fishing for words

(and tossing out random thoughts)

Category Archives: Fly Fishing


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learning on the water

Caught in some shallow riffles on the Stanislaus River at Two-Mile Bar, Oct. 6, 2007.I was invited to join my club’s novice class on the Stanislaus River at Two-Mile Bar on Saturday as a student (I helped instruct part of the class the previous week). The weather couldn’t have been better! With eight fishers and three coaches we hit the water about 9:30 a.m. with a small mayfly hatch in progress. Flows were very good and the fish very cooperative as everyone in the group landed a fish.

This section of the Stanislaus River is limited to barbless flies and catch and release only and is inhabited only by wild trout. I started fishing a near seam in the “Oak Tree Pool” and was rewarded about a dozen casts later with a small but beautiful guy who tried to go deep. He had the dubious honor of being my first trout caught on a fly (an olive WD40, #20) in this section of the Stanislaus River.

A bit later, on the far seam (created by two currents of differing speeds coming alongside each other) and the same WD40 fly, I was able to pick up another small rainbow. Much of the time we practiced – with guidance from our club coaches – various casts, with roll and reach casts being put into use quite a bit.

Upstream a bit, in some shallow riffles near the confluence of the three channels, I was shocked by a 13 inch trout that slammed an AP nymph (#18, a fly that at the same time looks like nothing and everything) and took off downstream, with me following. Unfortunately, my coach who had volunteered to grab the fish, let him go on an accidental quick-release. But I guess that fish’s buddies took pity on me as in short order I was into the small guy below, who also headed downstream and had be led to a pool before landing.
Me and a buddy.
Later in the day we headed to the far downstream riffles, where I fished above the riffles, targeting some bigger fish in a pool just underneath a huge boulder. Didn’t catch any big ones there, but being able to get longer drifts (a new accomplishment for me) picked up a strike at the tail of the pool (behind me in the pictures below), just as the water became a bit more shallow. The result was the little guy in my hands below. (Also on an AP nymph.)

Throughout the day we also mingled with llamas that are found in the area, found a huge crawdad head, observed an osprey dive and claim a decent-sized trout from the river, and watched a few big salmon head upstream. It may be obvious, but it was a great day with good weather, friends and fish.


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the almost-free lunch

One day, I may become one of those gray-haired (almost there) and stylishly-dressed fly fisherman you see casting wonderful loops on the banks of your local river. Until then, I’ll settle for fostering those new to the sport.

One late September evening my assistance was requested at the club’s novice fly fishing reels.jpgclass. Not quite the old hand at this fly fishing stuff and definitely not a master caster, I was to run the “hooking and landing” station during casting lessons. In exchange I would be rewarded with a sandwich lunch.

So, last Saturday I headed to Walnut Creek and in short order was deemed “The Hooking and Landing Instructor.” My task was simple. Using a remote-controlled truck, to which fly line was attached, I was to give our prospective fly fishers a taste of landing a fish. To understand that landing a fish on a fly rod is different, one has to appreciate that a fly reel is mainly there to (1) hold your line and (2) provide a bit of drag when a fish runs. To play and land a fish one has to strip line — that is pull it with your hand and let it pile up in front of you (and hopefully not trip on it).

Sure, I landed an obnoxious number of fish so far this season — 150+ brook, rainbow and brown trout — but my experience is limited to a handful of rives and streams and a single lake. So it was odd to have these class attendees look upon me a modicum respect even though my fly fishing days began barely six months ago.

But helping out with this class taught me how much I’ve learnt this far, and how much I have to learn. There is such a thing as an almost-free lunch.


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a quick getaway

Two (unshaven) “mountain men.”  One spinning rod.  One fly rod.  One stream.  Fifty trout hooked and twenty-seven landed in five hours.  What a morning!

Sean and I made a quick weekend getaway to the cabin Friday afternoon and hit Moccasin Creek early Saturday morning. Before the sun was up we had parked the car and ambled down to the creek. The cloud cover kept the sunrise at bay a bit longer than usual, but we didn’t have any rain until later in the morning.

Sean's First Rainbow of the MorningWith a spinning rig, Sean began working a favorite pool with a gold-on-gold Panther Martin. I set up my fly pole with an indicator fly (Parachute Adams), with a Copper John nymph (small, a size 18) about 12 inches below. It couldn’t have been more than 20 minutes and we had both landed a decent stocker rainbow, in the 13- to 14-inch range. It was good to see Sean enjoying fishing as he sort of abandoned the sport a few years ago. See, I figure there are those who are lucky at fishing and those who aren’t, or maybe some are born with an intuitive skill. Sean, like me, has to work at catching fish. But that work can pay off, as it obviously did that Saturday.

