fishing for words

(and tossing out random thoughts)

Category Archives: Fly Fishing


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red is the color of this opening day

No whining here about the high water, high winds, or the high mileage added to my car’s odometer because, after all, Opening Day of Trout Season often is somewhat of a crap shoot. This year we added geography lessons to those taught to us by the smarter more finicky more skittish trout.

Allowing extra time to poke along at a comfortable pace, with a stop at the Manteca Bass Pro Shop, and aided by the opening of a third highway lane through Tracy, I had opened, aired out, and prepped the cabin by dinnertime. After dinner, rods were assembled, with leaders secured and ready to go.

Friday was devoted to maintenance as Wes of A Rose Plumbing in Twain Harte dropped by to repair a few sink valves and clean out a drain. Wes departed, Sean arrived; so Sean and I gawked at the trout dumped by DFG in Lyons Canal, a short drive from the cabin. Two older gentlemen joined us in gawking and conversation. Apparently sharing a tendency to avoid such an accessible location when the freezer-stocking, bait-drowning and hardware-chucking folks appear in force, one of the gentlemen suggested we seek out Rose Creek; supposedly a skinny creek that offers good fishing for wild trout.

Sean agreed to a bit of exploration, so off we went with directions to head “straight down this road” (the old guy pointed behind us) for ten miles. After about two miles the pavement became an unimproved county road. Thanks to the rain of Thursday night and the resulting redish mud, my dark blue Accord quickly sprouted freckles. After eight miles at no more than twenty miles per hour, I was anxious for a wide spot to turn around. But at eleven miles — exactly — we came to a bridge crossing the aforementioned creek. Sure enough, there were quite a few of the aforementioned small wild trout. But it would be another fifteen hours before one could legally chase them with a fly, or any lure or bait, for that matter.

After driving that same eight miles, maybe at twenty-two miles per hour this time, I threw together a dinner of grilled halibut, veggies and rice just about the time Christopher arrived with his girlfriend. We chowed down and in preparation for an early morning, I was soon asleep.

Five o’clock came early Saturday morning. Sean and I headed up Highway 120 in search of new water. The first stop was Cherry Creek, a supposed home to wild trout. Much boulder-hopping go us to the water. Cold, clear, and high water. While the canyon and creek were striking in the early morning sun, it took only a few casts to convince me that getting close to the fishy water would entail risk to life and limb. This would presage much of our morning.

Returning down the road we came, we crossed the Middle Fork of the Tuolumne, but without suitable parking, we continued on to the river’s South Fork. Moving upstream got us away from the numerous folks pounding the water just above and below Rainbow Pool waterfall. At best the water was a tad more fishable, but still high and fast. Sean solicited a strike before personally testing the water temperature a controlled descent into the river. Luckily he was up before being pulled over the falls or suffering hypothermia. Sean warmed up in the sun and soon it was time to press on to Moccasin Creek, our last stop down the hill.

The Best Way to Retrieve Lost Flies

Though Moccasin Creek should be considered a playground for anyone wanting to catch rather than simply fish, it’s also somewhat akin to a supermarket fish counter for locals and semi-locals alike. Plenty of hatchery fish and relatively easy access to some of the best holding water ensures a crowd on Opening Day. It wasn’t different this day.

[singlepic=572,150,,,right]In the few hours before we would sit down to a meal of some of the most reasonably priced and delicious hamburgers and buffaloburgers, Sean and I tempted a number of trout to strike. I was able to land two…the first on a white bead-head nymph given to me by a fly fishing friend who was sidelined Opening Day by shoulder surgery.

