As part of his on-going War on Four-Footed Terrorists — wherein my father ensures that most manner of critters will win free relocation for stepping foot in his yard — he’s sent out notice of the capture of his first raccoon. Seems you can take the man out of law enforcement but you can’t take the law enforcement out of the man.
Wear a mask, go to prison.
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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.
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As for me, I’ll follow the trout in the dog days of summer.
Trout live where you don’t need A/C.
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…
I was happy to hear the Sean got out on the Truckee River last week during his visit to a cabin on Tahoe’s north shore.
I had set him up last Wednesday with my three-year-old $125 Cabela’s 5 wt. fly rod, the one I learned with. Set him up with leader, tippet and five different types of flies. I did take Sean fly fishing, for the first time, about two months ago, but gave him a quick refresher course. Too bad Sean can’t take the fly fishing course in September…
I’ll be the one (hopefully) teaching Sean more about fly fishing…
Summer.
A time of day dreaming punctuated at irregular intervals of reaching for those dreams. Tends to keep me away from the keyboard.
The weather here in Northern California has alternated between the glorious “summer pattern” and hellish heat. Mix in a gloomy shroud of wildfire smoke and you’ve got some downright ugly stay-in-the-house days. That and better-than $4/gallon gasoline.
Sandwiched in between my solitary fly fishing quests and the mandatory job, sleep and nourishment the Wife and I headed to the coast for an abbreviated weekend after the Fourth of July. Surprisingly, thought one might blame arm-and-a-leg gas prices, we were able to secure a room in Capitola, one of those coastal California towns whose name is often preceded by “quaint.”
The location of our destination virtually ensured cooler weather and fog-cleansed skies. It was a leisurely and short-than-expected drive to the sea. Lunch at Café Limelight — where the dog was able to join us at the outdoor seating — was great, particularly Farouk’s homemade Hummus, served with fresh organic veggies, olives and warm pita bread. A walk on the Santa Cruz mall completed the pleasant afternoon. A quick check in at the hotel and a short walk into Capitola and it was time for mass at Holy Cross Catholic Church, which is part of Misión la Exaltacion de la Santa Cruz, the 12th mission built in California. It’s a pretty incredible “old world” church with striking stained glass windows.
Back in Capitola we sat down for dinner at Michaels on Main, enjoying the outdoor patio in back of the restaurant. Entertainment was a local high school’s 10th anniversary reunion. As one approaching a 30th anniversary since high school graduation, it was quite amusing interesting. I also enjoyed my mushroom encrusted halibut.
Sunday morning found us slowing making our way toward Aldo’s Harbor Restaurant, again putting us in Santa Cruz. Good solid food with the harbor entrance as a backdrop. A beautiful drive through the redwoods and along the UC Santa Cruz campus brought us to the Bonny Doon Vineyard winery tasting room. Bonny Doon was a pleasant surprise — it offers some of the more unique wines among those I’ve tasted, particularly the 2007 Vin Gris de Cigare (a rosé) and the 2007 Angel Paille (a dessert wine).
We lingered just long enough, then it was north on Highway 1. I don’t think I get out to this stretch of the coast often enough as I’m always struck with how close it actually is to home. After passing the one-of-a-kind Taco Bell on the Linda Mar Beach — yes, right on the beach with a walk-up window for surfers — we headed inland to Pescadero for a visit at Harley Farms Goat Dairy. I packed some of Harley’s excellent goat cheese in the trunk and pointed the car back to the coast, where the fog and overcast keep the temperatures cool and colors muted.
We procured lunch at the Half Moon Bay Brewing Co. restaurant in, yes, Half Moon Bay. Thankfully, time had not distorted my memory of their excellent fish and chips, which Karen and I shared with a flight of various beers. A good lunch stop not to be missed if you drive this stretch of the Golden State coastline.
A few more hours found us home, where the searing temperatures made me all the more happy to have hidden in California’s coastal hills for the last couple of days.
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!
We’re almost famous! Okay, not in “fifteen minutes of fame” kind of way, but we got our mugs, along with some fish, posted somewhere on the Internet other than my corner here at “fishing for words.”
Sure, I sent an e-mail to Melanie at Tower Rock Lodge bestowing praise on TRL’s facilities and food as well as hosts Mark and Mike, guides Rich and Greg, chef Tom, halibut boat Captain Daniel and First Mate Dylan, and TRL staffers Dave, Etta and Austin. And yes, I sent pictures. So yeah, I facilitated the process and tilted the table in our favor. At least we’re not almost famous in a Post Office wanted poster kind of way.
