There’s a sinister side to fly fishing. One’s entrance into the sport is often innocent enough. Like many before me, it’s nothing more than the next step in the evolution of a fisherman who’s looking for a way to catch more fish or perhaps find a greater challenge in doing so.
But if fly fishing were a living and breathing thing, it’d be the Borg.
Slowly, you find that you’d rather fish than eat — I’ve lost more weight when fishing. (Only to regain it later with the unsound rationalization that I somehow can calorically afford a huge steak. And beer.) Sleep becomes an inconvenience to arriving streamside at sunrise. Work serves to only fund the acquisition of new gear, flies and too many lines, rods and reels.
They say the first signs of an addiction go unnoticed. That second rod, then a third, are justified as “back ups.” Another reel, ‘cause you need it for those back up rods. One more rod in a different weight; either to gain an advantage over bigger fish or to offer a fair chance to smaller ones. Thankfully, this accumulated paraphernalia can hide in the garage.
Then, if you’re really unlucky not paying attention, the Wife will find that first fly tying vise attached to the dinner table. Around it may be scattered thread, feathers, and perhaps a few hairs from the dog and cat. Not to mention surgically sharp hooks lost in the carpet. Over time, an allowance is made for a TV tray to be left in the corner of the den, overflowing with materials amassed from fly shops, craft stores and the irresistible treasure troves offered up free by fellow fly fishermen who’ve been told volunteered to clear out years of collected fly tying provisions.
Try as I might, it seems there’s no turning back. So I’ve given in.
Just before Thanksgiving, hidden in a darkened garage and goaded on guided by a fellow addict, I will choose a fly rod blank, a grip, a reel seat and guides.
Come January, I will begin to build a fly rod. Resistance is futile.
This whole fly fishing thing is becoming a bit problematic. I prefer to work in the shadows. Or at least with some anonymity.
Maybe my problem lies in the admonishment from the folks who raised us to ‘do your best.’ Mediocrity inherently affords secrecy, and people can’t seek advice from someone who’s unknown. But, apparently, the aforementioned parental advice stuck.
I like praise just as much as the next person, but earlier this summer the realization snuck up on me that I’d become a bit too recognizable and possibly had gained a reputation well above my level of competence when I uncomfortably overheard a fly fishing club member tell another that I was an ‘expert’ on fly fishing in the Eastern Sierras. He claimed to have seen me in action. (I doubt that. Anyone who’s seen my cast would quickly seek another ‘authority.’)
The start of this can be traced back to my failed attempt to become the man behind the curtain in giving something back. The thought was that my modest HTML skills could help craft a website that better represented the club that put me on the path to addictionfly fishing. That snowballed into being asked to become club secretary. I rationalized my acceptance with the thinking that everyone knows an organization’s president and probably the vice president. But secretary? I’d just attend board meeting, write the minutes and no one would be the wiser.
A few months later, flattery overwhelmed the desire to plod along unknown when I was asked to help out with the novice fly fishing seminar, the same class that gave me a broad but solid education on fly fishing. Certainly no one would remember the guy who helped teach basic hooking and landing tactics. Against all reasoning, some do.
Then there was the quiet appeal that ended with my acceptance to become the ‘fishmaster’ for the club’s Eastern Sierra trip. My responsibilities would simply entail keeping track of the folks who sign up, arrange lodging and assign responsibility for meals. All while I was blindly acknowledging these duties, my focus was on the selfish benefit of being able to tell The Wife, with a straight face and with honesty, that another fishing trip to one of my favorite places was a necessity. Again I was certain that they’d be a different group of folks every year. But, for some unfathomable reason more that half of the folks on this trip have gone with me every time. Maybe it’s the excellent fishing, the often great weather, the fantastic scenery, the homemade beer or the witnessesfriendship.
Compounding my problem is Google. Yeah, I blame Google too. During the last 12 months I’ve received a handful of inquiries from folks either asking or thanking me for information about a river, stream or lake mentioned here. I know these folks are digging deep for information. fishing for words ranks as number 12,133,256 in popularity by Alexa Traffic Rank. That said, Google also seems to lend instant credibility. Though the conventional wisdom is that people don’t believe everything they read online, showing up anywhere in Google search results suggests you must know what you’re writing about.
Success, of course, is the real problem here. I like to fish. I like to solve problems. So I often fool fish, hook some and even land a fair share. Afterwards, I share fishy stories. And people find me believable.
