fishing for words

(and tossing out random thoughts)


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finding a fly fishing fix not far away (and why a 3 wt. was a poor choice)

I usually eyeball them through jaundiced eyes. Though instinctively taking inventory of every feature — shelter, shade, structure — I’d normally pass up a puddle made even more unappealing by strategically placed CalTrans-orange barrier netting.

But I missed Opening Day of trout season last Saturday. So, while a preference for good hygiene precluded any thought of sullying waders in the tepid water, it was hard the next day to pass up an opportunity to soak a line to test a presumption that life might be found beneath the surface.

My son’s tales of casting spinners to willing small bass brought me to this containment pond, barely five minutes from the house. Not much more than 50 feet across, there was nothing remarkable about it. The setting was serene enough, being that it is behind a [location redacted]. Trees line the south bank, providing a bit of shade and shelter. Reeds sprout near a corrugated culvert pipe and a darkness that comes with depth suggested a smaller drop off about five feet from shore.

“Nothing much over eight inches,” he had said.

Parked on a nearby street, I returned the 5 wt. to the trunk, selecting the 3 wt., thinking the smaller rod would offer a more sporting fight. We hiked over sidewalk and up a dirt embankment to get there.

Lacking any need for sophisticated assembly of a rod or the puzzling about the appropriate fly, my son and his girlfriend were soon throwing spinners and eliciting strikes. I maintained a semblance of dignity, but it’s a bit unsettling to publicly rig a fly rod while visitors to the [redacted] came and went by, while the sound of compression braking floated up from a nearby Bay Area highway. Being predisposed to size 20 Parachute Adams and even smaller nymphs, my choice of suitable flies was limited. A bluegill-ish streamer pattern was the ultimate choice.

The superiority advantage of fly fishing was immediately apparent. After three casts I managed to land the “largest” fish my son had seen pulled from this urban lagoon. All of 10 inches, it was a fun match for the 3 wt. This pattern continued, with more fish missed than hooked.

Previous encounters with bass — actually, lack thereof — left me a bit dismissive and a bit underprepared, but playing these little fish helped reduce a twitch developed during a winter devoid of any fishing. But the contentment that snuck up on me vanished in an in-your-face demonstration of the circle of life; a demonstration of an oft-told fish story that I had never personally experienced.

Like any of the half dozen other six-, eight- or 10-inchers, this small bass offered up a small tussle, until a large shadow shot forward and engulfed it. Any leader that was visible quickly disappeared as the shadow returned to the depths. A short tug of war ensued. Just as quickly, my line and rod went limp. It was more than I bargained for, but a welcome reminder why I enjoy this sport.

Big bass from a small pond.

Big bass from a small pond.

In a cloud of optimism but without any expectations, my box of streamers was re-examined and a heavier, bead-head yellow woolly bugger tied on. The smaller bass paid a bit more attention to this fly, though it was equal to at least a quarter of their body length. After a few casts, I remembered to let it settle a bit, hoping that might present the fly to the fish a bit longer. This tactic worked well enough, and I landed about 24 inches of bass six to eight inches at time.

The wind made casting a bit of a chore with a big fly on such a small rod, but soon enough I was more consistently hitting promising water. Finally the fly landed where directed. I paused; stripped in line, paused again, stripped. The line stopped in mid-strip. Being more accustomed to embedding a hook in an underwater log or moss-encrusted rock, it wasn’t until my line shivered that I realized there was a big(ger) fish on the other end. The choice of a small 3 wt. rod and reel was quickly called into question; the reel’s drag screaming painfully and the rod bending into an uncomfortable semiellipse.

There’s no gingerly playing a big fish on a small rod. Do so and you’ll probably lose this fish. Horse a fish too much and you’ll probably break equipment.

Without a net, I was unprepared for a fish of any size. But the fishing gods must have been smiling on me. Time seemed to slip away, eventually the fight ebbed and a lip was gripped.

