Hi, I’m Patrick and I’m a fly fisherman. I cast my last fly…
Late Summer Lament
It’d soften the blow to say that I fell off the wagon this summer. The truth is that I nearly missed the wagon entirely.
There are plenty of excuses for not fly fishing as much as I’d have liked this summer. Sure, high water on many of the rivers for much of the summer is another lame excuse. Thankfully, I’m gainfully employed, which while providing the funds for fishing, also limits the time in which to do so.
I did squeeze in some quality and numbers of fish on the few trips I did make, but it’s been too many days. I’m feeling the shakes. The hope is to get in a quick fix next weekend.
But here in California summer won’t wane until late September, although the high country where I prefer to chase trout will have a light dusting of fall colors by then. That’s when we’ll expect to make up for lost opportunities. It’s the annual club trip and my time there this year will be nearly doubled. The chance of larger fish will also be raised with the hope of spending many of those days on a favorite lake that’s lately been giving up some big brown, rainbow and cutthroat trout.
In between now and then, we’ll be heading to Alaska via a cruise ship, giving devoted attention to The Wife, and there will be no fishing. We’re saving up for a week-long fishing trip in The Last Frontier sometime in the coming year. Or the next.
More Adventure on Two Wheels
The Wife surprised me a while ago. “So, when are you going to take me on the motorcycle?”
There’s no telling if it’s the experience gained over a few years of riding or the miles, or maybe the idea of snuggling at speed, but it was clear she was serious after a little discussion. I knew she used to ride, back when rashness of youth focused on the “bad boys” with their Harleys motorcycles.
After buying a helmet last Saturday (not pink and no rhinestones, thank you), we rode on Sunday. Not too many miles, about 15, but enough for me to get the feel of having a passenger. All went well, no doubt helped along by The Wife’s previous riding experience.
Having a wife supporting her husband’s hobby is pretty near; to join in, definitely a bonus.
When Fly Fishing Wasn’t a Political Photo Op
During some general browsing of the web, I came across the article below from the Ottawa Citizen, dated August 28, 1943. It struck me as an illustration of the resolve of leaders not too many years ago. Despite the troubles of the world, time was taken to enjoy a favored pursuit (albeit during a secret meeting codename Quadrant). A reminder, despite the troubles of today, to slow down and savor that which we enjoy.
Churchill Goes Trout Fishing after Secret Conference in Quebec, from the Ottawa Citizen, Aug. 28, 1943 (via the Google News Archive)
Teaching fly fishing requires enthusiasm. Teaching it well requires a bit more. A little curiosity helps.
It was my brother who provided the curiosity. Not openly, but in that tone of voice we’ve all heard before.
We were discussing ideas for his first visit to California in eight years and our trip to, up and over the Sierra Nevadas. “I’d be willing to try fly fishing if you have some gear I could use,” he said over the phone.
I’d thought plenty about offering such an opportunity but hadn’t mentioned it. Everyone has a story about how they were introduced to the sport. Mine surely isn’t unique, but it did imbue me with a belief that a curious mind opens the door to the best first fly fishing experience.
Along with the gear, I’d bring considerable enthusiasm. (It’d help to understand that my sister’s family has given me the nickname of “The Herring Merchant.”*)
That’s how Mark, Sean and I found ourselves on “Hatchery Creek,” not too far away from the cabin, just as sunlight touched the top of the hills. With borrowed waders, boots and a wading staff but minus an overloaded vest, Mark looked just about as silly as I. (It’s a tenant of fly fishing that fish don’t care how one looks.)
[singlepic id=1188 w=325 h=244 float=center]
Mark on a fish.
This creek tucks against a hillside and, controlled by a powerhouse, is nearly always fishable regardless of spring runoff. Though near a main highway, it’s sheltered by heavily treed banks, and — except for the occasional burps of a Jake brake — the outside world is easily left behind. Though the outcome of our day had yet to be determined, the absence of other fisherman was a welcome sign.
