My brother and I were here…
Mid morning on a Skykomish River tribtutary, with lots of fishy water.
…fishing…
My brother fishing…
…with Kirk “Unaccomplished Angler” Werner and Orvis guide Derek Young, for this…
Healthy wild rainbow, who was right where he should have been.
Last week in a nutshell: Trout weren’t caught where expected; a good many others landed where only a few were caught before. One river was frustrating; another too low; one just right. Fellow fly fishermen were met and their company enjoyed on the water.
Some folks won’t understand the almost 200 miles traveled to catch and release the trout I finally found. But a quiet sense of urgency seems to settles in after the summer solstice, an urgency that leads to miles of driving before sunup.
With water in many Sierra rivers, creeks and streams low this year, this urgency demanded a trip, however quick, to the Walker River Basin. It’s a watershed I’ve visited less than I should, considering the beauty of the country traveled distracts from the time it takes to get there. Breakfast is light and handy, the air cold and crisp as I crest the Sonora Pass. Horizon-to-horizon cloud cover dulls the day.
Morning commute traffic means something entirely different here. Before reaching the high desert of the Eastern Sierras, the two lanes of Hwy 108 winds through forests of pines and aspens near the Leavitt Meadow Campground, and though its twists and turns demand slower speeds, both lanes are usually vacant. But not this morning.
A few miles more and two hours after my departure, an internal debate of where to fish the East Walker River was quickly settled by the absence of vehicles near the “miracle mile.” After a few wrong turns (caution is warranted driving a sedan on these dirt turnoffs), it was time to gear up. A lack of competition other fishermen tends to eliminate a subconscious desire to rush this process, and I stood there looking like a sausage standing on end while wishing another angler “Good morning.”
The single East Walker brown that came out to play…and on a red-butt zebra midge tied by yours truly.
We spent a bit of time within sight of each other and I spent time watching his strategy. That French nymphing brought the first fish to the net within half an hour before I wandered downstream.
The East Walker has become my nemesis. It’s never not given up a fish and admittedly I haven’t spent much time fishing it. This day I poked and prodded likely pools, riffles and runs, with only one small brown to show for four hours of effort. Hungry and a bit frustrated, it was time to retrace my route, with stops at the Little Walker and West Walker rivers.
Though “little” is in its name, the Little Walker was too low for my tastes since I was hoping to fish stretches holding the wild trout that live there. It was back down another dirt road to the highway.
Rewarded will be a nice cast to within a foot or so of this bank on the West Walker…
The number of fishermen made it a less than optimal situation, but my eye was drawn to flashes on the surface, near the tail of the bend and just below a lone fly fisherman. I walked quietly to a position downstream and behind him. Our conversation began when he stopped to replace a lost fly. He’d arrived at the nearby U.S. Marine Corps Mountain Warfare Training Center only two days ago, heard that the fishing was “on” and now stood on the shore of the West Walker in his fatigues.
He was enjoying himself. Though stocked rainbows, a long pod of fish had stacked up against the opposite bank, next to reeds and in deeper channels, and were earnestly feeding on the surface. Every other cast was welcomed with a bump, slash and, best of all, a solid strike. I was invited to join in and set up on a small point just downstream.
The reward.
Breaking my rule of never leaving willing fish, I headed back over the pass. My sister and her family were joining me for a three-day weekend, and though fishing is a big part of my time in those mountains, it had been a while since they’d been to the cabin and there was family fun to be had; fun that would be a bonus on top of that day on the three Walkers.
Looking up Beaver Creek.
When it comes to fishing unfamiliar waters, I’m a big fan of hedging my bets. While specific locations and tactics will be obfuscated in conversations with just-met fly fisherman, and stops at local shops often require filtering out hyperbole, it’s usually fellow fly fishing club members that will usually — with a caveat that certain tidbits never be shared — give the most accurate information.
That’s what led me to Calaveras Big Trees State Park to check out Beaver Creek and the North Fork of the Stanislaus River.
