fishing for words

(and tossing out random thoughts)

Category Archives: Twain Harte


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big fish, big fun

I’ve heard it said that that those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it, but I don’t think that applies to fly fishing. At least not during a recent Eastern Sierra trip with the club. Fall is just around the corner in this neck of the woods and it seems the local trout are feeling it. It certainly wasn’t a case of “you should have been here last week.”

To get the skunk off as early as possible maximize fishing, I joined two club members on our way to our temporary home at Tom’s Place Resort. I arranged an early morning met up that put us on the East Walker River by mid morning, just in time for a small caddis hatch. The killer combination was a size 16 black caddis on top with a crystal flash zebra midge of my own design. Three hours later and with eight browns to the net — biggest at 14 inches — it was off to Tom’s Place, where we’d meet up with the rest of the group. After a quick transfer of food and luggage to the cabins, a quick rundown offered by yours truly of some fishing options, we headed out. The scenery alone would be worth the price of admission; the sage infused high-desert of the East Slope, with a backdrop of pines and aspens climbing snow-tipped granite mountains. A backdrop that only became more beautiful with a trout brought to the hand.

With only a few hours to fish, I headed to the outlet of Rock Creek Lake to jump into the playground of brookies, offering a wide spot bordered by rushes or plunge pools directly below the lake outlet. Dries were the order of the hour, with humpies winning hands down.

Then, there came the food. Posole for dinner Friday, pulled pork on Saturday, and a heavy-duty breakfast composed of six pounds of bacon and three dozen eggs. And I can’t forget the homemade beer.

2009.09.012.Dutch.Fighting

Dutch on a nice rainbow.

Saturday two fishing friends and I hit Crowley Lake with a guide. Crowley didn’t give up fish easily, or quickly. But quality was good. The only woman on the boat ended up catching only browns — and with five of ‘em, more fish than me or her husband — while her husband landed only Kamloops rainbows. I ended up with four Lahontan cutthroat and one Eagle Lake rainbow. With the except of my rainbow, all of our fish exceeded 18 inches, with my largest cutthroat topping out at 22 inches.

During a mid afternoon break, we tied some flies, including a few midges based on my recipe: silver bead head, black thread body overwrapped with ghost crystal flash, counter wrapped with red or silver fine wire, with a small crystal flash tail. That afternoon brought some thundershowers, but they only dampened the ground, not the fishing.

Sunday dawned bright and clear, and we headed out separate ways. Some stopped at the Tuolumne River, just south of the Hwy 120 bridge to net two fish and miss a bunch on a size 18 black EHC. A few of us again hit the East Walker, where we dredged up browns with nymphs and wet flies.

In the end, we collectively landed brook trout, Eagle Lake and Kamloops rainbows, Loch Leven and German (aka von Beher) browns, at least one cuttbow, and Lahontan cutthroats.

Group2

Our Crew

After stopping overnight at the cabin in Twain Harte, I fished a local stream in the rain – and I was the only one on the water there – and landed fifteen stocked rainbows. Fall is fast becoming my favorite time of the year up there…quiet and no crowds.

All in all, a great trip, great fishing, and great fun.


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hot weekend!

The often unknown price of planning a trip to The Cabin can come in many forms…frozen pipes in the winter, construction noises in the spring…and heat in the summer.

I knew it’d be a whirlwind (long) weekend, with Christopher and Katelyn dropping in Friday night for some fishing Saturday, followed by Sean and Kirsten arriving Saturday night for more fishing Sunday. (Both boys are at that age during which young men seem to test the devotion of girlfriends by dragging them around to all sorts of questionable activities.) I did not know that temperatures would soar those three days, breaking thermometer bulbs up and down the Sierra foothills. The car thermometer read 107°F at one point. While I’d rather not believe that figure, the psychological toll came nowhere near the physical.

But we managed to have fun. Christopher wanted to test the waters of the South Fork of the Tuolumne River, up the road from Groveland, so we did. Sean and I had visited this stretch of the river on Opening Day, only to find the flows quite high. This time around we found nice pools and decent fishing. I initially headed upstream, finding a welcome strike or two; finally landing a decent rainbow after casing upstream to a likely pool from behind a boulder. Christopher and Katelyn chased after some fish they saw lingering in a bigger pool.