After gearing up and giving a primer on the creek, I led Mark toward one of my favorite runs. It’s the same piece of water on which I educated both sons as to the nuances of hydrology. On the surface it looks fast, and most would call it too fast for fish. The most obvious (and dependable) spot for trout here is near the far bank, where the water’s velocity is slowed by friction. Perhaps because of constant shadows and the lack of light, it’s difficult to see the nearer telltale seams that suggest hidden trout. As both sons learned years ago, a little bit of patience and a passable drift in the proper location will surprise you. It’s also a great spot to swing a fly at the end of the drift.
We were rigged up with nymphs under an indicator. It was too early for dry flies, and to my knowledge this creek is devoid of any real insect hatches, with only occasional dry fly takes in the afternoon.
There’s nothing more conducive to learning than doing, and my strategy was simple: talk, walk, fish and hope that Mark would get into at least one fish while doing so. I would take on the role of guide. I’d assemble leaders, tie knots and select flies. It would be Mark’s “job” to focus on hooking and landing a fish.
It Ain’t Pretty, But Works
For those who haven’t fly fished, casting nymphs (often heavier, underwater flies) with an indicator (yeah, like a bobber) is an inelegant affair. In this case it was more of a lobbing action. After a bit of discussion about this technique and a quick demonstration, Mark made his first casts. Occasionally I’d offer a bit of advice. The suggestion of a casting target that’d offer a better drift into a good trout lie. A recommendation to keep a tight line between the rod to the indicator, then a gentle admonishment to keep an eye on the indictor for any movement that didn’t seem “normal.” A description of the slight lift the rod should be given at the end of every drift.
It was that last piece of advice that gave Mark his first surprise. He’d made a good drift with no takers. Toward the end of the run, the rod tip was raised, the movement of the indicator slowed, and the flies below rose toward the water’s surface, as an emerging insect might do.
That’s how Mark hooked his first trout on a fly rod. Just as quickly as it was on, it was off.
It didn’t matter that we didn’t land that fish. It’s the confidence and faith that washed over Mark’s face that mattered. His big brother wasn’t just blowing smoke. An unseen fish had risen to take a fly presented just as he had advised. Without any encouragement from me, the training wheels were off.
Heading upstream, Mark stopped at a suspect pool while I ventured toward a stretch where riffles tumbled into a long, deep run that abutted a boulder, which in turn created a pool that offered a long tailout. Sean had fished the area earlier, but had since headed downstream.
When Mark moved to the pool behind that boulder, just below me, I futilely tried to keep an eye on my indicator as well as Mark’s. I needn’t have. Before I knew it Mark had set the hook. Encouraging him to keep the rod tip up, a bend in the rod and to allow the fish to tired ever so slightly, I dropped set aside my rod, grabbed my net, and headed downstream.
Mark was broadly smiling as the rod tipped danced. Not an acrobatic fish, it splashed enough to put on a bit of a show. Soon Mark turned its head and we had a decent trout in the net.
[singlepic id=1189 w=480 h=640 float=center]
Mark and his first fly rod fish.
Mark waded over for the obligatory fish photo. Excitement shifted to quiet contemplation. We talked of wetting hands before handing trout, the ease of removing a barbless hook, and keeping the fish in the water until all were ready for the photo. Photo taken, we let it rest in the net. It was a remarkably clean, deep bellied and heavily dotted hatchery rainbow trout measuring an honest 13 inches; a admirable first fly rod fish.
It quickly recovered and, as discussed, Mark softly cradled the trout as I lowered the lip of the net. Often, it seems to me that time slows in the minute or so before a trout finally swings its tail and darts for the familiar safety of deeper water. I never asked Mark if he felt that same sensation, but the look on his face confirmed that he had discovered the magic of catch and release fishing.
The Lesson Learned
At that moment I got it. A curtain parted ever so slightly, giving me privileged insight into why fly fishing guides, those who truly enjoy what they do, do what they do.