I’ll get the North Fork of the Stan out of the way first. I fished it later in the day and did land a few fish. It’s not my favorite type of river. It’s certainly scenic, shadowed by groves of ponderosa and sugar pines, incense cedars, white firs, mountain dogwood and, of course, giant sequoia redwoods. It looks to offer a great opportunity for rafting and I probably should reserve final judgment until there’s a chance to visit when the water is lower. But it’ not the easiest stretch of water to fish as it tumbles through truck-size boulders that mean edging a few yards downstream might entail a half-mile hike just to get around those boulders.
Missed hatch on Beaver Creek.
I fished a few other less remarkable sections of the Stanislaus, revisited Herring Creek, and wet a line in some of the ol’ regular spots. It was a good few days. And when the humpy didn’t work, one of my “confidence” flies, a stimulator of nearly any color, did.
I’m glad I went exploring when I did; it’s likely that within a month some of these creeks will be a bit too skinny.
When it doubt, Stimulator!
The bad news is that work this year dictates quick trips pretty much limited to the family cabin. The good news is that this allows for frequent trips that engender exploration.
Last week I decided that the two full days available for fishing would be dedicated to moving waters with familiar names but until now remained unfished. And no one told me it was humpy week. Red and yellow to be exact.
Road work meant the last five miles of my trip took half an hour. Luckily, a month ago I found a small section of the North Fork of the Tuolumne River not more than 20 minutes from the cabin, a convenient place to get the skunk off after a midafternoon arrival in the Sierra foothills. It’s not remote and often occupied, with a limited number of wild trout, but it’s a place that offers room to practice casting to specific seams and shelter.
Like much of the moving water in the Sierras, this section of the Tuolumne was already low. The early season spoiled me, so the fisherman in me was also initially disheartened to find two kids frolicking in the main pool. As a dad, I appreciated that these kids were having a good time outdoors. However, despite the splashing and noise, a trout would periodically and enticingly slash at the surface.
Though a short drive, I hate wasting an opportunity to fool a fish with a dry/dropper combination. A red humpy and a self-tied small, go-to bead-head nymph.
It took a few casts to warm up.
Then the fish warmed up to my presentation.
Darn fish wouldn't stay in focus. (But was caught near the rock, in focus, in the background.)
So it went for a few hours. The humpy dried off many times after being battered and half swallowed. These fish were hungry and made me look good.
That’d be the theme this trip, and though I didn’t find as many wild trout as hoped, I did well enough to consider it time well spent.
The next three days I’d fish four unfamiliar waters, landing fish from each, often amid relative solitude (we’ll get to that next week). When not alone, I was lucky enough to enjoy conversation with fishermen more knowledge about the area than I, fly fishermen who were happy to offer friendly advice and recommend additional venues. One gentleman, with a long history of fishing the foothills, related bit of history that suggests in high-water years there’s a very real possibility of brook trout being washed out of a reservoir into a nearby steam.
Yes, it was time very well spent.
Big-tailed rainbow...surprising for a stocked fish.
Hopefully, today will be a second day of exploration of waters somewhere on the map below. The best outcome will include fishable water, wild fish and solitude.
Where we’ll be, fishing or otherwise.
It turns the tables a bit when it’s the kids introducing parents to new places and experiences and revisiting the familiar after three decades is icing on the cake, though there’s bound to be disagreement in our personal memories.
Mom and Dad at the cabin, for their first visit.
The parents arrived at the cabin late that Sunday afternoon, and after running an errand that took entirely too long for Dad, dinner was enjoyed and we settled in for the evening. Thankfully, the storm that had dumped snow on the passes had dissipated the day before and the warmth of the sunshine had cleared the roads.
Mom, Dad and I leisurely left Twain Harte with a route in mind but absent any planned stops or timetable. The hillsides leaned more toward gold, but were freckled by islands of still-green grass.
I’ve driven this road many mornings, but saw things a bit differently today since I wasn’t preoccupied with wetting my fly line. Miles rolled by, lubricated by conversation. Soon it was time for a stop to stretch our legs. Though there aren’t many hatcheries that will, in my mind, match the magnificence of the historic Mt. Whitney Fish Hatchery visited in my youth, there was something familiar about walking around the Moccasin Creek Hatchery with the folks.