Bob, our boat-mate.
For our last day at TRL we were teamed up with Bob from New Hampshire for a day on the Kenai River with guide Rich. Sun and blue sky emerged from behind the cloud early in the morning and the conversation — even the bantering between myself, my brother and dad, with Bob and Rich chiming in as well — was good.
Rich quickly began our earnest search for the mighty king. High tide wouldn’t bring fresh fish into the river until two o’clock, so we searched for any fish holding from the previous day. We drifted then ran upriver or to a new spot. Then we did it again. And again.
Rich offering advice to dad on his first fish of the day.
Then, sometime during the mid morning and after we had been lulled into inattention, dad’s rod tip quivered. Rich shouted, “Jerry, set it.” Dad pulled the rod out of the holder. At the same time, the rest of us began to reel in line to avoid tangling. Rich positioned the boat to keep the fish from running to far. Soon enough, probably no more than ten minutes, we had a smallish, eight to ten pound king alongside the boat. The decision to keep or release was given over to dad. (Regulations allow keeping one king a day…once you do, you’re done fishing for the day.) The decision was to release the fish. Thanks to this king, I think optimism was fanned in each of us.
After lunch we began to experience what is called “the cheeseburger drop.” Hearty cheeseburgers and homemade chips tend to bring on an urge to sleep, and a warm sun didn’t help. Mark’s head began to bob. Dad’s a bit more practiced at napping in a sitting position, but his eyelids gave him away. I couldn’t see Bob, but I am sure he struggled as I did to keep attention on his rod tip.
With no indication that fresh kings had pushed up with the incoming tide, Rich told us to reel ‘em up as we were heading upstream. We passed the TRL docks and passed around a sweeping bend, then settle in a bit further upriver. Told to “drop ‘em,” we were fishing again. After an initial drift through this run, we motored back up to the top. We had about two hours left to fish.
Me on a king.
About a third of the way through the run, Rich was on his cell phone and all was quiet. I stared at my rod tip, in disbelief, as it began to bounce towards the stern. “Um, Rich?” I asked. “Strike it!” was the answer. I yanked the rod out of the holder and drew back the rod. The tip plunged toward the river. I reeled for all I was worth through the line seemed to be slack, wondering it whatever was on the end of my line might be running toward our Willie boat.
Sure enough, in a flash of silver the fish turned and began to head around the bow. Rich motored the boat forward to keep up with the king, then drifted as the fish turned downstream. Taking me all the way around the boat, the fish began to tire as I stood at the stern. Three times we tried to get the fish to the net and three times it veered away from the boat. But with Rich’s expert instruction I was able to lead it forward, raise my pole over Rich’s head, then pull down to lift the fish’s head, allowing Rich to get it into the net. My first Kenai king, which ended up measuring 44 inches and about 38 pounds! What a way to end the trip. Since the regulations dictate taking only one king a day from the Kenai, I was done fishing for the day.
Me, my fish, and Rich.
After settling down and getting my king into the box, we ran up to the top of the run for another drive. We had 90 minutes left to fish.
We had drifted a short distance when dad’s pole tip began to dance. Again Rich called for a strike. Dad lifted the pole out of the hold and heaved back. The pole almost doubled over. Then the line went slack. Bob, Rich and I told dad to keep reeling, knowing that kings often head towards the boat, giving the illusion that there’s nothing on the line. Sure enough, dad’s line began moving away from the boat and in no time was 150 feet out. The king headed to the rear of the boat and rolled, showing a rosy side and giving us a glimpse of its huge size.
This tug of war would play out for almost twenty minutes, with much excitement. I prayed that this fish could be landed as it would be a great way to cap off a “trip of a lifetime” for dad. Again Rich coached the fish into the net and we all were amazed at its size. Fifty inches and an estimated fifty-five to sixty pounds. That king is still in the river…unfortunately it fit nearly smack dab in the middle of the slot limit (forty-six to fifty-five inches). Near as we could determine, it was the biggest fish caught the week of our stay at TRL.
Bigger than he thought!
That would be the last fish we hooked this trip. Exhausted and exhilarated we headed back to the lodge for a celebratory beer with Bob and Rich, followed by a nice seafood dinner. A surprise cake for Bob’s anniversary and champagne ended up as our dessert.
Good weather, amazing scenery, big fish. What an amazing trip!
I’ll be watching for my next opportunity to return…
Gallery of day five photos from our Kenai fishing trip:
There’s nothing so nice as taking a one-minute walk to the TRL dock to fish the Kenai River. After a nice breakfast at five-fifteen in the morning we were ready to head out with Mark T. as our guide, with guest Doug. The sky was overcast with the sun winning the battle to shine down upon us. The temperature was about 44°F.