Later, a bit downstream in one of our favorite runs, I hooked into a decent fish that took me and my red Copper John nymph for a bit of a ride. I should explain here that I was using a new 3-wt. rod, which is the equivalent of an ultra-light spinning rod, and it was unlikely that I’d be able to horse in any fish over ten inches in this fast moving water. And this fish was a tad larger; large enough to break off my 6x tippet and take my flies with her. A few more fruitless casts brought me to a short pool just beyond the run. A few more casts, a grab, and the fight was on again. This time I put more care into playing this trout and, with the [singlepic=571,150,,,left]assistance of Sean and his net, landed a 16-inch rainbow to find it was the same fish that broke off upstream. I know because I was able to retrieve the flies I previously lost to this fish. And this time the fly that worked was a tiger midge (gold over red). (The next two days I’d rotate through various flies but would always end up hooking a fish on something red.)

Good Food, Good Brownie

Saturday evening found us at the oft-mentioned Diamondback Grill, joined by the wife, her coworker and kids. Nine people well fed for $109 — not a bad deal. Since there were a couple of hours of sunlight left upon our return to Twain Harte, Sean and I took a quick drive to Lyons Canal. Without great expectations, knowing that it had been hammered all day, we cast a few nymphs. In swirling water just below a flume my indicator made an uncharacteristic move, so I set the hook into what I would find to be a small, six-inch wild brown trout.

I had been told that the canal was home to a few browns, but didn’t put much credence into it. Now I wanted to hunt down some more. But dark descended and it was time to head back; with a little time devoted to double check leaders and flies.

By Sunday morning everyone except me was headed in the general direction of home. Sean had some homework to do, but squeezed in a few hours at Moccasin Creek. Unfortunately, he again had a bit of difficulty hooking fish, but not for a lack of strikes. (I attribute it to getting a bit rusty over the winter, so he has to go fishing more often.) I landed a few more fish as well.

[singlepic=570,150,,,right]When Sean left, I switched back to my 5-wt. rod and returned to one of my favorite deep runs. As luck would have it, without anyone to provide witness or photographic evidence, my fly (red Copper John), was slammed. And it felt like a submarine. Slight but continuous pressure brought it to the surface and it headed downstream. Then upstream. Then towards the far bank. Ten minutes later I gingerly measured a 24-inch rainbow trout. Too big and tired to hold out for a photo. After a careful revival and thanks, I released him and rested.

That big fish capped my day, but I lingered to hook and land a few more fish before heading to the cabin during the early afternoon. During the drive back a message told me that Sean would be returning. He left his history book at the cabin. So, bringing a laptop, the plan was that he’d work on his essay, spend the night, and leave for school early Monday morning. That evening we enjoyed a good dinner (I had a great beer) the relatively new Courtside Bar & Grill.

A quick and mumbled “good morning” and “dive safe” and Sean was off and I was back in bed. Fast forward a few hours and the morning sun was warming me along the trail beside the canal, but without much in the way of fish-sign or likely water. I figured it’d be a challenge to pull out any of the fish not caught during the canal’s hammering Saturday and Sunday. But the birds were signing, the sun was shining, and flowers were blooming.

Acting on Christopher’s observation of life in an old water hazard on the nearby and abandoned golf course, I tied on a streamer (yes, with a red head) and made a few casts. It was ambushed by a bass no more than eight inches long. Under the guise of practicing casting and stripping streamers I spent another hour at this little pond pulling out about a dozen small bass and one small bluegill and another of decent size.

[singlepic=566,150,,,left]Reinvigorated by the catching I continued my hike along the canal. The same spot that yielded the wild brown trout Saturday evening gave up two strikes and one rainbow to the net. Walking further up the canal, pretending I could actually “read” the water, I cast to likely spots. Call it dumb luck but during this walking and casting virtually every three or four casts led to a strike and a fish to the net. One of the bigger holes further up the trail was home to three more brown trout and about as many rainbows that ended up in my hands.

A busy, fun, somewhat crazy but at times amazingly Zen-like Opening Day weekend. We’re ready for the new season.


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me, the wife and bass pro shops

When a spouse voluntarily says that she’d like to visit the local Bass Pro Shops stores, and after the initial shock wears off, any sportsman will conjure up many fond thoughts as to why he married his gal. She gets me. Coolest wife ever. She loves me that much.

But fate can dealt ironic twists.