My Tuolumne River Rainbow

My Tuolumne River Rainbow

My attention turned downstream. Fruitless casts into some bigger water prompted a switch to a dry/dropper set up (dry fly with a trailing nymph). This produced at least a dozen takes and a few smaller fish landed, including what might have been my first Sacramento pikeminnow, in juvenile form. After the Tuolumne we played at Moccasin Creek for a while. With the blame for the tougher than usual fishing placed firmly on our late afternoon arrival and the high pressure system that brought the searing heat — I still managed to hook and land four decent rainbows.

Sean & Bass

Sean & Bass

The remaining daylight after dinner found us, as promised, fishing a small pond near Lyons Canal for bass and sunfish. We all caught something. The bass were small but willing to hit nearly anything. Christopher and I threw streamers to hook numerous bass, while Katelyn landed one on a spinner. We closed the fishing for the day with a stroll along the canal, where Christopher landed a decent-sized brown trout. Later, Christopher took first in a round of miniature golf, with dad behind by one stroke. Then Christopher and Katelyn left and dad collapsed.

Sean and Kirsten were ready to roll about 6:00 a.m. Sunday and we were on Moccasin Creek by 7:15. The fishing was again a bit tough. I’ll blame my lack of fish to hand on the fact that Sean borrowed my 5 wt. fly rod because Kirsten was using Sean’s/my backup 5 wt. fly rod, leaving me to use a too-limber 3 wt., which made strong hook sets difficult. However, when all was said and done, dad out-fished Sean by two trout. I think it was 7-5.  Kirsten also hooked a few and landed one.

The post-dinner fishing was again targeting bass and sunfish. Sean had a frustrating time with a streamer. At my suggestion he switched to a dry/dropper and was immediately on to the small bass. The fun continued after I tied on a damselfly imitation to elicit some awesome top-water strikes. But let’s just say that the dad vs. Sean competition wasn’t even close in this venue. (Grasshopper, when you can take the fly from my hand, it will be time for you to outfish your father.)

Another game of miniature golf showed my consistency…again one stroke behind the son. This game, however, sure brought out Kirsten’s competitive streak. She was ready for an immediate rematch with Sean.

Did I mention it was hot all weekend?

Fat Fish
Rainbow from Water That Shall Not Be Named
Kirsten & Trout
Sean & Trout
Wild Brown
Kaitlin & Bass


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next stop: Yosemite

This week I hope to pass the torch to my grandson with his first introduction to camping.

Tomorrow we’ll be on the road to Yosemite Valley; a pretty great place for one’s first camping trip. The hope is to hit all the usual highlights: the granite sentinels (Half Dome, El Capitan, Cathedral Rocks, Three Brothers, and, um, yes, Sentinel Rock), Yosemite and Bridalveil (and maybe the seasonal Ribbon) falls, Glacier Point, the Yosemite Valley and Happy Isles visitor centers, and maybe a dip in the Merced River.

Somewhere along the line I also hope to give Alex his first experience in fishing. If we’re lucky, he’ll land a trout; really lucky will mean bass and sunfish too.

Our adventure will continue with a weekend visit to the cabin, maybe a little mini golf at Twain Harte Miniature Golf, maybe some frolicking at Twain Harte Lake. And it’ll all be capped by great hamburgers at Diamondback Grill. Doesn’t get much better.


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late Memorial Day fishing report

I suppose the answer to the question “How was the fishing trip?” will, at least for me, typically be predicated on the catching. This time around, it was good. Some fishing, some catching, some exploring and some relaxing. And all with the crowds of summer still held to a pre-Memorial Day minimum.

Every year for the past three I’ve fished Crowley Lake and explored nearby waters, usually including one place that’s new to me. For one who grew up predominately catching trout in the high Sierras, typically in and around Tuolumne Meadows, a fish’s colors can trump size, and finding within myself the skill, stealth and tenacity sometimes required of fly fishing to hook and land a fish is in itself part of the reward. This trip was no different. I landed beautiful fish, was challenged by new water, and landed a personal best on Crowley Lake.