After the excitement of gaining 1,500 feet in elevation over the two miles of the “new” Old Priest Grade, it was all new territory for Mom and Dad as we wound through Big Oak Flat, Groveland, and past Buck Meadows. Highway 120 took us from 2,838 feet at Big Oak Flat to Yosemite National Park’s Big Oak Flat Entrance Station at 4,900 feet. Dad was impressed by the tidiness of the towns and the number of old buildings alongside the roadway, many of which are still in use.
If it wasn’t enough to have fantastic weather, traffic was light. By mid morning we arrived at the entrance station, where the purchase of an annual pass got us across the park border. Words in many foreign languages hung in the cool air, reminding me of the many nature blessings that aren’t more than a day’s drive from home that attract visitors from around the world.
I’ve always throught that the changes in vegetation and terrain grow more dramatic once inside the formal boundaries of Yosemite. Heavy forest yielded to granite, which only seems to yield to water in the form of glaciers, ice and liquid. We pushed on to Olmsted Point, taking obligatory photos, then on to Tenaya Lake. Availing ourselves of the facilities near the lake, I made a mental note that I need to spend more time exploring Tenaya Lake and its surroundings.
There’s a drama that comes with finally emerging from the forest to be presented with the dramatic vista of Tuolumne Meadows, then dropping into the meadow itself. This time I was taken aback by the dramatic change in its appearance compared with that of last spring, when my brother, son and I were on our way to a challenging life-affirming hike to the top of nearby Lembert Dome. Last year the meadows were covered with water. This year, the grass was already the gray-brown of late August.
I had to explain to Dad that the Tuolumne Meadows campground wasn’t open yet when he asked why I was parking alongside the highway. He’d never been here so early in the season. (The campground would open two weeks later, rather early.) Though last June there was snow on the ground and big puddles filled with mosquito larvae, there was nothing of the sort this last week of May. A stroll toward the entrance was accompanied by a bit of debate about the differences between today’s visit and our memories of camping trips more than two decades ago. Regardless of the differences of opinion and any discrepancy in our memories, there was more than enough that was still the same to foster a feeling of familiarity.
Mom and Dad’s triumphant return after 30-some years.
My worries about the water were confirmed during this walk through the campground when I stopped near the same spot from which I took a photo of Lembert Dome in 2011. Last year, there was no discernable difference between the channels of the Tuolumne River and the river itself, and the water was within two feet of the bottom of the Tuolumne Meadows (Hwy. 120) Bridge. This year, the channel nearest the campground was no more than a foot deep, and the river was barely touching the bridge abutments.
The three of us at Leavitt Falls Overlook.
The easy drive north on Hwy. 395 from Lee Vining was a welcome change after such a big lunch. By the time we arrived to the intersection of Hwys. 395 and 108, the urge to nap had passed. A good thing considering the hairpin curves that would take us from 6,765 feet to 9,623 feet at Sonora Pass. Before our main ascent, the Leavitt Falls overlook offered a last opportunity to stretch our legs before the long trip over the pass. The reduced volume of water coming over the falls was another reminder that it’s going to be a dry year in the Sierra Nevada. We posed for photos, then began the long climb.
Getting a roadside education at Sonora Pass.
This was undiscovered country for the parents, who never had a reason to travel this road. To my eye, Hwy. 108 over Sonora Pass offers much more dramatic transitions. The road rises faster and the changes in terrain and vegetation follow suit. Surprised to find it open, we stopped at the Donnell Reservoir scenic overlook, with a sweeping over the Stanislaus River canyon and the Central Valley. The road from there is bit less remarkable, winding through heavy forest and passing towns that only seem to be wide spots in road.
It was a long but worthwhile day; one that both revived and created memories.
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There was exploration, fish caught, and the folks who raised us would revisit an old vacation spot at 9,000 feet — all despite weather last week that threatened to put the kibosh on all of it.
I started a mini-vacation two Fridays ago with a run up to the cabin, for once not battling traffic for any of the 142 miles. The plan was to get in a bit of fishing before the parents arrived Sunday afternoon and a drive over Tioga and Sonora passes on Monday. Besides an introduction to the cabin, history was the main reason for this tour. Our family typically spent vacation in one of the best possible venues, outdoors and many summers that meant Tuolumne Meadows.
But as of Friday, both passes were closed as late-season snow fell under dark gray clouds.