In the end, I found my temporary fix last weekend far from clear, cool streams in which I’ll be wading when you read this.

An anatomy of urban fly fishing.

An anatomy of urban fly fishing.


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on becoming one of those guys

Opening day of the general trout season in California is this Saturday.

But I won’t be on the water. I will instead sacrifice the first opportunity to be skunked on my favorite stream for the greater good. (Very Vulcan of me, right?)

The first two years after I picked up a fly rod — some seven years ago — I would start preparing for the new trout opener a few weeks after the closing of the previous season.

I do still care about the trout opener. It opens wading access on the west slope of the Sierra usually long before the passes to the eastside are cleared. Being on the water at the earliest legal minute had become tradition. Even back when I was throwing hardware, it wasn’t about filling the freezer; it was simply about being out there, working the rust out of skills unused during the winter. Four seasons ago I accepted the invite of a fellow forum contributor to join him opening day in chasing down backcountry trout. He would provide the four-wheel drive truck, I provided flies. It was a day filled with good friendship, great weather and beautiful country unseen by most. Unfortunately, any trout that may have been in the half dozen streams we visited remained unseen.

The biggest influence in my changed opening day perspective is also one of the bigger rewards that have come with fly fishing. Notwithstanding the excitement of a big Eagle Lake rainbow taking me into my backing, I’ve find an unquantifiable pleasure in helping bring others into the sport. My contributions to the club’s novice fly fishing class aren’t huge, but the enthusiasm imparted by the instructors, including myself visibly, sparks something in the students. The payoff often comes a few weeks or months later, when one of those students, all smiles, presents a photo of the fish caught because of something learned in class.

So, while I’m not retired, but I’ve become one of those guys for whom the trout opener only marks the point in time that most trout water is wide open to fishing. I’m lucky enough to have a place in the Sierra foothills available to me most any time, and I have grown content to head up the week after the opener, often to find welcome solitude on most rivers and streams. I have also taken to the challenge of finding the ‘smarter’ fish left behind after the crowds of opening day.

When I finally do make that first cast for trout this year, it’ll be later, but for good reason.


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on “the movie” and stuff

I was correcting a co-worker who thought “A River Runs Through It” involved the pursuit of bass…

…and after suppressing my laughter, then dispensing a quick education on the differences between bucketmouths and trout; a thought occurred to me. The credits for the movie list more than a dozen categories of fish wranglers. The fish were farm-raised stunt doubles, “harmlessly tethered” and not hooked. So, did these fish earn SAG…um…scale?

Death from above?

I’m not much for bass, likely because bass haven’t had much more to offer me besides more refusals than I care to count…

…now there’s another seventh reason to avoid Peacock Bass, at least in the Brazilian Atlantic Forest. Researchers at the Universidade Federal de Pernambuco have discovered a new species of porcupine that lives in one the country’s most endangered forest ecosystem. It lives in trees. (I don’t know about you, but I have had things fall on me while fishing. Thankfully, nothing alive…yet.) This species joins the six known porcupine species in the region…


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a week of fly fishing, part two: a personal challenge (or, an unfamiliar approach to familiar waters)

There are times when the catching is good, but the fishing still unsatisfying. I was felt this way on Hot Creek, just a bit, during this last club trip to the Eastern Sierra.

I may not eagerly jump out of bed on a work day, but by nature — likely because I’m in tune with nature on most fishing trips — I’m an early morning fly fisher.

It’s a strategy that works for me. It puts me on the water long before almost anyone else. Nymphs work well for me in the twilight of the morning. The darkness lends the fish in my net a a mysterious, ghostly quality.

But this last trip, after that aforementioned conversation with the guy from Cabo, I thought it was time to change it up.

That’s what put me on Hot Creek about mid afternoon on a Thursday.

It was nicer than I expected, with a mid week crowd comprised of a single fisherman and myself, and the normally frustrating winds almost nonexistent. Caddis coated the bushes. An errant mayfly dipped up and down in the air.

