fishing for words

(and tossing out random thoughts)

Category Archives: Twain Harte


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marking fall with dry fly fishing

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.


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fishing and fun at the cabin

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 Labor Day 2010

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.

Labor Day Rainbow 2010

A nice 'bow on an Ice Cream Cone Chironomid.


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it’s not a sure thing and I like it that way

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.


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post-m/c trip deconstruction……in reverse… sort of

Chronological order be damned; the middle often is the best. Bread is the handy carrier for PB&J. It’s the cream filling that makes the Twinkie.

So, in this tale we’ll shove the more mundane stuff out of the way first.

The last Friday in June, Sean and I loaded up the motorcycles with more gear than each has ever been asked to carry. A quick review of the route, and we began the inaugural Konoske Boys Two-Wheel/Fly Fishing RoadTrip 2010. The fishing looked iffy. The weather looked good. We knew the scenery would be great.

[singlepic id=890 w=474 h=356 float=center]

Two bikes, two fly rods, two reels and an extra gallon of gas.


 
Thanks largely to me, Sean was riding his ’82 Honda CB650SC (my first motorcycle), and I was riding my ’97 Honda CB750. Both shod with fresh rubber and recently inspected by the shop. Saddlebags hung from their haunches, fly rods balanced on their tails.

Our first multi-day m/c trip would push the total mileage into triple digits three days in a row. Call it a trial run.

The thing about a trial run — “a test or rehearsal of something new or untried to assess its effectiveness” — is the haunting expectation that something will be found to be ineffective. Skipping ahead to the end of our last day, that’s when the battery on Sean’s bike went kaput, thanks to a charging system known to be most effective above 5,000 rpm. A few attempts to bump start the engine ended as quickly as started. Thankfully, we weren’t so far from The Cabin that we…actually Sean, it’s his bike after all…couldn’t push it back.

So our fantastic weekend ended on a subdued note. Sean rode my bike home as he had to get to work and I awaited rescue. A few hours later The Wife delivered a battery tender.  Sean’s bike was charging and I was headed home.

Forty-five hours and 408 miles earlier Sean and I had only edged onto Hwy 780. Somewhere around Livermore any idea of membership in the Iron Butt Association was out the window. In the end, the biggest “trial” of this trial run was butt endurance. Actually, lack thereof. Our longest run without a stop was 62 miles. My butt went numb at mile 46. You can bet I’ll be researching custom seats during the coming months.

Luckily, short breaks were all it took to restore a semblance of normalness to our gait. And with a smaller tank on the CB650, we made up excuses and stopped often enough. Of course, there was the traditional A&W root beer stop in Oakdale.

Thankfully, the road just outside of Oakdale twists over rolling hills; a welcome change from the monotony of the highway slabs. We pulled into the driveway less than an hour later, unpacked and sat for a spell.

Sean's Stocked Rainbow

The decent stocked rainbow that surprised Sean at the canal.

Then Sean began to give me the eye. He’s so keen on fishing that, apparently, it was ill-mannered of me to take time to rest my weary rear when there’s trout to play with. A quick ride to the outskirts of town put us on the canal. Most of the time we’re hard pressed to entice anything but wild browns that live there to take a fly. I plucked about 5 out. Sean pulled out another of the wild brethren as well as a decent stocker rainbow estimated at 14 to 15 inches. Deeming that 2 hours or so was enough of a warm up for Saturday, we headed off to fill the tanks and grab dinner. We discovered, however, that the only gas station in town no longer dispenses fuel. We’d solve that dilemma later.

In hindsight, the 40 miles from Oakdale to The Cabin presaged the fun we’d find on Hwy 108, 395 and 120 the next day.

But that’s next week’s post.

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The where we were.


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where we’ll be tomorrow

For those who haven’t traveled Tioga Road – where out two-wheeled fly fishing day trip will take us – here’s an interesting time-lapse video. (We’ll travel a tad bit slower.)

http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=12742304&server=vimeo.com&show_title=1&show_byline=1&show_portrait=0&color=00ADEF&fullscreen=1
Google Street View: Tioga Pass Road from Austin Leirvik on Vimeo.