More could be written about that day. About the other fish that Mark stalked, hooked and landed, and his amazement that he could do so while hardware and bait fishermen struggled for even a single fish. About Mark’s discovery of trout in places he previously might have dismissed as holding fish. About a simple enjoyment in finding that sharing of one’s love of fly fishing can spark the beginnings of such a passion in another.
But looking above, there’s not much else to worth writing about Mark’s first fly fishing experience and how it rekindled in me renewed appreciation for the little things, beyond the fishing, that bring such joy to the sport.
[In the movie “Love and Death”] Boris is in love with Sonja, but she is unhappily married to Voskovec the Herring Merchant (“his mentality,” she complains, “has reduced all the beauty of the world to a small pickled fish“). She takes lovers. (“She takes uppers?” Boris repeats, incredulous, when he hears this news). Voskovec, preparing his pistols to fight a duel in defence of his wife’s honour, accidentally shoots himself. Sonja goes to his deathbed in the company of a couple of doctors. In what is, I think, my favourite exchange in all film, Sonja talks to the expiring man…Here’s the tender deathbed scene:
SONJA: You were a kind and loving husband. Generous and always considerate. (To doctors) What’s he got? About eight minutes?
DOCTOR: (consulting his watch) I think I’m slow. He’s got about three.
VOSKOVEC: Swimming out! Swimming out to the open sea like the great … wild … herring! [Dies]
(You can find more photos here under “The Brother’s Visit – Tuolumne Meadows, Eastern Sierra, First Time Fly Fishing”.)
I’ve no way of checking, but I’m pretty sure hell’s frozen over.
After eight years since his last appearance in the Golden State, my brother showed up with no specific plans. That’s where I stepped in as travel agent, outfitter and guide; apparently a role that suits me better than might be expected.
Lembert Dome viewed from the Tuolumne Meadows Campground, and where we'd be going.
A visit to the cabin is akin to establishing a base camp. In our case, a base camp stocked with beef jerky, beer and an XBox. One might be inclined to think it was something like a “man cave,” but there’s an irony to my brother and I spending quality man time together. Those who’ve been in the proximity when we get together know that we quickly prove the adage that you can’t take the boy out of the man.
Mark lives in the Evergraygreen state and while he said he’d enjoy seeing California family members, it became clear that he perhaps more happy to see the sun. I swung by the airport to him pick up Wednesday evening and we met up with my oldest son, Sean, at the Bass Pro Shop in Manteca. We secured a two-day nonresident fishing license, grabbed dinner and headed up the hill.
Weather-wise, we’d hit it right. Temperatures had peaked that day and would be still warm but slightly lower the next few days, meaning it would cool off at night; something important for a good night’s sleep in a cabin that has no insulation and no air conditioning.
Before Mark or Sean posts a comment below, I will admit that I was adamant that I would I had expected to wake up and hit the road for Tuolumne Meadows early the next morning. I did wake up at 5:00 a.m. But I rolled over and caught a few more winks.
Mark had asked if we might be able to hike up Lembert Dome. He and I had done so back when we were boys, with my sister and dad. It’s a pretty easy drive from the cabin to Tuolumne Meadows, just about 2½ hours. Since Tioga Pass had opened the week before, we would circle our way back over Sonora Pass.
Mark's friend, the Marmot, at Olmstead Point.
It’s been said many times before, but the blue of the sky is remarkable at higher altitudes, and we weren’t disappointed. With only a few clouds in the sky, we passed through the entrance station and soon arrived at Olmstead Point. Reinforcing that he boy stills lives within the man, Mark was all about seeing and getting photos of the marmots of our childhood at Olmstead. A few marmots obliged.
We next stopped at the Tuolumne Meadows Campground, where we spent many a family vacation camping. Sure, some things have changed — mostly manmade things — but nearly everything was recognizable and Mark and I soon agreed upon the location of “our” campsite, partially based on its position relative to the Tuolumne River, which itself was nearly unrecognizably high. I’m sure Sean was somewhat amused by our reminiscing.