I’d been told that a certain crane fly imitation would work well. I didn’t have one. The hoppers that were suggested didn’t get even a glance from fish clearly seen to be eating. For a time I watched the graceful and economical movements of a pod of trout, rising to feed and falling back to the bottom. Obviously, there was something that I couldn’t see bringing them to the surface.

Like most any water, Hot Creek comes with its own piece of counseling: go small. And in the afternoon, dry flies.

Normally I’d head upstream and work my way down, but after a friendly conversation with older gent already fishing (and giving him a size 20 caddis for use as an indicator above a trailing something about size 22-24), I decided to stick and move as I worked my way up the creek.

I rigged up in similar fashion, with a black caddis trailing a size 24 parachute Adams. This time of year, tactics at Hot Creek are often dictated by the abundant weed growth. A soft footfall serves one well, and I carefully picked my way around bushes while watching the “lanes.” In the past, I bypassed these areas under the pretext of one excuse or another. (My casting isn’t good enough, I won’t get a long enough drift, too many people, etc.)

It wasn’t too long before I saw that first nose, more of a bump in the water, a tell-tale sign of a feeding trout.

I cast well upstream. It took a few more casts, but with some skill luck, a good drift put the fly where it needed to be.

Hot Creek Brown/Small Fly

It still amazes me that a nice Hot Creek brown like this can be landed on so small a fly.

I’d repeat this more times than I care to recall but was rewarded with eight beautiful trout, mostly browns, all of which were no less than 13”. The biggest and prettiest crowded about 24” of beauty into 15” of fish.

Next year, I think this place will deserve an entire day of my attention.


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a week of fishing, part one: wherein I learn to slow down, enjoy Hot Creek and have fun with small dry flies

This year’s annual club trip to the Eastern Sierras — organized by yours truly — came a tad bit later this year, but its planning nearly nine months ago couldn’t anticipate the snowfall that wouldn’t arrive last winter. From afar I watched the guide reports and river flows, but all of that was forgotten two Sundays ago, once an amazingly fat brook trout slammed the first dry fly cast into a suspect pool.

This is a good time of year to be in the Eastern Sierras. Fewer people, perhaps only the hardier (and those without kids), remain to fish, hike and camp. Being a bit more mature, our group rents a couple of rustic cabins, though we do cook dinner ourselves (clam linguine one night). The days are often cloudless and, at an elevation of 7,000 feet, this expanse of high desert warms up fast. Temperatures swing the other direction just as fast, dropping to the mid-to-low 30s in the evening. Startlingly brilliant stars illuminate the clear nights.

Once over Sonora Pass, my first stop was on the Little Walker River. This small water is often overshadowed by its bigger brethren, the East Walker and West Walker rivers, which offer bigger and more fish. A year after discovering the charm of the Little Walker, and during my first turn as “fishmaster” for this trip, I fished this creek with the club’s outings chairman. We had a wonderful time finding wild brook, brown and rainbow trout exactly where they should be. Jim has since passed away, but the Little Walker reminds me of his broad smile.

Little Walker Brook Trout

It surprised me to see a brookie so big in the Little Walker.

It was with Jim that I first explored Hot Creek, one of the waters that would be frequented during the week. Since I’d have six full days to fish, and in light of Hot Creek’s popularity, the plan was to fish it during midweek. It was a sound philosophy; avoiding as many other fly fishermen as possible and hoping that reduced fishing pressure over a day or two would improve my chances.

Hot Creek Morning

Hot Creek Morning.