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opening day 2010 – new wild places

Each Opening Day Weekend — with or without company — I charge into the Sierra Foothills in pursuit of the first trout of the season. This year Older Son Sean accompanied me.

Sean left earlier than I could Opening Day — I had a commitment — and he had some luck flogging a few spots before my arrival. We met up at The Cabin late in the afternoon. Sean brimmed with confidence that this would be the year he outfishes dad. The refrigerator was stocked with beer and the pantry with basic staples and, with daylight waning, we opted to warm up on the surprisingly trout-friendly irrigation canal behind town.

Opening Day brings nearly half the town to the canal, knowing that sometime during the prior week, days or hours, that the state DFG hatchery truck will have dropped a load of pan-sized rainbows into the water. I’ve seen everything brought to bear on the canal — the ubiquitous baits of questionable manmade formulations, bass lures, even 10 foot saltwater rods — with the results being full stringers, as well as the seemingly inevitable string of injured, dead, or dying stocked rainbows. (Wild or not, wasteful in my book.)

Snow along the way, in late April.

Snow along the way, in late April.

The first full day began with a five a.m. departure. This year it meant driving east on Hwy 108 during at dawn. Not surprisingly, remnants of dirty snow appeared at approximately 4,500 feet and drifts defined the snowplow’s reach after 5,000 feet. Most summers I will end up driving this route at least six times. Sometimes to destinations before the summit; other times to traverse Sonora Pass as I make tracks for the East Slope of the Sierras. So, knowing full well (and happily) that Old Man Winter laid down a healthy snowpack, we set out Sunday morning to reach the Promised Water, the Clarks Fork of the Stanislaus River, which is littered with boulders and sprinkled with wild trout and their domesticated brethren.

Outside the car windows the air was crisp and cold, and snow began to dominate the landscape. That should have been our warning. Apparently the road to Clarks Fork doesn’t warrant the same attention as the highway when it comes to snow removal. Disappointment was tamed somewhat by the acknowledgement that we were taking risk this time around by checking on waters never before visited this early in the season.

The next attempt to reach unvisited water— Sand Bar Flat and Spring Gap on the Middle Fork of the Stanislaus River — was prevented by (1) lack of signage and (2) lack of a Stanislaus National Forest map. Fishing near Spring Gap can legitimately be called epic: a few years ago Christopher and I stumbled upon it late in the afternoon; late enough that we had about two hours of fishing, but those two hours yielded some beautiful wild rainbows. But Sean and I weren’t getting there this year.

Apparently gluttons for the punishment doled out by Forest Service roads, we threw caution to the wind to set the GPS for Wild Trout Stream X. It’s been mentioned here before as a location revealed in confidence by two old and grizzled fishermen who appreciated the fact that Sean and I were fly fishing and practicing catch and release. We had visited the stream in the off season, when flows were about half of what we’d find, and saw a good number of dark shadows that presaged good times. It’s about ten miles from pavement, on roads littered with potholes (and mud at this time of year) winding through dry pine forests, by meadows and over one river and a few creeks. Sean claims that no matter which direction we were headed that the potholes seems to line up on his side. It certainly wasn’t my driving.

Was the long, 20-miles-per-hour drive worth it? You betchya.

Smaller streams are always a great excuse to get out my smaller 3 wt. rod, so while I was getting that ready Sean nearly ran to a pool downstream of an old-school stone bridge. You’d have to ask him, but I would swear that it wasn’t more than one drift before I heard an exclamation affirming a hook up. Sure enough, a small wild rainbow was the first of many rewards for the torturous ride in.

What I call a Trophy – a wild rainbow in Stream X.

I’m always amazed to find trout in streams like this one. It was rarely more than six feet across and more than two feet deep. Its crystal-clear water danced over the rocks, creating riffles and small plunge pools. Short stretches offered a riffle-pool-tailout configuration in miniature.

This small stream made the day. There’s nothing like wild fish. Particularly in light of The Unaccomplished Angler‘s “Adages as Pertaining to Smallish (Wild) Fish”:

  • What they lack in size, they make up for in beauty.
  • A size 22 fly in the mouth of a 2-inch fish is equivalent to a size 2 fly in the mouth of a 22-inch fish. Or something like that.
  • It’s not about the size of the fish in the fight, but the size of the fight in the fish. And little fish are scrappers.
  • There’s more fishing than catching big fish.
  • Small fish, in the hands of those with small hands, look relatively large.