I’ve developed a habit of traveling to the cabin (in Twain Harte), if I can, during midday to avoid the usual traffic snarls. This also allows for a leisurely drive and the almost obligatory stop at Bass Pro Shops in Manteca. Traffic was indeed light, and after an hour of poking around Bass Pro, I arrived at the cabin in the early evening, tidied up the car the next day, read my book and hit the hay early enough to ensure nine hours of sleep before getting up at oh-dark-thirty for the trek across Sonora Pass, which was relatively nice. Think I saw less than half a dozen other vehicles during the 70-mile drive to Sonora Junction.

With perhaps too much optimism, I hoped to fish Little Walker River. After my arrival, and being a somewhat rational human being, I passed on trying to fish the Little Walker, which like the West Walker River was running fast and high. A quick stop made in Bridgeport at Ken’s Sporting Goods, followed by a selecting of flies and the solicitation of information, I had a game plan to try the East Walker River. After passing by numerous times before, this would be my first visit to the EW.

I look upon the first few casts during any of my trips, particularly on new waters, as a warm up. Sort of keeps expectations low. That theory was unexpectedly destroyed on the EW when my first dozen drifts yielded four strikes and two smaller brown trout to the net. Missed strikes would haunt me throughout the day. Had I been fishing with a buddy, it would have been embarrassing the number times I missed the hookset.

My first East Walker Brown

My first East Walker Brown

The lower section of the East Walker — below the bridge — is known for smaller fish, which almost guarantees fewer fishermen. With a long section to myself, I pulled a few more fish out in the course of a couple of hours. I later moved to the upper section, finding more people flogging the so-called Miracle Mile. Not so many people that it was crowded, but prime spots were quickly occupied. The folks I spoke with told me the water was too high for great fishing, but was definitely fishable. I did watch, with a little bit of envy, as one guy pulled what must have been a 24-inch-plus brown out of one eddy. In fours, my tally was six brownies to hand, the biggest at about 13 inches.

The evening found me near McGee Creek. With waning daylight, I probed the waters of McGee to pull out two rainbows that looked like DFG fish. A call that night set the launch time from the Crowley marina at 7:30 a.m.

I met Ron, who replaced Wade as my “blind date” for the day with a guide on Crowley, at the boat. In short order we were headed to the Layton Springs section of the lake. If the first half hour was to be any indication — two fish, albeit smaller trout, within about 30 minutes — we were in for one heck of a day. But the excitement quickly abated. Oh, I was still getting strikes, but it was spawning Sacramento perch, something only usually caught during the spring. While it was great to work on my strike detection skill as well as my hook set, I really wasn’t there to pull in perch.

Ron and his big fish for the day.

Ron and his big fish for the day.

As the day wore on — and great weather followed me this trip — our leaders grew in length. I usually work with a 10- to 12-foot leader, smaller on smaller streams of course, but by midday we were flaying about with 17-foot leaders as we tried to get down to the fish. And down to the fish we got. Early morning I hooked into a nice 19-inch post-spawn female cutthroat. The best of the day, which ended with a total of nine trout for me, and the smallest at about 12 inches. Ron, who spent the day with a few strikes but no hook ups, literally came in under the wire. After our guide rang the 10-minute warning bell, Ron hooked into a good fish and ended up bring a big, about 24-inch long, rainbow to the net. Great ending to a tough day!

If a day on the lake wasn’t enough (we were off the lake at 4:00 p.m.), Ron and I drove to the section of Rock Creek just below Rock Creek Lake. Ron was there to see what it was like, and left shortly thereafter. I stayed to play with the wild brook trout, which obliged me. Figure I pulled in more than a dozen with my 3 wt. rod, casting a dry/dropper combination, with hits on both flies.

A bit upstream from where I waded in, I targeted a small pool with overhanging bushes. Sure enough, I pulled a few brookies out of it, but was surprised when what seemed to be a snag turned into a beautiful 11-inch rainbow sparkling with scarlet cheeks and a match slash down its side. Too bad my camera was resting in my backpack in my car.

Friday was departure day but that morning I squeezed in what ultimately became a 3- to 4-mile nature hike. Knowing that McGee Creek can be home to fish coming out of Crowley, I wandered downstream, but left the fish alone. Most were either spawning or beat up and returning to the lake. Now I know what to expect. It was a good morning, nonetheless.

Preferring to not drive the same route to the cabin, I headed up the recently reopened Tioga Pass Road. I wasn’t disappointed. Tioga Lake was still mostly iced over and snow was prevalent over the pass and through Tuolumne Meadows, though the meadows were more akin to a marsh. Later that afternoon I pulled up at the cabin, cleaned up, then enjoyed a most excellent brick oven-baked Pizza Margherita from the local Villa D’oro restaurant.