I’m not complaining, mind you, and I’m certainly not asking for a skunking. It is ironic, however, that doing well would mean failure at being just another face in the crowd.
I’m not a fly fishing expert, but maybe I could play one on TV.
Every time I load up to chase trout with a fly rod, it’s struggle to not read every possible fishing report. Anticipation is part of fishing. Anglers also dread hearing “You should have been here yesterday.” But reports the day before I would head into Sierra Nevada hinted that the timing of this trip couldn’t be better.
My ultimate destination would be Tom’s Place, a bump on Hwy 395 where I and 10 club members, when not fishing, would eat, drink copious amounts of homemade beer and sleep. When I scheduled this trip more than eight months ago, the date was adjusted so that I could commit to helping out with the club’s novice seminar. Which is why this year’s trip was a bit later than usual. Turns out that was a very good thing.
Hoping to avoid the throngs of early afternoon commuters, I was on the road by noon Thursday. It was unusually nice to travel quickly at my own pace down the highway with plenty of time to stop for lunch and visit Bass Pro Shops. So it was that I arrived at The Family Cabin with time for a preemptive attempt to prevent a skunking from even starting. Not too far away is Lyons Canal, really an irrigation ditch, where one can cast at suspicious water. It didn’t take long before I landed both wild browns and stocked rainbows. Trusting this was a small indication of what to expect during the next four days, I made tracks for a Mexican eatery in town. I couldn’t help but smile. I do like Twain Harte between the winter and summer, when the skiers and the tourists are long gone and the fish seem a tad more hungry.
The official plan was for club members to meet up early Friday afternoon at the rustic Tom’s Place Resort, but my intention was to beat the sun over Sonora Pass and arrive at Hot Creek by 8:00 a.m. My strategy was a hopeful one — beat the crowds that might force me on to less-than-prime water at this immensely popular fly fishing only/barbless hook/zero limit creek. I crested the final turn and neared my destination to glimpse a beautiful sight: an empty parking lot. I’d end up having the upper half of Hot Creek to myself for three hours under an deep and endless blue sky. I highly recommend it.
In the weeks prior I’d poured over past fishing reports, including my own, and tied flies I thought I’d need. Thanks to recent reports from a few DVFF club members, I knew that small would be the name of the game. However, with the creek still in the shade of the canyon and no visible insects hatching, it took a size 22 tiger midge nymph to dredge up my first fish; a fish that promptly reminded me that one does not trifle with Hot Creek trout. I lost it after only one jump. With that warning, I coaxed the next fish, a Loch Leven brown, to the net. I took it as a sign that this was going to be a good day.
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Hot Creek Brownie
Before continuing, let me describe Hot Creek to the uninitiated. It’s been called by many a fly fisher the most exciting and frustrating water they’ve ever fished. It’s relatively shallow and much of the year may be heavy with weeds. Sometimes it can be an accomplishment to get a drag-free drift of more than two feet. In between those weeds are the fish. Good-sized fish, and a lot of them. You can see them and they you. If you hook one, it’s not uncommon for it to be longer than 14 inches.
It didn’t take long after the sun touched the water for the hatches began. After ten o’clock, blanket hatches of caddis came in waves. They were many in number but thin little things. Not being the best dry fly fisherman, I trailed a size 22 blue winged olive dry (I later used a pale morning dun dry) behind a size 20 caddis, and used the caddis as a reference point as the smaller fly was often lost in bubbles on the surface. It worked well. Four hours later and after nine trout hooked and five guided to the net, I grudgingly headed back to the car. The crisp morning had given way to a beautiful afternoon, with the kiss of cool breeze to keep the heat from the sun at bay. It was fall in the Sierra Nevadas and the aspen leaves were becoming a brilliant yellow.
After stowing gear in the cabins and getting reports about good fishing on waters such as Rock Creek and the West Walker and Carson rivers, small groups headed out to various waters, some with the gift of size 22 dries for Hot Creek. Others headed up Rock Creek, while a few folks simply enjoyed the great weather and adult beverages back at the cabins. (One consistent lure for this trip is one member’s home-brewed beer.) While I played with the brook trout in Rock Creek, one of my gift flies was lost to a hot Hot Creek fish by the recipient. As the sun set, we sat down for man food: barbecue beef sandwiches and potato salad, washing it down with that first-rate homemade beer, and sprinkling our meal with tales of the day’s fishing.