Just down the road we pulled into the parking lot at the Lembert Dome trailhead and loaded up. The trail begins with a modest incline, but starting at about 8,600 feet and rising another 800 feet to the dome’s summit, it was soon clear that our lungs would get the kind of workout not seen in years. The gradient seemed to increase every 100 feet, and even if we were on the trail (we weren’t), it would be covered by extensive snow fields that made the hiking more difficult. At one point, Mark fell through the snow into a waist-high air pocket. Undaunted but pausing more often that we’d care to admit to catch our breath, we pressed on. I’m sure it took a lot of patience for Sean to not charge ahead. (I don’t think he broke a sweat or even breathed hard.)
It’s said that the memory grows hazy over time and Mark and I didn’t remember the last stretch up the back of Lembert Dome being so steep or requiring so much climbing. But climb we did, reaching the top. The view was made a tad more incredible by the fact that we had it to ourselves.
Me, Mark & Sean a the top of Lembert Dome. (After Mark and I rested for half an hour just a few minutes.)
It was hoped that we’d also find some water to fish. Without much browbeating Mark had asked if he might get a chance to try fly fishing, and I had plenty of gear he could use. We rigged up and flogged the no-so-high-but-higher-than-usual Lee Vining Creek. It was tough going. I was the only one to get two strikes, but missed both fish.
We refueled our egos with some good barbecue at Bodie Mike’s, then headed north to Bridgeport, and I pointed out all of the water that we might have fished. Every single river was the color Yoo-Hoo.
Traveling creates memories, and traversing the Sierra Nevada Mountains can make for some of the most vivid memories. Then there are other things that one doesn’t soon forget.
Our return to the cabin meant a few preparations for the next day, when we’d get out on “Hatchery Creek,” hoping to get Mark into his first trout on a fly rod. Mark looked to verify that his fish license was in his wallet. It was. His driver’s license wasn’t. He searched through my car. Sean looked through his car. I looked around the cabin. Mark began to go through his suitcase. After thinking about it a bit, I called Bass Pro Shop. The customer service rep went through the lost and found, looking for a Washington license with the appropriate name and a goofy looking photo.
Soon we were making the 1½-hour drive back to Manteca. Only a few miles went by without Sean or I reminding Mark of his snafu.
There was an upside to this. We enjoyed a manly dinner at the House of Beef.
Back at the cabin, assurances were made that I’d not linger in bed the next morning as there’d be fish to catch. And I did not.
But Mark’s First Fly Fishing Experience is a story unto itself, and for next week.
(You can find more photos here under “The Brother’s Visit – Tuolumne Meadows, Eastern Sierra, First Time Fly Fishing”.)
A marmot at Olmstead Point, a stop on our way to Tuolumne Meadows, and a hike that would require the full use of our lungs.
Looking at our Target - Lembert Dome - from Tuolumne Meadows Campground, over the very swollen Tuolumne River. The hike is 1.5 miles with an 800-foot elevation gain.
Mark and Sean on the last stretch up the back of Lembert Dome.
The view from Lembert Dome, looking out over Tuolumne Meadows.
Mark's first experience fly fishing...obviously it went well.
Fly Fishing Trip Goals: Fish New Water(s), Fish for New Species/Strains of Trout, Drink New Beer(s), Repeat. Note: Do so slowly, with great deliberation.
It’s not casting, presentation or fly selection; it’s a deliberate and slower pace that offers the best chance of success in fly fishing.
This isn’t a new or unfamiliar idea. My first appreciation of a slower approach was the pace at which I entered any water, familiar or unfamiliar. Slowing down to take the time to make a few observations. To watch the sun rise. To look for that one rising trout. To take time to fish that small seam a few feet out from the bank.