Planter Brook Trout

Planter Brook Trout

Knowing that the Department of Fish & Game had dumped some of the larger brook trout in Moccasin Creek, I spent most of Saturday morning and part of the afternoon there. My second cast led to the landing of a nice 16-inch hatchery rainbow, and as the morning wore on (and after switching to Prince Nymph fly trailing a Tiger Midge), I brought about a dozen brook trout to the net. Then, as has become my modus operandi, I returned to the cabin during mid afternoon to clean and pack my gear in anticipation of returning home Sunday (so that I might miss traffic). Later there was time for relaxing and reading.

Sunday morning was a repeat of the last day of my last visit. Played with the bass and sunfish in a pond on a now-defunct golf course, and pulled a few wild browns out of the canal.

Then it was time to wander home.

Sonora Pass
Leavitt Falls
Bridgeport Reservoir
My first East Walker Brown
East Walker Brown
View from the hotel.
Crowley Cuttie
Oops…
Ron and his big fish for the day.
Tioga Lake/Ice Rink
Tenaya Lake
The view from Olmsted Point.
Planter Rainbow
Planter Brook Trout
The golf course pond.

 


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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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another “memorable” trip

Had another one of those memorable trips that I’m seemingly know for. But, again, for not the desired reasons. Sean and I left Friday for the cabin, braving rain and winds. After a quick stop at Bass Pro Shops, it was up into the Sierra Nevada foothills.

The first warning sign was a dusting of snow on the hills around Sonora. Sonora, elevation 1,785 feet.

Second warning sign: three to four inches of snow on the ground at the Soulsbyville turnoff.

Sure enough, we were greeted by a pile of snow at the entrance to the cabin driveway (courtesy the snow plow), and the driveway itself was coated with a foot of snow. While it’s great to see the coming year’s water accumulating so fast, that fluffy white stuff sure gains weight the more you shovel it.

Finally, with a path carved to the garage, we parked the car and start to unpack.

Then I turned on the water to the cabin. More correctly, I tried to turn on the water to the cabin. And…nothing. Not a drop. So, somewhere between the water main and the cabin, the pipe was frozen. Seems that is something that happens when the temperatures hover in the mid 20s. Gave the wave off to my sister and her family, who were to join us the next day. And, as much as I would have liked to ensconce myself in the warm cabin, with hot cocoa, a roaring fire, movies to watch and books to read, all the while watching flakes of snow float to the ground, it wasn’t going to happen without water.

We decided to spend the night and head home the next day.

The third warning sign that our decision was probably a good one: another six inches of snow fell during the night to greet us Saturday morning.

A whirlwind trip, to be certain.


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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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trout and a/c

[singlepic=548,150,,,right]

There truly is no place like a cold tailwater for hiding from the heat.

A little trout fishery near the cabin offered a (literally) cool escape from the scorcher that hit the Saturday of Labor Day weekend ’08. Willing rainbows and brookies provided the entertainment. They even taught my fly-fishing-student-for-the-day a thing or two ‘bout fly fishing.

Credit for the teaching goes to the trout ‘cause though certainly cheaper that any guide around, limited knowledge and an inclination to flog the water with my own line severely handicapped any willingness to offer long or detailed instruction.

Our arrival streamside fell towards the later part of the early morning, limiting our initial wade-in an oft-ignored but fun and fish-filled run. Narrow and fast, it’s a great classroom for learning the drift-and-lob nymphing technique. Being deeper there’s no sight fishing here and it offers a lesson in keeping they eye on the indicator. Plenty of bank, a few boulders and a nice tailout make for unpredictable takes.

Take those trout did. No more than a dozen drifts and the first lesson of the day was on. We both were students that day. Happy to report, Richard received an almost nonstop tutorial in hooking and landing trout and a nearly unhealthy amount of schooling in LDR1. My lesson plan for the day seemed to center around the ease with which trout can throw a size 22 hook.

Had hoped to offer a lecture and example of fishing dry flies but insect hatches apparently get a pass for the last long weekend of summer.

But the day went well. We had the creek to ourselves from mid-morn on, the heat was kept at bay and the fish came out to play.