Saturday dawned cold and sunny, with myself and an unsuspecting companion arriving at Crowley Lake marina to find the guide boat coated with ice. One of our group headed to Hot Creek for redemption after a scoreless visit the day before, to be joined by two other club cohorts. Five of our troupe were off to the Upper Owens River. Redemption was found on Hot Creek with a few of those 16” trout. The Upper Owens crew would later estimate walking 10 or more miles, but found fish along the way.
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Fish On @ Crowley Lake
As for myself and my fishing buddy, the powerful trout in Crowley Lake provided steady action throughout the day. (My friend Jay was quite surprised at the strength of even the smaller Crowley trout. Sore arms are common after a hote bite.) Highlights of the day for me were a 20-inch cutthroat and 20-inch rainbow among the many trout brought to the net. Another highlight was my first experience being taken into my backing.
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Big Crowley Cutthroat
Big Crowley trout tend to simply suck a fly into their mouth and keep moving. The ‘take’ can be deceptively gentle. Once the hook was set, however, this fish was off to the races. In short order it was at least 120 feet away. It jumped, and so did I and the guide when we got a look at a fish that we could only estimate to be ‘huge.’ But big fish don’t get big by being stupid. There was a lot of give and take during our battle. It seemed like 15 minutes but more likely 10 before the fight was again near the boat. To give the fish more credit than it’s probably due, that’s when it seemed to make a beeline for the anchor lines. During my effort to convince this fish to turnaround, I lost it. But what a day…
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20-inch Crowley Rainbow
Our evening was again a time for swapping tales, enjoying an awesome meat sauce and spaghetti, laying plans for fishing during our return home the next day, and trying to make sure our brewer would take only empties home. Morning seems to come early, but reluctance to leave stalled our departure. In my three years acting as ‘fishmaster’ for this outing (and yes, it’s only an act), this was the best. A perfect storm of great weather and great fishing (and catching).
Sunday, with an invite to join the Mom-in-Law for an excellent pizza margherita, I would have to head over Sonora Pass by two o’clock. That left plenty of time to fish. Loving the Tioga Pass area as I do, it was time to try my hand on Saddlebag Creek. Near 10,000 feet, it’s a small creek that emerges from a rock-filled dam that holds back Saddlebag Lake. The creek ambles through a small canyon before meandering into open meadows. Most folks fish it downstream near the highway. A short drive up a dirt road, however, gets one away from the crowds and into small brook trout country. Again it took small flies, dry midges this time, to entice these beautiful little trout.
Wanting to be closer to the pass when the time came to leave, I drove north with the intention of visiting the West Walker River. I’d heard it was fishing well.
But it seems that it’s difficult for me to drive past the East Walker River. Most spots on the upper section (above the bridge) were occupied. One, which I had fished before, was available. I’d have about two hours to fish. I ‘wadered up’ and wandered down to the river. Bugs were hatching. Fish were rising. Hopes were high. After observing rising fish for a few minutes, I quietly entered the water. Casts were made. An hour and forty minutes later, I could take credit for only two strikes. It wasn’t looking good for my unskunked record at the East Walker.
I subscribe to the idea that when in doubt move to new water. I edged downstream to find a nice if somewhat fast pool with a promising run above it and nice boulders below it. With nymphs set relatively deep, I began exploring the nearest seem. It took only three casts before a very nice brown volunteered to keep my record intact. In the next 10 to 15 minutes, I landed my first East Walker rainbow and two more browns.
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The East Walker Brown, aka Skunk Remover
The previous days’ fishing made the two-hour drive west over Sonora Pass a not-so-unpleasant affair. The Mom-in-Law, two family friends and I enjoyed an excellent dinner (and dessert) that evening.
Having a full day to make the drive home, there was no reason not to squeeze in a bit more fishing. After chasing wild fish for three days it’s somewhat of a guilty pleasure to drop by Moccasin Creek, but it’s sort of on the way home, and this time of year wild browns from the lake downstream mingle with the stocked rainbows. Best of all, on a week day you can have the entire creek, more of a small river, to yourself.
Indeed, I was the only one fishing. Yes, hatchery rainbows were stacked up where you’d expect them. There’d be no browns today. Nevertheless, this visit would be unique.