Rain began to fall in earnest about mid morning, but thanks to the trees lining the stream banks, we were spared from getting too damp.  During the morning we switched up our lures. Me and my (bigger) fish.Sean went to my favorite gold-on-red Panther Martin while I opted for a Zebra Beadhead Nymph. I don’t think we went more than 30 minutes without one of us hooking a fish. In the end, Sean’s tally was sixteen trout hooked with nine landed; my record was thirty-four hooked and 16 landed. (Keep in mind that we only counted fish we touched or netted, meaning that we played some to shore, only to have them self release.)

After quick showers about noon, we headed to Columbia for some sarsaparilla and a gander at the town and a visit to the candy shop. We grabbed an early dinner of great hamburgers at the Diamondback Grill in Sonora. (I’m loving those buffalo burgers!) Driving back to the cabin we were entertained by a bit of lightning and thunder, and after watching a movie, it was early to bed.

It was a nice little break from everyday life, and maybe I can get Sean to go fishing again…


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a boy becomes a fisherman

In our small group of family and friends, my son and I have emerged as the more avid anglers, a position that brings both responsibilities and rewards. Most of these responsibilities are self imposed. Others are unwritten but understood by most fishermen. And the rewards come in direct proportion to adherence to one’s understanding and practice of these responsibilities.

Thanks to my father, I can look to an example that serves me well. I can’t recall when a rod was first entrusted to my small hands, but this lack of recollection assures me I was quite young. So, it was only natural that I would humbly consent to take a family friend’s seven-year-old son, Connor, on his second adventure in fishing. This consent, however, put me in the unenviable position of living up to a reputation cemented when Connor was about two years old, when I was able to put him on a decent size fish during his first time fishing. Thankfully, I had a plan.

Over the last few years, as I have developed my rudimentary knowledge of fishing the 108 corridor of the Western Sierras, I have come to affectionately think of one particular stream as My Outdoor Classroom. A particular stretch of this stream originates from a reservoir, allowing for a consistent temperature all summer long, and is just as consistently stocked by California’s Department of Fish & Game.

I’ve taken my nephews to this stream, where they learned a bit about fishing and perhaps much more about its inhabitants, having chased various insects and crawdads on a warm afternoon. As a new fly fisher, I use this stream to build my skills, knowing that it is likely that I will be able to practice more than just casting and presentation if a trout – even if it is a hatchery rainbow or brook – obliges me with lessons in hooking, playing and landing. So it was decided that Connor would join me on this stream the morning of the Saturday before Labor Day.

As is the fashion of fishermen, before the sun was up I was driving through the golden Sierra foothills. Geared up and looking goofy as fly fisherman does, I headed into the small canyon where I would be guaranteed cool shade all day long. With history as my guide and no other fishermen in sight, I settled in a few feet downstream from a boulder and directly across from a seam (the edge between sections of water flowing at different speeds) that delineated the eddies of nearly still water behind the boulder and the faster flowing shallows closer to the opposite shore.

I would be casting my flies into the inky water without any hint that fish might be present. I had not seen any evidence of feeding. I also could not see beyond the stream’s still-black surface.

Six or seven casts later I was rewarded with a decent-sized rainbow that broke the surface chasing my Zebra midge. My reel sung as the fish first headed upstream before sounding for the bottom. I muscled him out from behind a rock only to apply pressure to keep him out the Trout Close Up (Labor Day ‘07)weed beds that lined the stream bank. What a great start to a day that was just dawning! During the next two hours before Connor would join me, this scene was replayed numerous times, and in the end, I could count sixteen fish hooked and fourteen landed.

With the arrival of my seven-year-old student, I set aside my fly rod and rigged up a spinning rod, then gave Connor a crash course in how to cast and retrieve the little Panther Martin at the end of the line. He caught on rather quickly and did a great job of listening to my direction. Within a few minutes he was casting a fair distance, though not always in the best direction, and was learning to retrieve the lure at a good pace.

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Wanting to show him the best location to land the lure, I made a cast myself, and wouldn’t you know it, it was “fish on!” after two cranks of the reel. Having learned many years ago that for a child the thrill of fishing lies in the catching not the watching, I suppressed the involuntary urge to bring the fish in and quickly handed the rod to Connor, offering guidance on playing this trout. Shortly, he was rewarded with a very fair-sized rainbow. I was rewarded with a big grin.

