget.
Our return to the cabin meant a few preparations for the next day, when we’d get out on “Hatchery Creek,” hoping to get Mark into his first trout on a fly rod. Mark looked to verify that his fish license was in his wallet. It was. His driver’s license wasn’t. He searched through my car. Sean looked through his car. I looked around the cabin. Mark began to go through his suitcase. After thinking about it a bit, I called Bass Pro Shop. The customer service rep went through the lost and found, looking for a Washington license with the appropriate name and a goofy looking photo.
Soon we were making the 1½-hour drive back to Manteca. Only a few miles went by without Sean or I reminding Mark of his snafu.
There was an upside to this. We enjoyed a manly dinner at the House of Beef.
Back at the cabin, assurances were made that I’d not linger in bed the next morning as there’d be fish to catch. And I did not.
But Mark’s First Fly Fishing Experience is a story unto itself, and for next week.
(You can find more photos here under “The Brother’s Visit – Tuolumne Meadows, Eastern Sierra, First Time Fly Fishing”.)
A marmot at Olmstead Point, a stop on our way to Tuolumne Meadows, and a hike that would require the full use of our lungs.
Looking at our Target - Lembert Dome - from Tuolumne Meadows Campground, over the very swollen Tuolumne River. The hike is 1.5 miles with an 800-foot elevation gain.
Mark and Sean on the last stretch up the back of Lembert Dome.
The view from Lembert Dome, looking out over Tuolumne Meadows.
Mark's first experience fly fishing...obviously it went well.
Chalk it up to vanity or lack of maturity as a fly fisherman, but I felt the pressure on our second day to beat last year’s Eagle Lake record of 53 rainbows to the net.
We’d met our competition the guys in the other boat, a father who had gifted his son a guided trip for his birthday, and our guide reminded us that we’d fallen far short of our record the day before.
Things looked good. Scattered clouds, a bit of a breeze and the sun cresting the mountains.
Like nearly any water, the fishing on Eagle Lake can be changeable. That’s to be expected. Calm conditions will kill the bite. A weak breeze that morning put the burden on Don and I to make the most of every strike. We did, but it was a slow start. Atypically, the fish were smaller. It seems as if the big fish had moved off The Mesa during the night, to be replaced by youngsters. (Thankfully, the smallest fish of the day — an eight incher — was landed by Doug, our guide.)
Every time Don would hook a fish, I’d wait. I’ve learned to never recast if my partner just had a strike. More often than not, leaving flies in the water would lead to a double hook up. The proof’s in the video below, courtesy one of small cameras mounted on Don’s hat.
After noon, both guide boats were side by side. Our of the corner of our eyes, we’d all watch for the sudden jerk of a hookset and watch anxiously to see if a fish made it to the net. Don and I were one fish behind our competition.
It boiled down to making the hookset. And we did.
It wasn’t a day of huge fish. It also took some work — twitching the fly here and there, mending and casting to transitions — but the fish were passing by often enough to ensure regular hook ups. Our lead was extended, fish by fish.
In the end, we’d come within touching distance of our record, with 52 fish for the day.
By the end of that day, we were tired. Not tired of catching fish, but our hands and wrists and forearms ached. The sun had exacted its toll. I faced a long drive home. But all was good. It was a great time. It always is at Eagle.
It’s the kind of fishing that feels illegal, immoral and just plain wrong, but so good that you hope the semi-remote location will keep all but most motivated anglers from visiting.
For a second year, fishing buddy Don and I made the trek to Eagle Lake last weekend. Last year we had done so Father’s Day weekend, just as a huge caddis hatch was coming off. Arriving a week earlier this year, we saw only the beginning of the hatch. Regardless of our timing, it was certain that fishing would be good, the catching great, and, now it seems, that I’d pull an annual bonehead move.
For me the trip’s about 270 miles, really not too far, but the last 128 miles of a narrow two-lane state highway twists and turns through canyons. Whatever mapping application or GPS you use will indicate it’ll take roughly five hours driving time, but the nature of those last hundred miles will add just under an hour. The driving is so slow it’s common for folks to get a bit lost thinking they’ve passed the turnoff for Spalding when it’s still miles up the road.
A little sample of Sierra Nevada Brewery's Ovila Dubbel and California Common. Both great.
Last year I drove straight through, which made for a tough haul. This year I heeded the adage of setting short, obtainable goals. Luckily enough, the Sierra Nevada brewery in Chico is about midway between home and the Eagle Lake, and without pushing it, I could arrive just in time for the tour at noon.
Whether or not you’re a fan of Sierra Nevada beers, the hour-long tour’s well worth a stop. Along the tour are offers to taste the toasted malted barley and wort, which tastes of Grape Nuts with a sweetness so strong it implies instant cavities, and a chance to rub and smell whole-cone hops. The history of the brewery is a large part of the tour, and it’s eco-friendliness is dumbfounding.
Good food and beer go hand in hand with fishing, there was no slouching on my part. The Sierra Nevada Brewery Restaurant has some great grub — steaks and burgers from the brewery’s spent-grain-fed 50 head of cattle — and flights of all beers on tap, many of which can’t be found elsewhere. Driving by myself, I asked for a couple of tastes: California Common and Ovila Dubbel. Both were tasty, and the California Common, a recipe created in last year’s beer camp with yeast native to the Golden State, seemed to have a little bit of that unique sourness found in San Francisco sourdough bread. (And personal kudos to Sierra Nevada as I wasn’t charged for the two small tastes.)