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Moccasin Rainbow
The first rainbow I hooked, not a big fish, maybe 11”, jumped at least five times before settling down. Most of the others did much of the same. Others screamed toward the weeds. These fish were crazy. It was silly fishing. Then they went insane. I’ve not experienced prolific hatches on Moccasin Creek. Today was different. Watch the video below, and you’ll see what I mean. They were going nuts.
That, my friends, sums up one heck of a long fly fishing weekend.
Oh, if you want evidence, here’s the pictures… (Use “Compatibility View” in Internet Explorer if pictures overlap.)
This humble writer should be stumbling hiking down to Hot Creek about this time these words are automatically posted. The expectation is that I will be on the road as of 5:00 a.m., clearing Sonora Pass shortly after sunrise, and three hours later parking the car about 100 feet above the creek. With any luck, I’ll be on the water before any big hatches direct the eyes of the many resident trout (estimated at 3,000 educated fish per mile as of 2008) to surface.
Is rising early and all this driving worth it?
About the time you’re safely sipping coffee in your cozy breakfast nook and reading this, I’ll have the answer.
I’ve fished Hot Creek before, but only after a recent glance at the calendar did I realize this year the club fishing trip, led by yours truly for a third time as “fishmaster,” would begin the day after the official start of fall. To be clear, trout don’t care about dates on a calendar. However, first-hand reports from fly fishing friends hint that I could be in for some fun dry fly action. Crazy, trout slurping the surface kind of stuff. One of the signs of fall in the Sierra Nevadas.
Only this time I’ll be going small. Word is that size 20 flies might be just this side of too big. For perspective, those pesky mosquitoes everyone knows are roughly a size 18.
Beyond the fishing, it’ll be a new experience hiking down to the creek later in the season. Hot Creek — more so than other streams and creeks in the Eastern Sierra’s Long Valley — has always stood out as a beautiful green gem in an otherwise dusty brown high desert. This time around some frost, and perhaps a bit of ice, may gild the lily.
If all goes well, I’ll be on Hot Creek long enough to feel the sun’s warming rays, and hoping to not leave until sometime after midday.
I’ll then meet up with the rest of the club members to stow gear in our rustic digs. Later it’ll be up the canyon to play with small wild brook trout somewhere near 10,000 feet. These are the guys, or descendants of the guys, who showed me how much fun fly fishing can be. Willing to take a fly and just as willing to show off brilliant colors, it seemed as if each released fish jokingly told it’s companions, “Dude, you gotta try this bug that’s drifting toward us. And don’t worry about that green line floating behind it.” It was so silly that my son finally had to point out it was getting too dark to fish.
I’ve set aside Saturday to spend time on Crowley Lake with a guide. Guide trips can be addicting and relaxing…often all you have to do is show up. My only responsiblity will be casting, hooking and landing fish.
The rest of my time on the “East Side” will be left to spur-of-the-moment decisions. Saturday afternoon could mean a visit to the Upper Owens, a hike along mid-canyon sections of Rock Creek or chasing down companions’ reports of willing fish in other waters. Sunday will mean finding my way back to the cabin, stopping to fish along the way, of course. Likely this will mean a welfare check on some wild brookies near Tioga Pass, perhaps a first attempt to fish Saddlebag Creek, then a swing by the East, West or Little Walker rivers. Monday morning I’ll wake up at the Family Cabin, with the only necessary decisions being whether to get in a few more hours fishing before descending from the foothills and where to eat lunch.
When it is all over, chances are good it’ll be a day few weeks before I’ll feel the itch to fish. If all goes well, I’ll make all five of my readers envious with a report next week.
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 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.
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.
Sunday was only the day between the days that I’d be fishing. Saturday was set aside for salmon. Monday would be time for more gentlemanly and sporting fly fishing; dad’s first experience of fly fishing, ever, and my first visit to the Yakima River.
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Looking downstream on The Yak.
The plan called for hooking up with guide Derek Young in Snoqualmie at eleven o’clock that morning, meaning a leisurely drive from Duvall under gray skies. As with many of my guided fly fishing trips, there’s months of anticipation and correspondence, including probably too many questions from me, followed by the first face-to-face meeting.
Derek’s one of the growing number of guide/acquaintances who are forcing me to come to grips with age. Used to be I’d expect a guide to be a fellow with at least a few years on me. No so much anymore. Young(er) is fast becoming my description of the guides I’m meeting.