[singlepic id=1088 w=275 h=368 float=center]The decision to try my hand at tying flies required a slow, methodical approach as I learned techniques and how materials responded to the tying process. I’m not a production tyer, and probably think more what I’m doing when tying than I should. That’s okay; a lot of that thinking is about the fish I expect or hope to fool with that fly; or memories of already having done so.
Rod building again necessitates slowing down. Wrapping thread seems simple, and it is. Wrapping thread well isn’t. Five-minute epoxy is the fastest part of the process. Laying down multiple coats is not.
More experienced fly fisherman might wonder why it took so long for me to come to this conclusion. In my defense, there were trout to fool and success was measured by body count.
Two weeks ago, while setting aside the desire to get on higher-elevation trout water as soon as legally possible, it dawned on me that the fish would still be there even if my arrival was delayed a day or two. Like dominoes falling, decisions were then made to purposely plan a slower pace.
It’s a huge thing to slow down in today’s world. To take a slow, long look at that wild trout. And, when the sunlight’s too dim to fish, to slowly relish the day’s adventures, seasoned with good food and, if you’re lucky, a good beer.
It’s all worth savoring.
To be certain, we lugged along a few new brews to the cabin during our Opening Day trip, but didn’t pass up the opportunity to try something from the tap during dinner at The Rock.
Told by the waitress that customers had complained that New Belgium’s Ranger IPA was too hoppy, Sean naturally went ahead and ordered it. Apparently those customers have sensitive palates. I’m not a huge fan of too much hoppiness on the back end, but even I found the Ranger rather mild. So did Sean.
Though not an extreme beer snob, I favor trying local suds, and opted to try Snowshoe’s Grizzly Brown Ale. (And, honestly, I felt an obligation to try the Grizzly as research. The Snowshoe brewery is an hour away from the cabin and will be on the itinerary during my brother’s visit next month.) I’ve grown increasingly fond of a well-done brown ale. The Grizzly didn’t disappoint, and it seemed that Sean might have wished he’d chosen it. It’s certainly dark in color, but semi creamy and not heavy as might be expected. A nice toasty maltiness gives way to a light hop finish.
Certainly a great way to finish a day of fly fishing.
The Opening Day rush should be over by now, which means I’m heading out the door.
On the way will be obligatory stops for supplies and fast food. I’ll warm up with wild browns just outside town. Sean will join me later this evening. The next three days will be focused on fishing, with high water and lingering snow dictating where.
Fly fishing, friendly competition, man food and beer. The stuff vacations are made of.
[singlepic id=761 w=600 h=450 float=center]
Hoping to say hello again to a few of these wild guys...
I’ve been a dad for more years than you’d think and with that has come amazement that the number of candles on my birthday cakes made it to double digits.
Sure, everyone my age grew up without seat belts, car seats, and medications without child-proof lids. Many of my contemporaries rode bikes without helmets, ate sandwiches made with white bread and drank drinks made with real sugar.
Personally, I’m more amazed that I and my siblings survived family vacations in the great outdoors.
I can’t figure out if dad was fearless, just wasn’t being smart or placed such importance on exposing his kids to the outdoors that the risks outweighed the rewards. Maybe it was the fact that we didn’t have innumerable television documentaries underscoring man’s inability to win in a one-on-one battle with nature. Whatever the reason, we were lucky.
There are photos that I won’t share here of me in diapers, in the wilds of Yosemite Valley. That might have been where it all began, but the memories are foggy.
Where we camped for many years, long ago...
What I do remember are the multiple summers we spent in Tuolumne Meadows. At 8,600 feet elevation the weather was changeable. This made day hikes, already an adventure thanks to steep elevation gains and decomposing granite, unpredictable.
While there’s debate among my family as to the name of the lake that was the destination on one ill-fated hike, it’s clear that dad had pushed the limits on that cold and overcast day. With the distance of the hike limited by the length of my youngest brother’s legs, I’m guessing the hike in took no more than a couple of hours. Much of the trail wound in and around trees before rising and emerging onto a wide meadow. Crossing the meadow put us on the shore of a lake nestled up against granite peaks. Back then we carried spin fishing gear, and it wasn’t more than a few casts before a trout made one of the most dramatic, leaping strikes to swallow dad’s Mepps Agila. Small as the fish was, dad stumbled back in his surprise at the strike.