The wife was suitably impressed with the Manteca store. It took about ten minutes to soak in the sweeping atrium that greets all who enter. A quick trip to the aquarium, then upstairs for a wide-open vista of both levels. She began to grasp the attraction of this sportsman’s delight.

She’s put up with my stops at the local and not-so-local fly ships, and the fact that she’ll knit while I drool allays some of my guilt.

But it’s clear that Bass Pro Shops transcends age, sex, geography, one’s choice of outdoor sport and just about any other classification. The theory is that appealing to a wide-ranging audience gives the whole family reason enough to enjoy an hour or two or seven shopping and spending money. But I was to get schooled in how far and well Bass Pro Shops crosses these lines.

Truth be known, under the guise of acting as guide for the wife’s first experience, my goal was research. I was on the hunt for a reel or two at the fly fishing club’s coming auction, and a bit of hands-on time would help firm up my decision.

Without a map I forged ahead towards camping gear and big-a** barbecue grills, forgetting that the trail would led us through the shoe department. I’ll give credit where credit is due: Bass Pro Shops does stock the shelves with plenty o’ boots and, apparently, some pretty tasty looking women’s sandals.

And when all was said and done and paid for, we walked out of Bass Pro Shops with two pairs of women’s sandals. Good thing none of my fly fishing buddies were there to see it.

Otherwise I might’ve had to quickly figure out how to stuff those sandals into a fly rod tube.


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the white house taps a guy who knows a stimulus from a stimulator to manage all that money

It’ll cut into his time allotted to fly fishing, but it’s nice to know that one of our own will have a figurative finger in the pot. Yesterday’s Philadelphia Inquirer story about G. Edward DeSeve’s appointment as special adviser to the president and vice president to oversee the federal stimulus program ended on a high note:

A fly-fishing enthusiast, DeSeve once said he would go “anywhere there is a trout in the water.”

Yesterday, he said, “I’ll try to make time, but this certainly will cut into my fly-fishing.”

It’s good to see at least a mildly positive spin on fly fishing and government leaders, instead of exasperation and anger.

The fact that he’s a fly fisherman might not be the best recommendation for one charged with such duties by an administration that has stressed the need for truthfulness transparency and accountability. However, that’s countered with the knowledge that Mr. DeSeve quit his City of Philadelphia finance job in 1974 “…rather than follow then-Mayor Frank L. Rizzo’s instructions to balance Philadelphia’s budget on numbers that to him didn’t add up.”

It makes perfect sense to give a fly fisherman leadership of the Obama administration’s efforts to implement the Recovery Act, including the distribution of $787 billion in stimulus funds. Fly fisherman have used stimulus packages for years.

The Stimulator dry fly is a large, go-to dry fly, particularly when you’re fly fishing during a big stone fly hatch or salmon fly hatch. Or when you aren’t catching and don’t know what to throw at ‘em. Does that sound like another type of stimulus package?

“Fly fishermen are born honest, but they get over it.” — Ed Zern


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first fish of 2009

Since I’m still supporting the retired citizens of this great country through gainful employment and periodic contributions to Social Security, I had to wait for Saturday to roll around for my first fishing trip of the year. I headed to the Two Mile Bar section with some fly fishing club members.

Overcast skies foretold of a cold day to come. Like most of the other folks, I rigged up with a pale yellow salmon egg imitation — known to have pulled up fish the previous two days — and hit the water about ten o’clock. This section of the Stanislaus, being a wild trout fishery (with catch and release regulation), can be tough fishing just as easily as being wide open. But I’ve never been skunked there.

I started at the “Big Oak Pool,” a place where during my first trip here I caught my first Stanislaus River trout. After an untold number of fruitless casts, attributing the lack of a take to my rusty casting, I moved upstream to cross at the “Amphitheater,” then fished various pools as I moved downstream.