We climbed into Derek’s truck after quick introductions, and took off east on Highway 90 towards Ellensburg. The drive offered a good opportunity to set goals and expectations for the day, peppered by an abbreviated education of the scenery passing our windows, its geography and its history. The miles were marked by a slow transition from the wet side of the Cascade Mountains to the dry side, and overcast gave way to clear, blue skies. A quick stop was made in Ellensburg to arrange for shuttle service, and then it was off to our put-in point.
As one who typically wades into trout waters, larger rivers can be intimidating. The Yakima was no exception this day, running somewhere near 3,000 cubic feet per second. Derek placed The Green Drake, our boat for the day, in the river. Rods were rigged and safety stressed. We’d be doing a float of about five miles through the Farmlands section of the river, with a first stop shortly downstream to warm up our casting arms.
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Derek holding court.
Dad took up the seat on the bow — often referred to as the ‘hot seat’ as it’s the first part of the boat to pass fishy water — and I perched on the stern. It was warm, verging on hot, but the cool water of the river, with sort of glaciated green cast to it, offered natural air conditioning.
It was a short ride downstream before Derek pulled alongside a small island near the far bank. Derek was recommended not only a great guide for the Yakima, but as a teacher. Besides getting me on to some fish, the hope was to ‘learn’ my dad a bit about fly fishing. Throughout the day Derek would work alongside dad, offering guidance on casting, reading the water and answering questions about insects, the river, trout and darn near anything.
I wasn’t left entirely on my own. Remember, most everything I fish in California can be waded across without much trouble, but with a bit of direction and some pointers Derek sent me toward some fishy spots. Meanwhile, Derek would get dad acquainted with the tools of the trade and casting.
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Class in session: dad and Derek seeking fish.
This first stop put me in position to target the bank with an upstream cast, tossing dries under some overhanging branches and along grassy edges. Either that sixth ‘guide sense’ kicked in or upon seeing I was without much love, Derek suggested I cast towards the middle of the river, targeting a seam created by gravel bar.
Sure enough, it was fish on. These small Yakima rainbows were rising to my CDC PMD. (For non fly fishers, that’s a Pale Morning Dun tied with Cul de Canard — that’s French for duck bottom — feathers, highly waterproof feathers that sit on top of or near the preen gland of ducks and geese.) Half a dozen or so ‘bows came to hand. An occasional ten- or eleven-inch hatchery Chinook offered a pleasant surprise. I sure hope that years down the road I still feel that sense of magic that comes with fooling that first fish in unfamiliar water.
During the float to our next stop, dad was characteristically full of questions and Derek was the man with the answers. As mid-afternoon approached, we pulled up at the end of a side channel. I was told it was my turn to learn a little something. Fly fishing’s so far been a single-handed affair for me. But I wanted to swing flies, and that meant trying out an Orvis switch rod.
The fly rods familiar to most folks entail a single handle in front of the reel. Switch rods, the lighter cousin to the larger and heavier two-handed Spey rods, can be cast with one or two hands, and like Spey rods, offer additional length and casting power. Derek waded next to me to demonstrate the grip, rolls casts and Spey casts. And caught a few small trout during the demonstration. Yeah, a little humbling, this not-even-trying-yet-still-catching thing that guides do.
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Me, attempting to swing a wet fly.
Left on my own, while Derek and dad targeted the side channel, my tentative casts with the switch rod put a wet fly out and down, with the tip of the rod following the swing. The idea is to cast and swing a few times, bringing the fly into the edge of downstream riffles, then taking a step downstream to repeat the process. Casting’s not been my strong point over the years, but both my roll and Spey casts got a bit better. Good enough to hook two Yakima trout.
Though I could have stayed and swung flies for a few more hours, it was time to pull anchor and float to lunch our next stop. Upon sidling up on the rocky finger of another island, dad and I tested the waters while Derek set up the table and chair and laid out a great lunch of sandwiches, salad, fruit and the enemy of waistlines everywhere, chips. I don’t know if it’s the physical exertion of fishing (apparently dad came to realize that fly fishing is much more than tossing a line in the water and sitting back in a ratty lawn chair with a cheap beer), or simply being outdoors, but food takes on more vibrant flavors when consumed riverside.
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Lunch on the river. Doesn't get much better.