Hot Creek has been the marlin to my Santiago. It’s a spring creek with a high fish population, estimated to be 8,000 to 10,000 trout per mile. But these are highly educated trout that have probably seen every fly in the catalog. Throw in clear, low water and weeds that limit opportunities to small lanes and the chance of a drag-free drift, and this fly fishing heaven can become hellish, particularly late in the year. Most descriptions of Hot Creek include words that tend to scare me: “technical,” “attentive mends,” “drag-free drifts,” “multiple hatches.” That first visit with Jim five years ago didn’t dispel any of my trepidation, despite my landing two decent fish.

Although I was on the road Tuesday morning later than intended, I descended into the canyon well before the sun was fully on the water. A single fly fisherman had arrived before me. Reminding myself that there was no need to rush, I slowly and softly walked upstream, taking time to stop and watch the water. In the absence of light, the water was dark and unyielding.

Trusting to my experience that fish would be in a familiar spot, I finally stopped to cast a size 16 dark brown-bodied caddis trailing a smaller dropper (maybe size 22, or 24); a red-butt zebra midge type of fly made up during a fit of madness inspiration at the fly-tying vise. This was truly blind casting. There was a lane big enough to allow for a decent drift of about two feet. I kept my false casts short and out of view of the trout I hoped were there, and used a single-haul cast to finally lay the flies on target. The caddis dipped on my third cast and a good-looking 11 inches of brown trout went airborne. I don’t know if it’s the lack of depth in the creek, but I don’t think I’ve seen brown trout as acrobatic as those in Hot Creek.

Hot Creek Brown

Hot Creek Brown. Love that pectoral fin!

With the first fish to the net, my pulse finally began to slow and my body relaxed. My casting settled down. Two more fish made it to my net during the next hour, one a dark-hued rainbow of about 14 inches. There are bigger fish in Hot Creek, but any decent fish hooked, played through the mass of weeds, and landed, is still a pretty big deal in my book.

Soon the first few caddisflies and mayflies appeared in the air as sunlight began to warm the water. The sunlight also revealed pods of fish, some hovering between weeds, others just on the edge.

Hot Creek Rainbow

Yes it was dark, but this wild fish also has a dark cast to it.

I downsized my caddis fly to a size 22, hoping that it might get a look or two. It did, but only in passing. I would land a total of six fish that morning and walk out of the canyon feeling pretty good about it. But it was a conversation — with a friendly guy who toughs out his year splitting time between fly fishing the Eastern Sierra and running a scuba shop in Cabo San Lucas — that had me pondering a return in the evening.

But that’s another story for another time.


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part of the why there was no post last week

Hot Creek Brown (9/20/2012)

Small dry flies, nice fish. (Hot Creek Brown — about 13-14 inches — on size 22 Parachute Adams.)


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Pat and Mark’s (and Derek and Kirk’s) excellent fly fishing adventure (or, part one of a two-part payoff)

Since day one of my fly fishing career, I’ve been a proponent of hiring a guide to get the “lay of the land,” and though unlucky enough to start fly fishing later in life, I started fly fishing when I could afford to hire a few of these professional trout bums. This however, was one of those times that hiring of a guide paid multiple dividends, even after the guiding was over.

The trip in question centered around two goals: get my brother, Mark, who’d fly fished for the first time last year, on waters local to his home in Washington state, and for a second time attempt to get a close up look at west slope cutthroat trout. To make the most of my short visit, I again turned to Derek Young (Emerging Rivers Guide Services) for help. Frankly, I don’t believe it was a coincidence that I hired Derek two years ago for a float down the Yakima River with my father and that Derek was subsequently selected as the 2011 Orvis Endorsed Fly Fishing Guide of the Year. Regardless, Derek fits my expectations of a guide: someone with strong local knowledge and unfettered enthusiasm for both the fishing and the fish; the type of person with whom one can forge a connection in a mutual passion for fly fishing.

No one would have expected in the days leading up to my flight that the Seattle area would experience record-breaking temperatures. My flight into Sea-Tac International that Wednesday morning would afford my first view of the Space Needle. By the time I was standing on the arrivals sidewalk, most the sky was blue and the sun intense enough that the fleece was tucked away.