Since the casting in this section of the stream requires a healthy ability to target a small area, I next set Connor up with salmon eggs. (Yes, I’m typically a catch-and-release fisherman, but knowing that these were not wild trout, that there would be a limit to Connor’s take, and that they would be eaten, I was willing to allow for the use of bait.) It looked like a picture composed by Norman Rockwell: Connor in his striped shirt holding a pole out over the bank of the stream and anxiously watching his line.

In short order he was into another fish. Not as big as the first, but still plenty full of fight for young man. Connor’s mask of concentration dissolved into a smile as I netted this fish. Quickly he was ready to cast again. In between untangling line, Connor did get a few other strikes, but didn’t hook up. Setting the hook is another lesson for another time.

With Connor’s line once again in the water, I returned to fly fishing. My time on this water has taught me that about mid morning that the “catching” typically slows, particularly when it comes to bait or spinners. But for some reason, a fly seems to capture the attention of these trout for a bit longer.

Casting over the heads of Connor and a few other fishermen who had joined us, I again drifted my flies along the seam. I allowed for a longer drift, expecting the fish might be spread out a bit more after being flogged by spinners for a few hours. During the next hour or so I was into a rainbow every few minutes. Even after all the other fisherman had left, I was hooking fish. Eight more fish brought my total to twenty-four trout hooked and twenty landed. Not too shabby for three and a half hours.

The fishing was good this day. Best of all, my seven-year-old friend seems to have been inspired by his second time fishing (and catching). The morning we were preparing to leave the cabin he asked, “Are we going fish?” I hope the answer will be “Sometime soon.”


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the flying fish confession

This summer I was fishing Rock Creek, in California’s Eastern Sierra Nevada mountains.  I came to this place during five days of camping and fishing, intent upon bringing newfound fly fishing skills to bear upon its finned population.  Since those days I have been haunted by an undisclosed embarrassment.

Despite my trepidation of venturing into these waters without any certainty of christening my fly rod with its first trout, rather frequently and surprisingly I would hook a small wild brook trout.  I can’t help but think that some of these trout discussed before my arrival the idea of obliging this budding fly fisher by hooking themselves.  Some would just as frequently educate me on how fast a wily fish might escape a single barbless hook.  Perhaps these fish apparently weren’t in on the aforementioned discussion.

My strikes were incredibly varied.  Even a poor cast would draw a brookie into a mad rush under the water for my midge.  Another would suck my dry fly from the surface.  Yet another would timidly tap either fly without commitment.

A good many of these members of the species Salvelinus fontinalis charged upstream to investigate one or maybe both of my flies.  But they would stop short of striking.  Perhaps an equal number of brook trout would strike when I was not ready, or distracted, or lulled into the belief they had stopped biting.

Midway through my evening, while making a dry cast, simple laziness allowed my flies to briefly rest in the water’s surface tension.  In the blink of an eye I began a backcast.  As my line lifted from the water, I suddenly felt unusual tension in my pole and in a lazy arc a very small brook trout flew through the air.  I swear his eyes were wide as he splashed down a few feet behind me.  He disappeared in a swirl of irritation. 

I fished on, without drama, catching and releasing a dozen more brook trout.  I didn’t take a fish worth mentioning the rest of the day.

Rather than lament that I can’t brag about the size of my first trout on a fly, I’m content to chuckle — with some embarrassment — at my flying fish.


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pH and trout

Eagle Lake TroutHigh pH and trout don’t mix. Learned via Sep Hendrickson’s California Sportmen radio show (via podcast) that the California DFG has instituted a “voluntary catch and keep” recommendation for Eagle Lake trout. The combination of hot weather and low-water conditions has elevated the pH of Eagle Lake, which is commonly in the 8.4 to 9 range, to more than 9.2. This flies in the face of the catch and release practice encouraged in many fisheries but has a basis in science.

Eagle Lake, near Susanville, Calif., is a natural lake reliant on snow melt from Lassen Nation Park’s Thousand Lakes area as well as springs. When the lake falls below 5,106 feet in elevation, thanks to our limited water supply this year, the pH rises with the water temperature. While Eagle Lake trout can live —— through stressed — in a pH of up to 9.8, above a pH of 9.2 it becomes a caustic solution can erode the mucous membranes covering the gills of the trout. Normally, this isn’t a problem. However, after a fight, gills in an eroded condition cannot transpire the gases and oxygen a trout requires to survive after a build up of lactic acid in its muscles. Without healthy mucous membranes, the capillaries in the gills can burst at an unseen microscopic level, virtually guaranteeing that a played out fish will die within 48 hours.