A few hours later, and after talking with a few of the guys as I went, I found myself at what I viewed as one of the more promising small pools — like the ones I enjoy on smaller creeks at higher elevations — and began to drag a Prince Nymph with a glass bead nymph underneath it through the water. After about 20 minutes of presenting my flies in the various seams, I was mentally preparing for a fly swap. But on the tail end of my drift, as the flies began to swing up to the surface, I got a slight bump. With a gentle set, I had a fish on.

While the speed of the current seems to amplify the size of a fish, I was nevertheless happy to soon land and release my first fish of 2009! It’s Monday now, but this first fish of the year is still crystal clear in my memory. At eight inches, it’s not the size of a fish that makes it into the classic yarns spun by fishermen, but it was a joy to bring to hand a wild eight-inch rainbow resplendent along its entire eight inches.


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funny fish quotes

Got a chuckle out of a November 23rd post in Bret Burquest’s blog — Boldly Going Nowhere. The post, titled “Talking Fish“ starts:

In February of 2003, the BBC News reported that a fish heading for slaughter in a New York City market shouted warnings about the end of the world.

I’ve been shouting that for decades but no one will listen to me.

He then goes on to quote more than a few fish species. Here’s a sample:

Crappie in Medicine Lake, Minn. — “We are born naked, wet and hungry. Then things get worse.”

Largemouth bass in Table Rock Lake, Mo. — “Light travels faster than sound. That’s why bass fishermen appear brighter until you hear them speak.”

Muskie in Sunset Lake, Wis. — “Suppose you were a human being and suppose you were an idiot — oh, but I repeat myself.”

Rainbow trout in Cut Bank, Mont. — “I believe in the 50-50-90 rule — even if there’s a 50 percent chance a fly fisherman will hook you, there’s a 90 percent chance he’ll throw you back.”

Brown Trout in Yellowstone Park, Wyo. — “Things that come to those who wait may be things left over by those who got there first.”

Walleye in Stout Lake, Ontario — “A day without sunshine is like night.”

You can enjoy more here.


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autographed copies available soon…but I’ll keep the day job for now

No, I won’t leave the three readers of my blog — the wife and mom and dad — in the lurch even though an article pounded out with my own fingers found its way into the December 2008 edition of the California Fly Fisher. (For my fly fishing friends who get the magazine, check page 38. It’s the one on fly fishing podcasts.)

There’s no online version, but if you catch me motorcycling down the road or walking the supermarket aisle, chances are I might just have a copy to show you.

One article doesn’t make a career, but it made my day to see my name above an article.


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end-of-season fishing with a side of surprise

Sean and I double-teamed the driving to make a late-night run up the hill to squeeze in a final day of the trout season. If you’re lucky enough to have kids who understand the value of holding down a job, you know it’s hard to mesh schedules, so instead of the entire weekend our plan was to run up to the cabin Thursday, to fish Friday and leisurely wind our way home Saturday.

With a few short hours of sleep and only a day to fish, our eyes were on catching, not just chasing ‘em. So Friday found us on a tributary of Don Pedro Lake, a place not too far away and — fly fishing purists close your eyes — known to be stocked. I counted on the lackadaisical nature of fishermen who fall under the latter half of “put and take” to offer assurance that there’d be some rainbows left even though DFG trucks hadn’t visited this particular stretch in over two weeks.

Rigged up and ready, Sean was first to cast, and on that fish cast it was “fish on!” Though not landed, we took it as a good sign. Sean’s learned a lot since that first fly fishing lesson last spring, so it’s not only because yours truly graciously granted him first crack at one of the best runs that he landed four decent rainbows before I had a chance at a single one.

A bit later and a bit downstream I showed Sean a few seldom-fished and often productive pools, then it was back up to a more popular section. Thanks to the waders — most bait and hardware fisherfolks precariously perch on roots near this section — we effortlessly walked upstream and downstream near the opposite bank, targeting pods of trout as well as individual fish. Both of us hooked numerous fish and landed a few less than hooked. (Sean would probably agree that his fly fishing education might benefit from a focus on the hookset.) Our biggest were about 14 inches, with some broad-shouldered bruisers in the mix.