Willing to gamble only so much on the weather that afternoon, I set out for the ol’ irrigation canal, knowing it offers shelter and, if needed, a quick exit. During a few short hours the shifting weather offered sunshine, rain, hail and even a light flurry of snow. The fishing was as expected; my flies were hit mostly by wild browns and only the smartest stocked rainbows that hadn’t fall victim to salmon eggs or spinners. The stink of a possible skunking lifted, I retreated to a hot dinner and prepared for the next two days.
Instead of huddling inside, I was up before the sun on Saturday counting on the early hour and cold weather — about 48°F — working to my advantage. I choose wisely. Although I was on a well-fished creek, it was just me, the trout and couple of ducks for three hours. Fortitude and toughness won me solitude and a good number of fish that morning. Or, perhaps, it just proves that early bird adage.
By midday I was cleaned up and headed to the Moccasin Creek Hatchery for Trout Fest; the only time of the year that anyone is allowed to put a hook in its raceways. The grins of the kids were contagious; the K-9 demo of a quagga mussel search pretty amazing, and the general mood was generally festive. A local fly fishing club offered casting instruction in another raceway, allowing folks to cast an all-to-big fly to trout with appetites bigger than their four or five inches. I talked up a few of the hatchery personnel in hopes of lining up my plans for Sunday morning.
Those conversations suggested a return to the lower North Fork of the Tuolumne (near Basin Creek), a section of the river I had first visited about four years ago and enjoyed as an early season venue. This section is deep in a canyon and quite beautiful, despite its relative closeness to civilization. Most of the fish I caught back then there were stocked and in the intervening years that section of the Tuolumne had fallen off the stocking list as the result of an environmental lawsuit. But the word was that there were wild trout to be found.
Usually I’m up and out the door at the crack of dawn, but I’d reserved that Sunday morning for leisurely exploration of Forest Service roads outside of Long Barn. I was surprised to find much of my route paved with asphalt, and after marking a good-looking creek or two on the GPS, I headed to Tuolumne City and the four-mile descent to the lower North Fork of the Tuolumne.
Like so often happens, a small, nice looking wild rainbow slammed my dry fly on the first cast. (They always seem to do that when I’m least prepared.) I missed that first fish but managed to find almost dozen other little rainbows, scattered in the likely spots.
After a morning of rewards, I headed back to a hot shower before the arrival of the parents. But the folks’ visit will have to wait until next week.
Remember last week’s more rhapsodic post about finding solitude and fooling fish with dry flies? And then my comment about the contentedness found on that new stretch of river?
Well, the next day was a little bit different.
I knew that there’d be little or no solitude that day. This was a creek well know among the locals and regular visitors alike. A place to fill the freezer with hatchery trout or simply have fun catching.
An early riser because of work by design rather than nature, I was on the water at sunup to find a husband and wife beat me to one of the better locations. I fished downstream a bit and after landing a few fish, ventured closer to the couple when the husband abandoned a favorite run. Pleasantries were exchanged and after asking if it would be okay, I moved upstream of the couple. They were fishing with spinners and bait but our conversation reveled them to be well-rounded fisherfolks. Today they hoped to take a limit of fish, while other days on other waters they’d favor catching and releasing with a fly rod. Fish were landed amid enjoyable conversation peppered with suggestions of other worthwhile fishing venues. Limits caught, they departed about mid morning.
During this time, I’d settled in perpendicular to a nice deep section while two older guys began to cast bait into a pool just downstream of where I was fishing. To paint a picture, I was making quartering casts about 15 feet upstream and the roughly 30-foot drift of my flies put them 15 feet below my position before I’d recast. Ten feet below that point, these guys perched on the opposite bank.
The fishing and catching was good for everyone for about an hour, then slacked off, though the trout were still responding well to flies, both on the surface and subsurface. Like the day before, a well-presented dry would lure a fish from the depths with good deal of drama and splashing that, of course, caught the attention of the other fishermen.
Then it happened. Plop.
A white and red bobber landed less than 5 feet away from me, right in the seam I was working. This would happen half a dozen times more, but since I was still hooking a fish now and again and my ‘competition’ wasn’t, I ignored the uncouth behavior.