I had planned my flight to arrive at an hour late enough that beer tasting on the way to my brother’s house would be socially acceptable. We ended up at Elysian Fields for Cuban and Reuben sandwiches (and beer) after a stop at Georgetown Brewing, then visited Black Raven Brewing before unpacking and prepping for fishing the next day. That afternoon, during the usual pre-planning conversation, Derek proposed accommodating our two goals with two half days of fishing.

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Our first look up this Skykomish Tributary.

That’s how my brother and I ended up wet wading a tributary of the Skykomish River with Derek, who had invited friend and all-around good egg Kirk Wener (the man behind the Unaccomplished Angler blog and author/illustrator of the “Olive the Woolly Bugger” books). I’d met Kirk a few years ago in asking that he sign copies of the Olive books for my nephews. Kirk had mentioned the possibility of fishing together sometime on the Snoqualmie Forks, but he’s a busy man and, for lack planning on my part, it never came to pass.

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Mark working a pool on his way downstream.
(Photo copyright © 2012 Derek Young. Used with permission.)

This Skykomish tributary is one of those rivers that immediately impresses with a feeling of remoteness, even though it’s relatively nearby as the crow flies. But we’re not crows, and the desire to get more than a few steps away from the easily accessed and more heavily fished stretches required a bit of leg work. The hike up a hillside, through rain forest and over fallen trees was an effort not made easier by a big breakfast at the Sultan Bakery, but worth the reward — an uncompromised river and view. The drive to our destination on Highway 2 was under scattered clouds, most of which dissipated as the day wore on.

After laying out a game plan, Mark, Derek and I headed upstream. We left Kirk fishing a nice pool that would produce a surprise and the biggest fish of the day (though not a trout). The walk upstream was punctuated with admiration of the beauty of this place and Derek’s insight into what we’d be fishing and where. As agreed, Derek began shadowing and educating Mark while I attempted and occasionally succeeded to get a decent drift.

If you’ve read this blog before, you’d know that my introduction to fly fishing didn’t involve much in the way of dry flies. But since there would be witnesses, I wanted to man up this trip; I’d live or die by the stimulator Derek had selected. Usually I’d like to say my casting was the result of experience and practice, but sometimes I wonder if using a rod at the higher end of the spectrum not only aids one’s casting but also infuses the user with additional confidence. Whatever the case, the Helios 2 (a disguised test rod) was sweet, and more often than not the fly landed near the designated target.

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Dry flies, baby, dry flies…

There was plenty of fishy water and fish where they might be expected. With good fly placement and a bit of luck, some of those fish — small rainbows, or perhaps steelhead progeny — were found. Those who know me might call it playing to one’s strength, but I’ve increasingly come to appreciate small wild trout. On the right rod, they offer a fight that, ounce for ounce, compares favorably to any of their larger brethren, and usually are more than obliging to forgive my poor presentation of a dry fly. The fish in this part of the Skykomish River system didn’t disappoint.

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Derek offering the assist.

It was clear from my occasional glance upstream that Mark was getting the hang of casting. I was even a bit envious of his tight loops. Despite a secret hope that my initial casting instruction had served my brother well, I had to agree with Derek’s appraisal that Mark just might be a “natural.” It was about this time I noticed, about 50 yards downstream, a peculiarly heavy bend in Kirk’s rod.

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Kirk providing photographic evidence of his ‘surprise.’
(Photo copyright © 2012 Derek Young. Used with permission.)

Mark and I fished upstream, leapfrogging each other as we fished suspect pools, riffles and seams. We each landed fish. There was no real competition between us this day, but if there was, it’s clear that Mark’s enjoyment and wonder trumped the number of fish I landed. Then again, I did manage that one really nice fish.

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That nice fish.

The adventure continues next week…


More photos:
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the excuse for no post

My brother and I were here…

A Skykomish River Tribtutary

Mid morning on a Skykomish River tribtutary, with lots of fishy water.