A better day we couldn’t have asked for. The sun was out but the air temperature was pleasant. The water was a bit high but the fish were willing.

But the “good day” rating was to be pegged just about lunchtime.

Fishing the tailout of a pool with a size 22 midge (very small fly for non-fisher folks) I was able to watch a fish adjust to the fly’s path and a white flash told me it had opened its mouth for the take. That white flash of the mouth — rainbows have darker mouths — suggested that this would be a brook trout left over from stocking earlier in the year. The fish sure did shake its head like a brookie. But then it jumped. “Whoa!” Sean yelled as it did. Another jump and it was heading downstream, taking me with it.

About five minutes later, after doing a “rock dance,” and about 20 more feet downstream, landing procedures commenced. It was then that the coolness factor of this fish rose quite a bit. I was a hooked-jawed wild brown trout headed upstream from the lake to spawn. All 15 inches of him. One very cool surprise.

The downside is that we left the camera at home. But ask Sean. I think he’ll tell ya it was a good day with a great fish among the many good.


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end of a season

It’s been a good year, trout-fishing-wise, that is. And tomorrow it’ll end in the Sierras with one last hurrah.

Sean and I will make a late-night run to the cabin with plans to spend Friday in the water. Maybe we’ll even hook some fish. If we don’t, it’s dinner at Diamondback Grill. And maybe a bit of manly video game action in the evening.

Saturday’s up in the air, but perhaps we’ll stop on the way home and hike to the Lower Stanislaus River, where there have been sightings of King salmon up to 30 inches. Can’t fish for ‘em but would be fun to watch.

BTW, nice sunny day here in northern California…so did the right thing. Rode the bike to work. Love that it now takes less than $7 to fill the tank!


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forget brownlining; call me “guppy hunter”

Forget the too-weak magnifying glass on the fly tying vise…we’re gonna need a microscope.

And no fish will be safe.

While others resort to fishing the foul-smelling irrigation ditches — brownlining — close to home in the off season, I’m betting my marbles on “buckypaper” for that smallest of fly rods…maybe a size .01 wt¹ for those guppies in my fish tank. (It’d all be catch and release, of course.)

A thin nanotech “buckypaper” developed in a Florida lab offers a super-thin material 10 times lighter and about 500 times stronger than steel when it’s stacked in sheets to form a composite. This “paper” is made from tube-shaped carbon molecules 50,000 times thinner than a human hair, so putting a few of these tubes together should yield a dandy super-ultra-lightweight fly rod.

The problem will be tying those size 44² flies in a “flake” pattern.

¹ For non fly fishers, the smallest fly rod currently is a 0 wt.
² Roughly one-eighth of an inch long, maybe smaller?


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brown trout named as an invasive species. I say airlift ’em my way.

Just about booked a flight to for long stay in Dullstroom, South Africa.

One might not expect to find the words “plague” and “brown trout” uttered in the same sentence here in the Queen’s North American Colonies, but it seems the British Invasion of lo’ so many years ago created just such a problem in South Africa.

From a Time magazine article in the Oct. 27, 2008 issue:

Here, in the waters that feed the grasslands and carve out the escarpments of the Highveld plateau, trout are a plague. The lakes, dams and rivers are overflowing with them. So is the town. Almost every shop, hotel and gas station in Dullstroom features a picture of a seven-pounder curling around a fly. (And no prizes for guessing which delicious, pink-fleshed fish dominates the restaurant menus.)

The kind of plague I wouldn’t mind in my backyard.

But you’d better get there fast.

As part of its Africanization program, the [South African] government is considering poisoning the [brown] trout in its lakes and rivers. This sounds drastic until you get to Dullstroom, on the edge of Kruger National Park, east of Johannesburg.

Don’t know how the folks of Dullstroom view this plan.  They tout their town as “South Africa’s premier flyfishing region.”

So, those with more money and time on their hands might want plan a trip after reading more on the Time site, and anyone willing to drag along a wanna-be trout bum companion, gratis of course, can email me here.