Fighting off the inclination to nap, Derek led us to another side channel he knows to hold fish. He again demonstrated the not-even-trying-yet-still-catching trick, getting a few trout to rise to casts to indicate where we should lay our flies. I was able to reach up and under the overhanging branches to bring up a fair share of rises, but the strikes seemed a bit half hearted. But, being one who tends fish with flies underwater, it was fun to elicit splashes at the surface.
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A Yakima Rainbow pull up with a nymph.
Knowing that I pride myself on adequate nymphing skills, Derek rigged up a rod with two nymphs, one a stone fly of his own modified design. After a few passes through a deep pool just downstream of our lunch spot, a few strikes indicated that fish were home and hungry. A few more passes and two fish came to hand. (Now dad knows what I mean when talking about “dredging up some big fish on nymphs.”)
The day began with the hope that good hatches would show up around sundown. They never materialized. The last mile or so involved my chucking nymphs toward the banks as we floated by. The take-out came up fast. The boat was trailered, rods disassembled and our weary bodies loaded into the truck.
I’d like to say with certainty that it was a big fish that broke off a few flies in the logjams during the last mile or so. Maybe. Maybe not. I hope to find out next time.
My PNW vacation is over. Family were visited, friendships started, fish sought and some caught. In between there was beer, uncle time, time to myself, and general re-acquaintance with the place.
Thrust back into the routine, I’ll be back at work today, and have the weekend to recover, in between yard work and car washing. In the rear view mirror are great memories that began a week and a day ago.
This trip was marked with my first experience flying with fly fishing gear, including two rods and matching reels. Despite worries that TSA personnel might consider fly line a strangling risk, not once did I have to submit to questions or a strip search of any kind. I did, however, leave desiccant (a white, nondescript powder to non fly fishers) at home to avoid the whole anthrax issue.
The retired folks who raised us took time out of their busy schedule to provide transport to my lodging, which, funny enough, they also provided, and without any hint of compensation. (We’ll get back to that.) I’d love to say that Mother Nature welcomed me to Seattle with blazing sunshine, but, well, it’s Seattle: overcast and gray. I interrupted the ride home with a stop for lunch in celebration of Mom’s birthday. My brother and his family, in a surprise appearance, joined us. It was a fun family meal.
The first beer I've met that I didn't like.
That evening, thanks to wifely permission, “little brother” Mark and I headed out for a bit of a beer adventure. I’d like to say that I never met a beer I didn’t like. That’s no longer true after our experience that evening with a flight at a local bar and grill. Of seven beers, we deemed only one barely acceptable for our palates. And we’re not beer snobs. Thankfully, it was the time together that mattered more than the beer, and after moving along to another source, we found better-tasting brew. I remember later appreciating that my brother’s wife put out the air mattress, and laying down. That’s it. Sleep came fast.
Next I knew, it sounded as if cartoon characters where running around the house. Nephews Kaden and Levi were up and it was time to begin some “uncling.” I don’t claim any particular knack for this art, but there’s a certain pride that comes with one’s nephews (or nieces, but I don’t’ have any) knowing you’re the uncle. It’s even better when they remember you because of fun times. (Insert comment here about me acting their age.)
Fair is fair, so Mark and I stayed with the boys to allow their mom a bit of away time. As an uncle who grew up when the biggest video game was PONG, it was natural that I’d join the ‘phews in a game of Super Mario. With a timer set to ruin our fun at any moment, we jumped into the game as I struggled to recall how to play; all the while watching the boys go Donkey Kong all over me. Called back to reality by the buzz of the timer, we gobbled down some breakfast and assembled for a walk in the woods along the Skykomish River.
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The Nephews at the Skykomish River
If there’s any one thing that I like about the upper King County/Snohomish County area, it’s the easy access to nature, whether woods, rivers or mountains. It was a good time walking on trails in the Al Borlin Park, which parallels the Skykomish. A good place to get some fresh air, throw rocks into the river and just be outside. Also an opportunity for an uncle to show off his mad rock-skipping skills.
We closed the day with a late and long lunch at the folks’ place.
Then it was time to hit the sack early. Alarms were set for 3:30 a.m. in anticipation of Saturday’s salmon fishing. For some of us it would be fishing, hooking, but not landing; but that’s the next post, which should be number two of three.
Because I’m writing this ahead of time, by the time you read this I won’t be here.
The there where I’ll be, and am as you read this, is roughly 18.5 miles east northeast of downtown Seattle. It’ll take a plane, a train and automobiles to get where I’m going.
