Fly Fishing in Pursuit of Sanity; the Trout Underground Leaves the Building

Fly fishing is how some of us convert our spare time into sanity, and with both in short supply as of late, Saturday became my day to find some water, cast at it, and wait for calm to appear.

Typically, it doesn’t take long.

The Upper Sacramento. Click the picture for the big “moment of Zen” version.

Along for the ride was Wayne Eng - and a new graphite rod I brought for some on-the-water testing.

I don’t fish graphite rods much - especially a 6wt on this river - but I wanted Wayne’s opinion, and besides, it was good excuse to share a fly rod so I’d have time to take a few pictures.

The weather was stunning; today has turned windy and cold, but yesterday warm and sunny - stupendous weather for winter in the mountains.

We ended up fishing in thin, long-sleeve shirts, and the only hint that it wasn’t spring was the absence of bugs.

Wayne Eng fishing the kind of water some would say doesn’t hold fish in winter. It does.

If you read much of the literature about fly fishing, writers in the know will tell you that winter finds fish holding at the bottom of slower, deeper runs, and that you have to bump the bottom to catch them.

It’s been repeated enough that it’s become gospel, yet some of the best dry fly fishing I’ve ever experienced has occurred when it was cold enough to ice the guides.

And the coldest weather I’ve ever fished in found me catching good sized trout using an unweighted midge pupae and a tiny bit of indicator foam.

In other words, I don’t believe every “rule of thumb” I read, so when Wayne Eng quickly registered five grabs and a couple hookups (no landed fish) in pocket water, it wasn’t wholly a surprise.

It was warm enough for this spider. Wonder if he had a caddis over for lunch.

Just before Wayne seined the pocket water, he rigged the rod with a pair of nymphs, which I fished through the inside edge of a run.

The indicator disappeared and I lifted on a nice 15″ rainbow, which seemed strong for a few seconds before it started fighting like a waterlogged branch.

I landed it and discovered the lower nymph was lodged under its pectoral fin, re-learning what I used to know; two-fly rigs mean you never know if you foul hooked a fish, or if he came unbuttoned on the top fly and got wrapped up in the second.

Later, Wayne and I fished a short stretch of water we’ve been talking about for weeks, and never bought a nudge. (Call me Mr. Intuition)

We wandered back to the truck and drove home, windows down, enjoying the warm downcanyon air.

I can say that sanity’s been temporarily restored (or at least as close to sane as I get), and that today is colder by far, blustery and unpleasant.

Wonder if they’re still biting in the pocket water.

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