While I hear that Mr. Unaccomplished is good in the small hands department, it’s not so true for me. We’re in agreement on everything else.

Sean on Stream X.

Sean on a fish.

And the wild fish at Stream X were h-u-n-g-r-y. We were casting a dry/dropper rig (a dry fly with a dropper, i.e. a subsurface nymph imitation) and these little guys chased both flies with abandon. Even the dry fly, despite it being a size 12 stimulator in my case. (The dropper was a size 18/20 Copper John.) As a relatively new fly fisherman who cut his teeth on nymphing as a nearly surefire way to dredge up trout, the last two years I’ve gained a greater understanding for the pure joy of presenting a dry fly in a manner adequate enough to elicit a strike.

Rubber-legged stimulatior doing the job.

Rubber-legged stimulatior doing the job.

Steam X also offered plenty of dry fly fun. Sean spent much of his time at the downstream pool, while employed my shorter rod in dappling various riffles and plunge pools as I made my way upstream. Disappointment was rare. Fish would rise out of bubbles of plunging water to inhale the rubber-legged stimulator. Others in riffles would pounce on the dropper at the last minute, just as it began to drift toward the water’s surface on the swing. Nearly four hours flew by. We capped the day with a great buffalo burger at the well-known Diamondback Grill in downtown Sonora.

Monday would mark Sean’s last day of the trip and a responsible but unfortunate decision to leave a bit early to make it to class. His original plan was to skip class to spend a bit more time on what I’ll call Hatchery Creek. (More on why later.) We were on the water just after sunrise, but with the water temperature at 50°F, there was no love that morning. Two hours or so later, Sean made his fateful decision. As for me, perhaps I’m too stubborn. Sometimes stubbornness pays off.

First fish of Opening Day 2010.

Hatchery fish, Opening Day 2010.

Mid morning, with sun dappling the water and the air temperature rising enough so that I could no longer see my breath, bugs began to hatch. A few small mayflies darted here and there. Then the bite was on. During the next two hours I would hook fourteen fish and bring ten to the net. (I’ll attribute the hooked/landed ratio to the fact that size matter that morning…nothing larger than size 18 got their attention.) Every fish was a cookie cutter stocker, ranging from ten to twelve inches. I’ll give ‘em credit, every single one of these fish put on a good show, either jumping multiple times or offering me a challenge by sounding for the bottom. I stuck around through the afternoon, trying to land that last fish. It never came. The evening entailed cleaning The Cabin and packing most of the gear.

The last bit of fishing for this trip came when the last load of laundry was in the dryer. I made the short drive to The Canal and casually walked upstream with drifting a couple of nymphs through likely locations, particularly the undercut bank just underfoot. Things looked good after the second case, when a colorful, ten-inch brown absolutely nailed the lower fly, a Copper John. During the 30-minute walk up to flume I picked up two more trout, both brownies. Below the flume, where the force of the water create a pool full of eddies, another five fish came to hand. (I missed two hooksets as well.)

Overall it was a great Opening Day trip. The catching wasn’t red hot as it’s been during previous Opening Days. Stream X, however, offered the highlight of the trip, the kind of fishing memory that will grow grander with each telling. But don’t ask for the GPS coordinates. You’ll only get there if I take you there. Blindfolded. Probably in the trunk.

First fish of Opening Day 2010.
Wild rainbow from Stream X.
Looking upstream from the bridge over Stream X.
Another look at Stream X.
Rubber-legged stimulatior doing the job.
Nice wild rainbow trout from Stream X.
Good looking fish.
Sean on the Stream X Bridge.
Sean with one of the numerous wild rainbow trout caught that day.
Sean on Stream X.
One of the hidden valleys along the way to Creek Y.
Closeup of coloring.
Sean with an Opening Day trout.
Snow along the way, in late April.


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manly fishing and food

By now you know that the Older Son and I are likely having a heck of a time. We’re headquartered at the cabin, fishing a few rivers and small streams for trout. Maybe even tainting our lines to chase bluegill and bass in a nearby pond.