Eagle Lake is in the far northeastern corner of California, about 40 miles from the Nevada border and 90 miles from the Oregon border. The nearest town, Susanville, has been called “Prison Town, USA,” as about 40% of its 18,000 residents are housed at the High Desert State Prison and the California Correctional Facility, were actor Danny Trejo served time.
About 20 miles out of Chico, State Highway 32 winds through high desert and scrub to climb into a denser evergreen forest. The highway crosses Deer Creek numerous times and though the water was high, a few fly fishermen were wading in the slower sections. The town of Chester marks the beginning of the last, tortuously slow leg of the drive toward Spalding, which hugs the northeastern edge of Eagle Lake.
There’s not much cell phone coverage after leaving Chico, so it wasn’t until I pulled into Chester that a text message from Don popped up, letting me know he was in Susanville. I acknowledged his message with my location, to get a reply that he had just talked with our guide, Doug, who said the bite had been excellent. I trust Doug well enough that the thought didn’t even cross my mind that he might be setting us up for the big “you should’ve been here yesterday.”
Lunch was big, so dinner that night was a single grilled cheese sandwich and a beer, enjoyed in view of the lake, its water slowly darkening as the embers of a setting sun touched the tips of the surrounding mountains.
Never a Dull Moment
To be clear, I’m usually adequately prepared when it comes to fishing. But there’s something about the prospect of big Eagle Lake rainbows that seems to scramble my brain. Last year I lost track of my fishing license, something guides tend to require clients have in their possession.
[singlepic id=1136 w=300 h=225 float=center]
Don on the chilly morning ride to "The Mesa."
This year it was the same but different. As I hoisted my backpack to my shoulder, a pocket I had left that unzipped itself allowed my wallet to be flung to parts unknown. A quick scan of the ground revealed nothing. Thinking it might have fallen out back at camp I told Don and rushed off, thankful that I had arrived at the marina 20 minutes early. Not finding my wallet, I shoved any worries about it to the back of my mind. But confirming my choice in fishing buddies, Don was waiting in the boat with the first big catch of the day…my wallet. Finally I could enjoy a morning that hinted at good weather and gave rise to great expectations. The sky was peppered with white clouds that suggested changeable weather; good news if it brought a welcome breeze to the lake’s surface.
Anglers have been taking fish from the lake since Memorial Day, but as is the case with Eagle Lake, the trout population can make for stupid, silly catching much of the time. It’s a simple matter of being there on the bite with the right flies at the right depths in the right location. Doug has his favorite spots and our first stop was cryptically referred to as “The Mesa.” After positioning and anchoring the boat based on the wind, currents and structure, casts were made and indicators watched.
No matter one’s thoughts on stillwater nymphing, it demands decent casting as well as the mental stamina to discern the exact moment at which to set the hook. Casting two nymphs, split shot and an indicator isn’t elegant, but requires a certain skill to prevent incidental ear piercing.
Those who decry indicators often imply they make fly fishing too easy. But throw out 40 feet of fly line and put 10 feet of leader below an indicator, and it’s not that easy. One has to maintain constant vigilance, watching for the subtle difference between a “drive by” and an actual strike. A strike doesn’t always bury the indicator under water and often isn’t convenient. One learns to pause and pay close attention in those short moments after a twitch or line mends. It can be tough. I’ve heard of one experience fly fisher who went oh-for-eleven on solid strikes during the early morning bite.
[singlepic id=1140 w=300 h=225 float=center]
Don and his first-day big Eagle Lake Rainbow.
Don’s the kind of fishing buddy who will quietly sneak up on his partner when it comes to the “body count.” He’s also a great team player. We both bring experience to the lake, and guide Doug was impressed that Don and I as a team achieved an estimated successful hookset percentage north of 95% on Sunday. For our two days on the lake that figure was likely north of 90%.
As I’ve implied, great fishing can be anticipated on Eagle Lake. One guide is fond of saying that double hookups can be expected and triples are common. Even new fly fishers can often look back upon a day of 20-plus fish to the net. Many are in the 14- to 18-inch range; some edge above 18 inches. Given enough good hooksets, a few closer to 20 inches will make it to the boat. The larger fish will bulldog towards the bottom, while smaller fish will fool you with vicious head shakes and long runs, sometimes into the backing. If you’re lucky enough, as Don and I were, you’ll land a few native fish that are beautiful enough to compare favorably with Alaska’s famed leopard-spotted rainbows.
[singlepic id=1144 w=300 h=169 float=center]
My biggest Eagle Lake Rainbow – over 22 inches.
There are the Big Fish. During the morning of our first day, Don and I brought a couple in the 22-inch neighborhood to the net. It’s a different challenge to bring these big dogs in; they’re strong and tend to seek the darkness under the boat. Some will even clear the water after that first sting of the hook, as if to intimidate the funny-looking hairy beast on the other end of the line.
The fishing started off strong that first morning with the kind of rapid-fire hookups that give rise to concerns that the bite will taper into nothingness by noon. But this was Eagle Lake, and with some patience and dialing in the aforementioned flies, depth and location, one can expect steady action. Sometimes slower, sometimes not.
Forty-two fish made it to the boat that day. Eleven short of our record last year; but things looked promising for day two. Little did I know how tough it might be.
Hi, I’m Patrick and I’m a fly fisherman. I cast my last fly…
fishing for words 