Our guide called the conditions very “fishy,” but the fish were less obliging. He rigged up and dropped our lines. (We were set up with a diver to take the bait, trailing behind the boat, down near the river bottom.)
Most of the early morning consisted of drifting a run then running back to the top to start the drift again. The sun began to warm our bones about mid morning, encouraging a bit of onboard napping.
About mid morning my line was tickled and I made an almost-too-fast hook set. I was expecting a strong tug on the line but instead nearly felt that there was nothing there. Urged by the guide to keep reeling, I did so and felt a bit of more resistance than just the “diver” used to keep the bait close to the river bottom. A short minute later guide Mark proclaimed it to be a decent “red,” meaning a sockeye or red salmon. Reds don’t seem to fight too much and in short order we had a decent sockeye of just about two feet long in the boat.
A short while later Doug’s pole began to dance. With a quick hook set he had a fish on. His line was out about forty-five feet and the fish made a fast run to the boat. A quick turn of its head and it was off…but not before our guide estimated it to be a “large” king. (Large meaning huge.)
One of the nice benefits about fishing the Kenai River is the ability to run back to the lodge for a coffee break and lunch. After lunch we hit the water again. Unfortunately, the red would be the only action we would see this day. All of us in the boat stuck at what seemed to be salmon playing with our bait but to no avail. Regardless, it was a good day with sunshine and fun, capped off by a great Thai dinner and a comfortable cabin.
Gallery of day four photos from our Kenai fishing trip:
Thankfully, a late high tide meant we didn’t have to get up as early as some folks. We were to chase halibut, and tides make all the difference. Halibut fishing is dictated by the tides and an early tide can mean a roll call as early as three o’clock in the morning. We rolled out of bed shortly after five and assembled in the dining hall. The TRL staff do a great job staying on top of each guests’ schedules, and breakfast was waiting for us as well as packed lunches and a cooler for our catch. We were on the road by six o’clock.
The gang’s all ready.
An hour-long drive got us to Ninilchik, where we checked in and meet our captain, Daniel, and first mate, Dylan. The captain’s early speculation that we’d have a calm day were right on the money, and soon we making an hour-long run out into deep waters the Cook Inlet. But first there was the unusual and dramatic launch of the boat. Pictures may better describeit, so you might want to check the Kenai Trip photo album. But it went something like this: We joined the captain in his truck at the fishing charter office, then pulled the trailered boat to a nearby beach about five minutes away. On the beach the captain unhitched the trailer and loaded us and three other clients into the boat. When our turn came about, a lumber skidder hitched up to the trailer and pulled the boat to the water, then backed the trailer into the surf. With the water so smooth, soon we were cruising at 45 knots.
Once on station, 240 feet above the ocean floor, lines were dropped with four-pound sinkers. Within less than ten minutes three of the six rods were bending against the strain of halibut that had taken the bait. Dad was the first of us to pull up a decent halibut…after a lot of cranking on the massive saltwater reel and short stiff rod. Mark was up next to pull up a keeper. Then it was my turn. Lines went back down and we started all over again. Tell you what, the second time you reel up all that line and sinker, every fish feels a bit heavier. Dad’s next fish was a Pacific cod (aka grey cod or true cod). Mark and I pulled up our second halibuts, kept those, and sat back to watch everyone else crank up fish. It didn’t take too long for dad to pull up a second halibut.
The rest of our day on the salt was occupied by good conversation and friendly ribbing between ourselves and the other clients. In talking with one gentlemen, who was fishing with his wife during their anniversary vacation, I found out that the had also attending my alma mater, Humboldt State University, about 12 years prior to me. We also watched as another guy — who had pulled in a few smaller halibut earlier — kept throwing back smaller halibut in the hope of landing a bigger one. He ended up cranking up four decent halibut, one after the other. I don’t know if it was the fact that he was tired or that the next halibut was a tad bigger, but he called it quits with the fifth fish. About one o’clock everyone had their limit of flatfish and he headed back to the beach with Dylan quickly filleting our catch.
Our lodge package included fish processing, so we dropped the halibut fillets off to have the skin removed and the fillets cut into small pieces and flash frozen. Soon dad and I were in the dining hall chatting with other guests while Mark tried to catch a nap. The barbecue dinner was great and shortly afterwards we were again in our bunks, with two of us sawing logs.
Gallery of day three photos from our Kenai fishing trip:
fishing for words 