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back to the “westside”

Crowley Lake/Rock Creek Fishing Trip, Part 5 of 5

Sunrise over the Sierra Nevada.

Sunrise over the Sierra Nevada.

Sunday was a day of travel and the end of our adventure in Eastern Sierra fishing, probably for this summer. (Fall is coming up though!) We headed up Hwy 395 for Hwy 120, and made a quick stop on Lee Vining Creek just below Tioga Lake. The water was low and the fish were slow. A few bumps and some following lures, but no bites. Quickly moving along, we were over Sonora Pass and at the cabin by two thirty that afternoon. Soon after we were sitting on the sand at Twain Harte Lake with my sister and her boys.

In planning this trip I had given thought to taking a chance on a local put-and-take creek, figuring that any fish that weren’t caught over the weekend might be good targets Monday morning, when I hoped only a few folks would be fishing. Five thirty Monday morning came and I was up. I poked Christopher but he opted for extra sleep rather than extra fishing.

I was on the creek about six thirty, with the sun still behind the ridge. This creek is in a canyon of sorts with plenty of streamside trees keeping it cool. Without sunlight the water had an inky cast and I could not see beyond the surface of the water. Guess at likely holding locations for feeding trout, I cast a dropper/midge in position to float it (looking natural I hoped) through the pool.

On my fifth cast it was “fish on!” In fact, it surprised me so much that I involuntarily made a good hookset (in other words, I jerked my pole). Soon I had landed a decent thirteen-inch rainbow trout, my fist on my fly pole. For the next few hours it was constant action with a mix of fish to the net and a number of LDRs and missed strikes.

When the sun finally began to filter through the trees, I could make out quite a few trout schooling in two different locations. But off in the distance, about ten feet downstream, a single fish was watching a specific feeding lane. Based on the color difference in this trout’s profile, I figured it just might be one of the broodstock brook trout that were put into this creek weeks ago. Maybe one in ten of my casts were good enough to float down the feeding lane, but my dry fly did get some attention. I lost count of the number of casts and of the passing time, but on one particularly good cast he attacked the dry fly, breaking the surface and immediately turning downstream. A quick tug and he was hooked. These brook trout put on a good fight…a lot of head shaking, jumping and runs…so it took about three or four minutes before I had him in the net. It was a big fish. But I had misjudged how played out he might have been. With a mighty flop of his tail he was out of my net and back into the stream.

It was a heck of a morning that Monday. Eighteen rainbow trout and the single brook to the net with probably another ten LDRs and half a dozen missed strikes. I was finally off the water about eleven o’clock, when the bite died down. This little adventure surely falls under the adage “The early bird catches the worm.”

Monday afternoon and Tuesday were filled with typical fun cabin activities. We spent time at the lake, visited Columbia, played bingo, and ate well. I did, however, take time to clean off all of the cabin gear, so we could just store the equipment when we got home.

I will remember this trip fondly. I found out that I can indeed catch trout on a fly.


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great ending at rock creek

Crowley Lake/Rock Creek Fishing Trip, Part 4 of 5

Our last day at Rock Creek started with our packing for a high along Upper Rock Creek in pursuit of more wild trout. We struck out from the trailhead, which is at 10,255 feet, about nine o’clock. According to what I had learned, the Mosquito Flat Trail offered plenty of opportunities to fish along the creek and the numerous lakes it created while meandering out of the John Muir Wilderness. Unfortunately, the best way to gain access to these fish was to be wading. And we didn’t bring our waders. But we ventured on, leaving quite a few hikers and fisherfolks behind after cresting a steep grade. At Long Lake, about two miles down the trail, we found a few small brookies willing to look at our flies, but no takers. Near the far end of Long Lake, I offered Christopher the option of going on or turning around. After some discussion about golden trout being a possibility in Chickenfoot Lake, the next lake on the trail, and a comment from another fly fisher that it was just ahead, we struck out for Chickenfoot. It was a relatively strenuous climb, but the scenery was incredible…for good reason. I learned later that Chickenfoot is at about 11,000 feet!