During the fishing there will be manly bonding that can only come over fierce friendly competition; competition that likely will be won by guile and cunning rather than youth and strength. In between fishing there will be a visit to our favorite hamburger place. Thankfully, forecasts portend fantastic spring weather. Yeah, a heck of a time.

I can feel your sympathy.

Without a decent laptop, much less a reliable connection to the interwebs, any updates will erratic or nonexistent. In the debate of fishing vs. blogging, well, you can guess the loser.

More words — and taunting — to come. Just can’t say when.


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the starting line

Stepping up to the plate to help educate novice fly fishers tomorrow morning in the basic skills needed to play and land a fish means shoving aside the desire to fling a fly at oh-dark-thirty on Opening Day of Trout Season 2010. (The offer of a free lunch had something nothing to do with volunteering.)

Unfortunately, there’s 125 miles between the classroom and suitable trout water, which means — without too much traffic — I won’t put a fly in or on the water until sometime after 4:00 p.m. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. That magical twilight hour can mean good times on a few of the rivers and streams on my list.

The plan’s a bit in flux until Saturday morning, when older son Sean will decide on his departure hour and whether he’ll stop at the Bass Pro Shops store in Manteca…and how much time and money he might spend there. (Thankfully, he doesn’t have to worry about a wife discovering that Bass Pro offers something for everyone.) His timing will determine on which water will begin his annual attempt to out fish the old man.

A portion of our arsenal.

It’s certain that we’ll mix it up a bit this year. Water flows will dictate whether of not we visit the Clark Fork of the Stanislaus River. The regular, local spots are also on our list. So is Brook Trout Stream X, a small trickle of a creek discovered last year thanks to two local retiree/fishermen, who gave specific instructions to ‘…go down that there road ten miles and you’ll find it.’ No mention that nine of the ten miles would be Forest Service road. We’re hoping that after a long winter that these wild brookies might be a tad hungry enough to be fooled by adequately presented dry flies.

We’ll have the new waterproof camera with us, hoping it’ll be baptized photographing some decent fish.

Our days are about to flash by at a more frenzied pace, but there are fish in our future and more than a few waters — a well-known lake in Northern California, a Washington river, and untold Sierra rivers and streams — in which we’ll wet our fly lines for the first time. We’ll reacquaint ourselves with familiar waters along the way. Then there’s the long-planned Tioga-to-Sonora Pass Motorcycle Fly Fishing Tour.

We’re packed and ready to go.


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last hurrah ’09

[singlepic id=746 w=200 h=267 float=right]We’re back. The second annual End of Trout Season Trip is history. And we caught more browns, brookies and rainbows than could rightfully be expected.

It all started late and slow as less adept drivers transformed former automobiles into too many ready-to-be-recycled bits strewn along Hwy 680. We picked up speed through Livermore, grabbed a sandwich dinner in Dublin, then came to a stop in Manteca. Younger son Christopher needed his first look at a Bass Pro Shops store and a few pieces of gear. Eyes suitably glazed over, it was a quick 70 miles to the cabin and an early bed time.

There’s a benefit to regularly falling getting out of bed during the five o’clock hour. It’s that much easier to hit road early when fishing. On the road in the dark, with Christopher asleep and few episodes of “Ask About Fly Fishing” queued up on the iPhone, the 93 miles to the upper East Walker River quickly slipped away.

Mother Nature was nice enough to cooperate, and the weather was exactly as if I had ordered it up…cool, crisp and high-desert clear. I don’t think it was much above 40° and never rose much above 50° on the EW. The nicest surprise is that this would be the first time I would been alone on the East Walker, if for just the first hour.

[singlepic id=745 w=200 h=150 float=left]Once we were bugged up and on the river, the rest of life drifted away. Cast, mend, watch. Repeat. That went on for a total of, oh, maybe ten minutes before the confidence inspiring first strike. That’s the way it was to be all morning. Grand total: twelve browns in three hours. Not a one less than twelve inches long and some stretching to fourteen. Nice fish. All fat, sassy and seemingly ready for winter. There we’re bigger fish around to be sure. In a slower moving, slick surfaced stretch we caught sight of a wake that would do the Lock Ness Monster proud. Big fish to the net or not, it was a great start to the weekend.