Just about then or shortly thereafter (my memory was muddled by the excitement), the gray of the sky gave way to small granules of something best described as light hail or heavy snow. Not being as keen on fishing, my sister and brother were huddle with mom near what little shelter was offered by a wind-stunted tree. “Jerry,” my mom said, “I think it’s time to go.” Nearly 40 years later I can understand that when fishing, time flies by but those same minutes are painfully slow to pass when you’re shivering in the high country and miles from the remotest fingers of civilization. Grudgingly, dad decided it was better to leave the fish for the sake of his children and, perhaps, his marriage.
The first time we pitched a tent at the Tuolumne Meadows Campground, where, by the way, there are no public showers; my dad’s solution was to take advantage of what nature had to offer. He proudly explained to us that we’d be using biodegradable soap. (It was a novelty back in the 1970s.) Our water source would be the oh-so convenient Tuolumne River. A river that originates from two forks — the Dana Fork and the Lyell Fork — both of which originate from the huge snowpack in the high peaks of the Sierra Nevada. There’s something about bathing in water that only 24 hours ago was in its frozen form. Yet another time we dodged hypothermia.
Then there were the bears. We knew they were there. We saw them occasionally during the day. It’s the times we didn’t see them that still give me chills. There were mornings we’d wake up and dad would show us the bear tracks through our camp; tracks that weren’t there yesterday and must have been made during the night, when I stepped out of the tent for a trip to the bathroom and could have become a tasty midnight snack for one of Yogi’s cousins.
The fateful faithful Sierra cup.
Those mornings dad would tempt fate yet again by preparing breakfast on the flattop griddles that years ago were standard equipment in every national and state park campsite. These griddles were nothing more than flat plates of steel welded to a grill, on top of a three-sided steel box, and naturally were exposed to the elements all year long, accumulating sap, rust and the occasional animal or bird dropping. Dad’s ritual involved stoking the wood underneath the grill with the idea of sterilizing it, then throw on bacon to lube it up before tossing on eggs and toast. While it’s entirely possible he did manage to sterilize the griddle, I can help but wonder if some of the “seasoning” entailed small bits of rust and other things.
In that vein, I also remember being so proud of our Sierra cups. My brother and I would loop them under our belts, and like little men, dip them into the clear streams to quench our thirst. Try that nowadays without worrying.
These are only snapshots of my childhood adventures in the wilderness, and there are other, less dangerous memories of other hikes, more fishing and just being a kid in the great outdoors. Those I’ll save for another time.
I was lucky to spend so much time in the great outdoors. All of these adventures never fail to bring a smile to my face.
Muir Woods National Monument in the hills just north of San Francisco could be like someplace near you. That place that’s relatively well-known and frequented by out-of-town visitors, one that you always mean to visit but never set aside the time to do so. The trees of Muir Woods quietly stand in a valley accessed by roads that progressively shrink from a highway to a local boulevard and, finally, a small two-lane country road that twists down the hillsides without the comfort of guard rails. It’s a drive that requires patience. It’s worth finding, however, because this 560-acre national monument encompasses one of last groves of old-growth coast redwoods on the planet, and the only one in the San Francisco Bay area.
It was a gray morning last week when The Wife and I left the rolling hills of home and headed west across the San Pablo Bay Tidal Wetlands and into the hills of the Coast Ranges. The air was cold, the sky hidden by fog, dense and unmoving. The kind of day that suggests you’d be better off nestled by the fireplace with a hot beverage.
Most of the drive was familiar and thus unremarkable, but soon enough we were rising into the hills and the fog. An all-encompassing grayness took the place of what otherwise would have been a sweeping view toward the coast. The fog, but not the chill it lent to the day, was left behind as we descended a number of switchbacks.