Don’t know if Richard found that “Fly-fishing is the sweetest of addictions.”2 or perhaps that “The truth is fly fishing is folly; useless, unreasonable, irrational and without purpose.”3 Mabye a little bit of both.

[singlepic=549,400,,,]

As for me, I’ll follow the trout in the dog days of summer.

Trout live where you don’t need A/C.

1long-distance release, not the preferred method of catch-and-release fly fishing.
2Nick Lyons, Confessions of a Fly Fishing Addict (Atlantic Monthly Press, April 1999).
3Ailm Travler, “Fly Fishing Folly,” Uncommon Waters: Women Write About Fishing, (Seal Press; 2nd ed., February 18, 1998), 208.

 


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interesting surprise

Amazing what open eyes can see. Assuming the brain can connect the dots.

Planning for trout chasing next weekend gets all eight cylinders firing when in comes to research. Water levels are low. Temps may be high. And little good can come of catching and releasing already stressed out wild fish.

So the interweb gets tickled for any insight into Sierra West Slope possibilities. A search gives up an old Mapquest query left behind by an unknown soul. Tantalized by the possibility it might pinpoint good trout water near my Sierra foothills permanent base of operation, a click is made.

I recognize the location. Not near any stream that I know of. But I’ve driven past this place four or five or six dozen times over the last few years, not knowing that Galvan Fly Reels quietly cranked out1 a modest line of respected fly reels.

Here’s to hoping they offer a factory tour that ends with free samples…

1Pun not intended but left in anyhow.


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insane fishing

A quick trip to the cabin last weekend, cloaked in the smoke of the myriad fires, yielded a day of insane fishing catching.

The weekend didn’t turn out as long or relaxing as I had hoped. I had to wait at work for the phone guy to switch some lines, postponing my departure Friday afternoon until five-thirty. While traffic was relatively light, my arrival in Twain Harte was later than I would have liked. And five o’clock the next morning came awfully quick.

I was on Moccasin Creek by six-thirty but spinners were being flung and bait drowned in many of the prime locations. But having spent more hours that I’d care to count on this rivulet, I knew a few productive spots were blatantly ignored by the meat fishermen.

My first target was a relatively fast-flowing run — maybe about 20-feet long — where an indicator with a couple of beadhead nymphs can lure a few fish out of hiding. Sure enough, after no more than four casts it was “Fish on!” A nice brook trout to start the day. I proceeded to pull another five fish out — rainbows and brookies — before moving upstream to nice pool that is divided midway by a fallen tree. Fish stack up below the tree at the tail of this pool and above the tree in the cascades pouring into its head. After a bit of catching here, I continued moving up river.

As it neared eleven o’clock, when I was left alone after the fishermen with their limits had headed home or those without headed to lunch, I stopped counting the fish I brought to hand. No real reason to keep counting past forty, I figured.

After a lunch break I switched things up, challenging myself, by rigging up a dry fly with a dropper. (A floating fly with a sinking fly tied onto the hook.) I don’t usually use dry flies, but the trout seemed to be both slashing and slurping, indicating that they were both chasing insect nymphs rising to the surface and sucking in insects already floating on the surface.

I’ve yet to master the technique of setting a hook with a dry fly — one needs to pause just a bit to let the fish turn away, otherwise a set simply pulls the hook out of the fish’s mouth — but it was amazing to see a fish rise to my dry fly and take it. The ones I did manage to hook went wild!

I spent much of the afternoon using the dry/dropper combination. Sometimes targeting specific fish I could see. Such as a fish that would hug an undercut bank and zip out for an occasional snack, leaving me to plan my cast to place the flies in the fish’s feeding lane at the right time. Other times I’d target likely areas though I couldn’t see fish. And more than a couple of fisherman commented, as they waded past me, that I seemed to be hooked up every time they looked.

I ended the day, after more than ten hours on the water, going after a fish sticking close to underwater weeds in an area that would be called a “prime lie”: a place where a fish can get shelter as well as easy access to food floating by. It took good drifts to get this guy to even glance at my flies. Finally an excellent drift and the fight was one. And true to expectations, he was a big one, maybe fourteen inches of brook trout.

The best part of the day? Driving the other fishermen crazy with my constant catch and releasing numerous fish. Ha!