Eating lunch on the go, it was south to Tioga Pass Road. We tried a familiar lower stretch of Lee Vining Creek, but most of those fish were holdover stockers that had earned an education over the summer and weren’t having any of what we were selling. So it was onwards and steeply upwards to the upper sections of Lee Vining Creek and other high-mountain creeks, where I know of a few wild populations of brook trout just right for the 3 wt. rod.

It had become a mandate that I visit these little trout. I did so during May, only to find a few fish, and those few fish unwilling to fall for any of my offerings. This time it was to be different.

[singlepic id=747 w=200 h=267 float=right]The air temperature was, at best, in the high thirties, and a stiff wind whipped down off the snow fields. I mentally marked the time: one thirty. ‘Cause I had just walked into what seemed to be one heck of a hatch. Or at least a feeding frenzy. Pods of brook trout, dazzling in their spawning colors, slashed at the surface. Others breached like freshwater whales in miniature. And I could do no wrong with a size 14 Royal Wulff, off which I hung a size 22 “Ghost Midge” of my own design. (Simply tie a tiger midge with gray thread instead of black, with a small flash tail if you’d like.)

I stopped counting at twenty. A number of ten-inch trophies made up for lack of length with brilliant colors. Yes, that’s a trophy fish at 9,990-something feet in the Sierra Nevada mountain range. There’s something amazing about fishing a small, crystal clear mountain creek, no deeper than 12 inches and landing fish after fish. I would have liked to have spent the entire afternoon there. But we had older son Sean to meet and some one hundred-plus miles to go.

Sunday dawned cold and clear again. Soon we were packed up and ready to return to reality home, but not without one last cast or twenty. On the road home there are a few small West Slope streams that feed into Don Pedro Lake; good places to delay our reentry into the world by a few hours. The morning started off slow and Sean wandered downstream. I should have seen the signs. No witnesses. No one to man the net.

It could have been predicted. It was a soft take. Subtle in fact. Muscle memory set the hook. Then all hell broke loose. Apparently a torpedo had attached itself to my line. It accelerated upstream. Three leaps later the fish made the mistake of almost grounding itself in shallow water. Then I could see its back – a big back – break the surface. A short second of indecision preceeded a downstream charge; a charge powerful enough to take me with it. In the end, fifteen minutes later, and 100 feet down stream, a slab of a fish was in the net. Barely. Twenty four inches of rainbow. The biggest trout I’ve landed in moving water. And no witnesses. Only the camera to trust to tell the story.

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The rest of the morning was filled with multiple double hook ups as Sean and fished favorite spots side by side. We landed a number of DFG-raised rainbows, with just enough casts required between strikes to keep it interesting. Sean was lucked enough to bring an eighteen incher to hand. I got another good fish of twenty two inches. I also had a repeat of last year. I’d heard years ago that in the fall some wild Don Pedro Lake browns occasionally find their way upstream thanks to spawning urges. This was proven to me to be fact last fall went I landed an eighteen-inch brownie. Got one again this year. Even if it was only ten inches, I’ll count it.

My last hurrah for Trout 2009.

The slideshow:

The gallery:
[nggallery id=65]


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end-of-season fishing trip ’09: the warm up

Three more days of work and we’re outta here.

After last year’s inaugural trip to cold waters during the last full weekend of California’s trout season, the commitment was made to do it again. In approximately 90 hours one son and I should be on the road. We’ll stop at the Bass Pro Shops store near Manteca to drool, and make it to the cabin by sundown.

With any luck, we’ll be out of cell phone range all day Saturday, traversing just under one hundred miles to Bridgeport.

The goal: fish the East Walker River one more time before snow closes the passes. The EW’s flowing low but hope is high that this’ll remain steady through the weekend and allow access to areas I didn’t fish during the summer.

Then, depending on the fishing at the EW, our stamina, our doggedness or a combination of all three influences, maybe we’ll make it roundabout trip with a drive down to Lee Vining, hang a right, and head up and over Tioga Pass for a last late-season look.