The getting there was easy; the parking was problematic. Even on a day like today, parked vehicles were overflowing onto the roadway. Maybe it was karma, or simply superior situational awareness, that opened our eyes to a slot unobserved by half a dozen other drivers at the end of one row.
On a short hike to the park the oak woodlands typical of California’s hills give way to a coniferous forest, dominated by towering Sequoia sempervirens. The paved trail parallels the babbling Redwood Creek, feeding guests toward the obligatory exhibits and gift shop, then the entrance.
Though there’s no escaping the noise of the crowds ignoring scattered signs asking “Quiet, Please,” the silent presence of these redwoods, many seedlings before World War II, can impress. Light filtered first though fog then the thick forest canopy lends a deep blue cast, deepening the greens of California bay laurel, Douglas firs, bigleaf maples, dogwoods, tanoaks, redwood sorrel and countless ferns; horsetail lady, sword, maiden hair, and gold back to name a few. It’s a wonder that such a place exists so close to San Francisco.
[singlepic id=1012 w=615 h=408 float=center]
Near Cathedral Grove
A quiet and easy walk took us deeper into the dense grove; wander first closer to then farther away from the creek. Soon I’m getting kink in my neck gazing at the massive trees in aptly named Cathedral Grove. These trees average 800 years old and taper from a thick base to a top that can’t be seen. They have survived fires, storms and man.
The trail leading back out of the grove crosses the clear waters of Redwood Creek, one of the southernmost streams in which coho salmon spawn. This time of year it’s the coho salmon (Oncorhynchus kisutch) that will make their way upstream, to be followed by steelhead (Oncorhynchus mykiss). It’d be dishonest to state that I wasn’t hoping we might be blessed to see fish in the creek.
We were blessed. The trail that would return us to our starting point crosses then parallels the creek four or five feet away from its bank. As we neared a small bend the bed of the creek moved. A coho, at least a good 18 or 20 inches, hovered in a couple feet of water. We watched, shushing the less courteous, as the salmon rested in a small eddy below fallen tree branches. Shortly, it was joined by another, similarly sized fish. After seemingly communicating via body language, the two cohos continued upstream. After a two-year absence, two more coho happened returned to Redwood Creek during our visit.
[singlepic id=1017 w=615 h=408 float=center]
Evidence that the Redwood Creek coho salmon may have a future...
Perhaps it was fell-good aspect of being outdoors and seeing nature at work (often despite humans), but lunch at the Muir Woods Trading Co. Café was particularly good. While Karen enjoyed a hot dog of grass-fed beef, I dove into a house special, the “Marin Melt,” which is built on a foundation of some of the most rustic bread I’ve ever met and two smooth locally produced cheeses. Add a bowl of fresh tomato soup, and it’s a lunch made for a cold morning near the coast.
Though there were no fishing rods involved in this trip, the fish were a welcome surprise.
The reality of fishing is that more often it’s about people, the adventure that comes with it and what we’re taught than about the fishing. Sure, without the fishing you probably wouldn’t have made the trip at all, and the timing and location naturally center on when you think the fishing will be best, but regardless of the amount of planning every fishing trip is shadowed by uncertainty.
[singlepic id=974 w=220 h=165 float=center]
Funky Fall Photo
Last weekend fall was in full force and winter’s influence was yet to be felt, but in the Sierra Nevada Mountains and foothills the name of the season regularly has little to do with the weather. Weather is never limited by the season there, or anywhere else, as I’m sure all five of my readers can attest.
Anyway, it was just after the first snow showers of the season that my son and I were enjoying an ‘end of trout season’ fishing trip on moving waters in the foothills in and around Twain Harte. It was the uncertainty that comes with fall weather that kept us to the west slope of the Sierras. This same weather was enough to keep a good many of the less hardy fishermen away, but that didn’t mean we’d be alone. These rivers and streams are within an easy two-hour drive of a few Central Valley cities and less than four hours away from the San Francisco area.