The fish in Chickenfoot Lake must have been enjoying some underwater scenery as Christopher and I saw only a few rises to our dry flies, and I missed a single strike to my nymph. Funny thing about hiking, though, it’s the return trip that kicked my b**t. We made it back in relatively short order, getting back to the car about one o’clock. After leisurely cleaning up (including showers!), Christopher and I headed to Bishop for a break, including dinner out and lingered longer than usually in the welcome chill of air conditioning.

Being out last day at Rock Creek, I had formulated a plan for that evening based on my previous experiences. About five thirty I waded into the water at “the ponds.” With some cajoling, Christopher had joined me. Starting with a Copper John (a fly designed as a nymph with a reflective bright red body) underneath an Elk Hair Caddis, I cast into a likely pool below riffles. A fish hit on the second cast, and a six-inch brook trout was soon in my net. The rest of the evening was much the same, with Christopher and I picking up wild trout on both nymphs and dry flies. (The fly struck changed as the evening wore on and the food source changed from midges to mosquitoes and other unseen insects.) In the end, I caught and released another ten trout and LDR’d maybe another ten. I blame this mostly on the fact that these smallish trout were trying to strike my too-large Elk Hair Caddis fly. I also missed a few strikes as well. I don’t know how many fish Christopher pulled in, but I did have to convince him to get off the water. So I think he also had fun.

Go to Part 5…


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rock creek lake

Crowley Lake/Rock Creek Fishing Trip, Part 3 of 5

Friday morning Christopher wanted to pursue larger fish, hoping that Rock Creek Lake would give up some of the recently planted state hatchery and Alpers rainbows. There was little doubt that some fish were there. A few followed spinners in from deeper water just past a shelf, but only one struck my favorite gold Panther Martin, but that ended with an LDR. With frustration, Christopher opted to head down to Rock Creek, which also was supposedly stocked the day before.

We waded from our campground downstream, finding a few smaller trout, but little interest in our flies. The stream also offered few opportunities for this amateur fly fisherman to make good casts. We ended our time on the water a bit early to ensure time to enjoy our steak dinner. While we were waiting for the coals to heat up, we had a camp visitor.  (Shown to the right.)

After enjoying a good steak, we headed back out to “the ponds.” Something was a bit off this evening, as strikes were few and I ended up with only five fish – all small brook trout – to the net.

Go to Part 4…


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first trout on my fly rod

Crowley Lake/Rock Creek Fishing Trip, Part 2 of 5

But our guided trip wasn’t the end of my fishing (or catching) for the day. During our day on Crowley Tom told me of some folks who had fished a section of Rock Creek called “the ponds.” It’s an area just below Rock Creek Lake where the creek widens and meanders through a marsh just opposite the Rock Creek Lodge store. This portion of the creek is populated small wild trout, typical of high elevations steams and lakes. (By the way, this is at an elevation of about 9,500 feet.) Anyhow, these folks had some fun the night before targeting these little trout with midges under a larger fly that is also used as an indicator. Out of my fly box I pulled a small tiger midge and a larger Elk Hair Caddis.

Chris fishing Rock Creek.

Chris fishing Rock Creek.

Donning our waders, Christopher and I headed into the creek an hour or so before sunset. Christopher had hoped to try spinners, but with few results. I stuck with my fly rod, inspired by my Crowley experience to try nymphing in moving water. Soon I brought to my net my first trout, a brook trout, caught on my fly rod, albeit with a suggested fly section.

Rock Creek brook trout.

Rock Creek brook trout.

It wasn’t a trophy fish, maybe six inches, but it stunned me to think that I was able to cast a fly where it needed to go in such a manner as to fool a wild trout into taking it for a natural food source, in this case a midge. Encouraged, I edged down the creek, targeting areas upstream from the rises made by surfacing trout. I brought a few more brook trout to the net. I lost others to LDR (long-distance release).

Shortly after twilight began in the canyon, the feeding of these trout changed subtly. They were no longer slurping (a highly technical fly fishing term). They were jumping and breaking the surface of the water, typically at the edges of the marsh grasses. With mounting confidence, I cast closer and closer to the edges of the marshes. This time a fish struck my indicator on the surface. I was so surprised that I didn’t set the hook. Another cast, then another, within six inches of the grass. A strike and set and I soon had a juvenile brown trout in my net. By the time I left “the pond,” I brought a dozen fish “to the net,” lost about eight others to LDR and missed just about as many strikes. It was great!

Go to Part 3…