However, when another fisherman took up position about 15 feet upstream and let his sunken ball of fluorescent PowerBait float to within a yard and a half of my feet (certainly sneaky if this was intentional), it became clear that these rude manners deserved a response. But I’m not a confrontational person. So…
Downstream but within sight of every one of the other fishermen were various pods of trout holding in pockets and depressions and behind rocks. With a new dropper tied onto a stimulator dry fly, I targeted the fish swimming closest to me and, one by one hooked, each. Slowly, I worked my way across the creek until I was casting against the opposite bank. The other guys weren’t catching, so they were watching. Like the day before, I enjoyed watching the reactions of each fish, with the ‘turn‘ telling me how I might adjust my presentation and hinting at where the fish expected to see food.
My response may not have had an impact on these guys (and yes, I knew there’d be others on this water), but after landing more than a dozen fish — then releasing them — while everyone else stood idly by sure made me feel better.
The dogwoods’ stark white blooms peeked out from behind pines as unfamiliar water teased with promise. A slight breeze carried mayflies upstream. Spring was winding its way higher and higher up the Sierra Nevada range, bringing renewal. It arrived with a beautiful recklessness.
Wildflowers popped up randomly, seeking purchase in the cracks of granite boulders. The river, though somewhat tamed by a mild winter, flowed high with snowmelt. If the warmth of the day suggested that this trout season would peak early, it was the mayflies that served notice that the spring runoff had already begun to recede.
Spring Runoff
It would be disingenuous to suggest that all of the time spent and distance traveled to this and similar waters is devoted to casting practice, or perfecting my presentation. It’s the fish that I’m after. Thus far this season, however, I’ve fallen under the spell of ‘the turn.’ Fly fishermen more commonly will speak fervently about ‘the take,’ and it can be exciting, but for me it’s the anticipation that builds with that telltale flash, or if sight fishing, the shift of an eye or opening of the mouth that comes before the strike or refusal. It’s the amount of this turn, lack thereof, or ultimately the take that offers the most accurate appraisal of a fly’s presentation.
It was upstream that I half kneeled behind a boulder, tossing more than casting a dry/dropper combination into a likely pocket. Almost imperceptibly the dry fly, a yellow humpy this time, skipped a beat and the hook was set. The reward was eight inches of a brilliantly painted wild rainbow trout. The fish had struck a small, size 18 red-butt Zebra midge I tied on a whim last fall, not knowing or caring if it was an actual pattern. After a quick look at the little fish, I slipped it back into the water.
My casting went unanswered for a while and I headed downstream, purposely ignoring the pool just below where I had parked the car. With the new trout season came the stocking of fish, and it really wasn’t speculation to think they’d still be there later.
It was more bushwhacking than fishing on the way downstream. Any fish that might have been there remained unseen. The same gradient that allowed for a stairway of likely pools also funneled this part of the river into a canyon. With the passing of years I have come to understand a need to balance the distance traveled in the search for fish with the consideration that an equivalent distance must be retraced to my starting point. I turned around when venturing further downstream meant following a trail too far away from the water. Less attractive was the slippery bed of pine needles and the leaves of California black oaks.
On a piece of lichen-dotted granite — not a boulder, more of an exposed part of the mountain — I sat, watched and listened. Thought not silent, there was peace in the sounds of the river washing over rocks, the breeze rocking the tip tops of the trees and chirping birds unmindful of my presence. Heading upstream meant hiking uphill and arriving at the pool previously disregarded, my excuse was taking time to watch the water while the truth was I needed to catch my breath.
This was one of those long, wide pools that suggest fish and are often quickly fished out. Grabbing my attention on the opposite bank, however, was what looked to be the tip top of a pine tree, out of which sprung gnarled branches extending into the water and above its surface. It was prime shelter just off the fastest seam. Not fishing means not catching, but in my few short years of fly fishing I’ve learned from my quarry to maximize reward with efficiency, so I waited and watched. First it was only a nose prodding the water’s surface inches away from the branch, then a small splash. A fish finally crashed through the surface. Though its prey was unseen, I tied on a black-bodied caddis and stripped line for a cast.
A simple quartering upstream cast put my flies just out of sight of the fish but in a current that would pull them just past the ripples of another rise form. The first look at the dry fly was only a tentative bump. Readjusting and allowing my back cast to go high over the willows behind me, I would cast a few more times before appetite overwhelmed caution, and a decent rainbow came to the net.