Regardless of a great summer, spring and early fall of fishing, there’s always a sense of urgency to land that one last fish of the season. As a father who readily allows his inner child to emerge there’s always a friendly competition between me and Sean. There’s little doubt that he can beat his old man at arm wrestling but, at least so far, he hasn’t when it comes to catching trout.
[singlepic id=973 w=474 h=355 float=center]
One of the last trout of the season.
Fall on a few of the small rivers feeding into one of the reservoirs offers the thrill of hunting wild browns on the spawn. The last few years I’ve been lucky enough to land one of these browns, including a well-developed 14-inch male with a nice kype. That day, of course, the camera was not-so-handily still at the cabin.
Friday found Sean and me warming up at the small canal where nymphing generally means hooking more wild browns than stocked rainbows. The afternoon was cool and comfortable and overgrown sections of the canal could pass for a small stream elsewhere in the foothills on either side of the Sierras. During the summer, families equipped with spinning rods and bait casting rigs in every bright color imaginable usually line the banks, but this day our company was mostly limited to dogs and their owners out for a walk. We rigged up our rods, picked up a few fish as we walked upstream and called it a day when the growling of our stomachs was louder than the babbling water.
In the usual fashion, it was easier to wake up early knowing that we’d be hunting for browns, so we were out the door before the vaguest light of sunrise. The darkness gave way to the grayness that lends everything a ghostly appearance. We pulled on waders by flashlight and soon ambled down to the creek. The downside and upside to this creek is the abundance of easily fooled hatchery rainbows which we’d have to sort through as we sought Salmo trutta coming up from the lake.
The fish would be hunkered down and absolutely not looking up until midday, dictating an AP Nymph and a red chironomid pupae for me, two of my ‘confidence flies.’ Sean was similarly equipped as he headed downstream. I waded upstream to a deeper run. The rainbows didn’t disappoint, though most seemed to short strike the flies.
Eventually Sean moved downstream, confident in the stability, flexibility and healing ability that come with youth. Many of the downstream pools, pockets and runs are ignored by others, dismissed as to overrun by blackberry bushes and overhanging trees or deemed too small to harbor many, if any, fish. That meant more for us. Sean found the fish, hooking a few, though landing them seemed to be another matter.
[singlepic id=976 w=474 h=355 float=center]
Sean and a nice rainbow.
I eventually joined Sean and we spent the late morning and noontime hoping to get into a brown between catching rainbow trout. A few of the fish that we didn’t land acted and looked suspiciously like brown trout; these un-netted fish appeared better proportioned, more of a torpedo than a football, like fish that, living in the wild, had to work for their food, unlike the stocked rainbow that tended to put on more gut.
[singlepic id=975 w=474 h=355 float=center]
Me and a nice rainbow out of the run in the background.
The next few hours we returned upstream to pools and deep runs where the cookie cutter rainbows stacked up but offered a challenge through the fact that shortly after midday they developed a severe case of lockjaw. We met this challenge by changing over to small green midges and scuds. We did well enough, though Sean was remained a bit displeased that I was out-catching him. Despite my son’s complaint that I landed more fish than he, a gentlemen fishing just downstream offered perspective.
This older gentleman and a younger guy, wearing waders that were too clean and waving barely used rods patiently waited for hookups that never came. Chipping away at that patience, every ten to fifteen minutes, were the fish hooked and landed by Sean and I. Apparently it became too much. The older of these two gentlemen quietly waded to within a rod’s length of me. Tentatively and allowing that it was okay to refuse to answer, he asked, “Could you tell me why you guys are catching all these fish and we got nothing?” With a baffled look that turned into a grin, I think Sean learned that even without keeping pace with dad, he does quite well.
As for how I answered the gentleman from downstream, that’s something for next week.
Hi, I’m Patrick and I’m a fly fisherman. I cast my last fly…
fishing for words 