…fishing…

Brother fish a tributary of the Skykomish.

My brother fishing…

…with Kirk “Unaccomplished Angler” Werner and Orvis guide Derek Young, for this…

Wild Rainbow on Skykomish Tributary

Healthy wild rainbow, who was right where he should have been.


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we’re chasing fish today

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 Will Be

Where we’ll be, fishing or otherwise.


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the view’s better from the passenger seat

It seems that I don’t drive distracted.

About a month ago, Willy and I loaded up at his house and left just before 7:00 a.m. and headed east, skipping from one highway to another, toward Toms Place, Calif., the annual fall destination for the club’s Eastern Sierra outing. It’d be my fourth. Along the way we’d be travelling through the Sierra foothills and Yosemite*, stopping at the Crowley Lake Marina for a quagga mussel inspection of Willy’s Bay Ranger.

Over the last eight-plus years I’ve had multiple opportunities to drive Hwy 120, up along scrubland bordering Priest Grade to where the highway becomes Big Oak Flat Road and winds through the sparse foothill woodland surrounding Groveland and much of the roadway, then finally rising into heavier stands of conifers — more correctly a lower montane forest — before the Yosemite entrance station at about 5,000 feet. My past trips encompassed ambitious one-day, 225-mile fishing trips with stops to cast a line at four or five different creeks or rivers as well as motorcycling over Sonora and Tioga passes shortly after opening, when snowdrifts 10-plus feet high line the high-country portions of the road.

It’s a fantastic road trip, to be sure, but on this drive I found that the view was very different from the passenger’s seat of Willy’s Cadillac Escalade.

The motley crew that would comprise the 2011 DVFF Eastern Sierra Trip.

The road welcomed us with limited traffic, and only a few miles of road construction slowed our progress. Anyone who’s driven through Tracy, Manteca and Oakdale — perhaps headed to Two Mile Bar or Goodwin Dam on the Stanislaus River — know that there’s plenty of nothing to look at. It’s here that the road seems to drone on between orchards and field crops, time seems to slow and I’m thankful that the highway is now three lanes through Tracy, once a bottleneck no matter the time of day.

It’s outside of the appropriately named Oakdale that the oak woodland takes hold. The oak trees and an occasional gray pine break up the monotony of the now golden grasses. Then there’s the always subtle shock of the “girls, girls, girls” sign that appears out of nowhere, perched above a rundown hotel and shadowy outbuilding truly in the middle of nowhere, all of which is enclosed by a substantial not-so-ornamental iron fence. That sign is also a landmark signaling the last mile or so before the right turn toward Yosemite.

The history of the Sierra foothills comes to life driving through Big Oak Flat and Groveland in the form of vacant stone buildings adorned with iron shutters and doors that recognize the danger of fire during the hot summers. Jeffery, Yellow and Ponderosa fight for space between buildings. The road here barely allows the passing of two motorhomes, forcing life to slow to a crawl. Not necessarily a bad thing.

As we approached the national park border the density of the forest was more imposing than my long held impression resulting from occasional glances from the driver’s seat. I’d seen these trees before, but details now stood out. A thick green canopy blocks any view of the sky and despite a distinct lack of branches from the ground to a few feet above the average man’s head, there were so many trees that the concentration of trunks cut the range of visibility to a couple hundred yards. As the miles slide by, the undergrowth grows lush.

More than just a stop to hit the restrooms, the Big Oak Flat entrance to Yosemite marks the start of a big change in vegetation and terrain. After another half hour and a left turn toward Tuolumne Meadows, Western Juniper, Red Fir and Lodgepole Pine dominate the view, indicators of the upper montane forest. Meadows of unreal green — in essence nature’s sponges for snowmelt — occasionally come in to view, edged by skunk cabbage and corn lily. In another hour, slabs of granite and collections of boulders begin to replace meadows.