We’re on day two of our visit with the folks who raised us and the brother who bothered us, and his family. Tomorrow starts at oh-dark-thirty to chase Oncorhynchus tshawy in Puget Sound with dad, bro and friends. It ain’t Alaska, but a beer budget limits the distance we can travel; but it should be fun.
Sunday is open to possibilities. One hope is that thanks to imposing on the generosity of former strangers, there might be some learning on local waters. Maybe some Snoqualmie trout.
Monday morning will find us on the way to unfamiliar waters with dad and fishing guide Derek, with hopes for a day made up of more than a few firsts. A first fly fishing float on the Yakima River for both of us. The first fly fishing at all for dad. Our first gourmet shore lunch. (No pressure, Derek.) If all goes well, a first Yakima River cutthroat for me; dad, too.
In between there are no great plans, more of a continuation of a previous visit with relations, young and old. (I’m beginning to believe that long-distance relatives you want to see should be seen at a frequency no less than three months and no greater than eight months.)
It’s pretty certain that beer and good food will figure into things.
Ridiculous hats and goofy waders are so yesterday. Not content to lurk in the shadows, only to emerge once in a while to demonstrate our fly fishing prowess through the actual act, it seems that public pronouncement of our affliction is the trend du jour.
Branding is “in.”
It used to be that it was the tools of the trade that identified fly fishermen — rods and all kinds of gear stacked in the back of the vehicle, maybe the driver sporting a logoed hat or jacket, an ash tray full of used-up flies and split shot, and a cooler of local hop juice. Now it’s decals, displaying one’s choice in rods, reels, fishing guides or philosophies.
Some might argue that the number of decals equates to experience and perhaps skill level. True or not, the fact that more than a few fly fishermen care enough to display their predilections on the back window of anything from a ’78 Chevy Stepside to the latest Range Rover offers an opportunity to decipher a sort of shorthand that can reveal a bit about the personalities you might meet the water.
My Tribe
While fly fishing brands will forever be debated with great intensity, “tribal affiliation” decals announcing a favorite brand — usually Sage, Orvis, Ross, Abel, and the like — broadcast a general level of cash outlay for gear. Thankfully, there is no proven direct correlation between the expense of the gear and angling ability. (I did well enough with a $100 L.L. Bean rod/reel/line combo to be encouraged to continue down the path of financial ruin fly fishing enlightenment.)
Fly fishing decals make a declaration. “Zero Limit” is just such an oft-seen decal (also seen on t-shirts). This isn’t an argument; there is no discussion to be had. These pronunciamentos are designed to end, not start, conversations. (I, however, will gladly fish waters near a parking spot in which most of the vehicles sport this decal, subscribing to the thought that “The finest gift you can give to any fisherman is to put a good fish back…”)
There also are more benign messages signaled by decals announcing a favorite guide service or club.
A basic outline of what decals can mean:
More Expensive Brand Name** (Sage, Ross, Orvis, Simms, etc.): “Sure, I may not be catching as many fish as you, or even the biggest, but I look better doing it.”
More Affordable Brand Name (Redington, St. Croix, Cabela’s, White River, Etc.): “I don’t need no stinkin’ brand name, I got skills.”
Any Guide Service: Don’t make eye contact with these people. Seriously. They want you to ask about XYZ guide service, then will proceed to regale you and anyone within earshot with the 151st, hour-long retelling of their best day fishing ever.
Fly Fishing Club: Friendly people, who, when they don’t get out to fish often enough, live vicariously through others’ fishing reports.
**In all honesty, in response to economic conditions, most manufacturers now offer more affordable gear, but the premise remains sound.
Pride, Guide or Warning?
A better indicator of who you might meet on the water may well be found in the number of decals. In many cases, this simply may be a sign of the owner’s pride in being part of the sport. However, in some cases, the quantity of decals may serve as a warning.
A 2008 Colorado State University study concluded that drivers who place bumper stickers and other decorations — or “territory markers” — on their vehicles could be 16 percent more likely to engage in road rage. These decorations “…predicted road rage better than vehicle value, condition or any of the things that we normally associate with aggressive driving,” said researcher and psychologist William Szlemko in a Nature News interview.
So next time you’re wandering down to the river, take a look at he vehicles parked in the lot or alongside the road. Count the number of decals on each one.
fishing for words 