When appetite overcomes caution...
This was the game played over the next hour or so. I’d periodically examine my knots and flies, taking my time and only casting again when the trout’s feeding fell back into a natural rhythm. Half a dozen more fish were fooled and more than a few of those netted.
I’m not a great caster, and often label my casting skill as ‘simply adequate.’ Normally a difficult-to-reach fish would be ignored. That wouldn’t be the case today.
What caught my attention was a couple of regular rises, slightly downstream and on the other side of the tree, underneath a branch extending about three feet above the surface. The tree top seemed to end somewhere below that branch, allowing for another couple of feet of clear water before a boulder diverted the river back into the main part of the pool. In hindsight it’s hard to tell why I tried the cast, though in the moment there wasn’t much thinking involved, only action. The fly fell right where intended and travelled no more than six inches before it was inhaled.
This was one of those rare moments, and a sense of wonderment washed over me. A decent rainbow trout and I exchanged looks. I released it, but it lingered between my boots before slowly disappearing upstream. More casts were made, most on target. Hook sets were missed, but some connected and I would be eyeball-to-eyeball with three more fish.
There was an unusual contentedness within when I left about noon, happy to have found fish, and happy they were willing.
Twas an imployment for his idle time, which was not idly spent; for angling was after tedious study, a rest to his mind, a cheerer of his spirits, a divertion of sadness, a calmer of unquiet thoughts, a Moderator of passions, a procurer of contentedness, and that it begot habits of peace and patience in those that professed and practice’d it.”
— Izaac Walton, The Complete Angler, or Contemplative Man’s Recreation: Being a Discourse on Rivers, Fish-Ponds, Fish and Fishing (1653, 8th ed.)
We knew the weekend warriors were gone. We also knew they’d have hit hard a creek that’s always fun in terms of catching. Our plan was to find all the fish too smart for everyone else.
As we geared up that morning, the count favored Sean, and I trailed by a considerable margin but refused to bring up the excuse that I had relied on a dry fly for much of the previous day while he took the easy way out used nymphs.
We go to this creek when we want to catch something, enjoying our tax (and licensing) dollars at work. The rainbow trout stocked here are generally of the Eagle Lake strain, a hard fighting fish that often entertains with acrobatics. Fishing here stacks the deck if you’re measuring success by the number of fish caught. I’ll admit to also enjoying the look of astonishment on the faces of other fishermen, the ones not using flies, when in 15 minutes Sean or I pull out three fish to their one. So, please, shelve any debate about “missing the point,” this is a place of pure fun.
As we walked down to the creek, it was clear that we’d have it to ourselves. Sean headed upstream. We’d both be nymphing — I’ve not known stocked trout to look up much — and this section offered plenty of deeper runs and pools. It didn’t take long for either of us to hook up.
With the intensive fishing over Opening Day weekend, I expected the catching to be a bit slower. I wasn’t disappointed. With a bit of work and a change to a favorite red chironomid, I regularly elicited strikes, particularly with a slow lift at the end of a drift. Catching had slowed for Sean, so he headed downstream to a fast run.
Sean's first big Opening Day trout.
In the meantime, Sean had started upstream, and when I finally looked up, even at a distance I could see that the fish on his stringer wasn’t a cookie cutter stocker. With a grin to match, he held up a rainbow that measured an honest 18 inches. After the obligatory photo, he headed back downstream.
As often happens, I became lost in the fishing. Testing every edge and riffle, rewarded with strikes where expected and others that came as a total surprise. A bait fisherman took a seat on the opposite bank, asked about the fishing, then, after telling him it had slowed down, I landed three decent fish in less than ten casts.
Sean had returned while I was distracted. Suspiciously happy, he announced that he decided that first fish wasn’t big enough and hoisted up a 20-incher that had been added to the stringer.
Sean with a fine mess o' trout.
If our little father-son competition was to be measured by inches, those last two fish would put Sean over the top.
However, we weren’t measuring in inches, and my count had long ago surpassed Sean’s. Nevertheless, this was probably Sean’s best Opening Day. Ever.
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fishing for words 