Then, unexpectedly, the view opens up to vast expanses of what I’ve always known as granite and that, in all of my limited travels, seems to be the unique calling card of the Yosemite high country. A less brilliant white, I’d later learn that it’s actually a mix of granitoids and in many cases leans toward granodiorite, which is darker, almost moody and reflective of the changeable weather. It also marks the march into the subalpine forest as one nears 9,000 feet in elevation.

This day was clear and the only distraction was a fuel gauge needle too close to “E” for comfort. Since I tend to measure distance by time instead of mileage, I guessed that the gas station in Tuolumne Meadows would arrive at least a few comfortable miles before the needle was pegged. I grimaced a bit with each incline and hoped I was right.

The East side of the Sierra Nevada mountains. (Photo courtesy Fed Glaser.)

My concerns were alleviated by the sight of the sapphire-blue waters of Tenaya Lake, probably one of the most photographed bodies of water within the borders of Yosemite National Park. The beauty of Tenaya belies the fact that it’s a barren, fishless lake. Thankfully, I knew it was less than 10 miles to the Tuolumne Meadows gas station, one of the few Chevron stations with a mini-store that offers rock climbing equipment for sale and rent. We’d done alright so far. It was 11:00 a.m., putting us on schedule to stop for lunch in Lee Vining.

This time the appearance of Tuolumne Meadows and its namesake river was a far cry from a visit in June with my brother and one son. The river was no longer near flood stage; the water had receded and the meadow was again grass. Lembert Dome loomed above us, sheer peaks watched from the southeast and the now fishable Dana Fork of the Tuolumne River teased us from alongside the road. Soon we reached Tioga Pass station and began a descent that would take us past Tioga and Ellery lakes, and into Lee Vining Canyon.

This 9-mile stretch of road harbors the majority of my childhood memories of family vacations. Scattered about are small meadows dotted with small stands of Lodgepole and other pines, and laced by small streams with small, willing wild brook and brown trout. Tioga Lake recalls a day of crazy fishing, when my sister, brother, dad and I stood on rocks a few feet above the lake casting spinners and watching the (stocked) rainbow trout chase our lures, only to strike at the last minute.

It all changes after Ellery Lake. Sheer rock is the predominate feature. Only small plants and hardy trees cling to crevices. Only on the canyon floor, the eventual destination of Lee Vining Creek after its exit from Ellery Lake, offers any great expanse of green. The Eastern Sierra high desert — a Pinyon pine-Juniper woodland — begins near the canyon floor, offering a stark contrast, beautiful in its own way, to the forest passed through to get there.

We had about 12 more miles to Lee Vining and sat down for lunch on the patio at Bodie Mike’s Barbeque just after noon. With the seasoning that comes with eating out-of-doors, we dug in, enjoying the view toward Mono Lake between bites. It was a quick drive to Crowley Lake Marina to surprise the marina attendant with a bone-dry boat. It took longer to affix the tag than conduct the inspection.

A few minutes later we tucked our stuff into the cabin to find ourselves with more time than expected on our hands. The afternoon sun was still well above the mountains to the west. We were there to fish, so took a short stroll to the nearby Rock Creek to cast a few flies.

Rock Creek isn’t too big, but usually heavily stocked and fished just as much. Willy and I split up. I would find a few rising fish willing to strike my offerings, but the kicker was Willy’s first fish — his first post retirement trout. A not-too-shabby brown trout of about 14 inches.

We spent a bit more time casting to rising fish, next to the opposite shore, of course. A few took our offerings, fewer were landed, but it was good to spend a few hours getting the “skunk” off before dinner.

Looking back, it was a good start to what would be a trip that was great for reasons I didn’t expect.


*Not through Yosemite Valley, however. The road to the valley dead ends near the Happy Isles Visitor Center. Hwy 120 passes the valley and heads through the high country and Tuolumne Meadows, then over Tioga Pass.