It's been more than a decade since I could name the final two teams in the Super Bowl; the sport doesn't interest me all that much, and besides, with everyone locked inside waiting to see grown men to run into each other at high speed, there's more room than ever in the outdoors (including the rivers).

Of  course, the "let's go fly fishing while everyone's eating chips and dip" thing isn't exactly a secret, and in truth, you almost never see anyone on this river in winter anyway. Still, I like the feeling of putting one over on everyone else, even if that feeling is an illusion.



Wayne Eng and I shuttled one stretch of the river that Wayne's wanted to fish for a month now; we dropped a car at the top of the run, drove to the bottom, and fished our way back. It's gorgeous water, and though I've fished it all at one point or another, I hadn't done so in exactly this order, and in a fit of self-definition, decided that made it a new trip for me (see, self-delusion can be fun).

The banks are largely bare of snow, and in fact, the temperature was a decidedly un-winter-ish 50s. (Sure, it's pleasant now, but wait until next summer when wells are pumping air and rivers are slowing to trickles.)

In fact, I was pretty sure I erred in wearing my too-warm Patagonia soft shell - at least until I got on the river, where a steady wind was blowing and the section Bob Grace has named "The Icebox" lived up to its name. Turns out the soft shell was an inspired choice; I didn't overheat even on the final speed hike the last quarter mile to the truck.

Maybe those clothing guys are onto something.



The fishing wasn't great, but that's why you invite a guide to fly fish with you (a Free Fishing Tip from the Underground).

I shotgunned a few nice runs with a Beetle Bug and tiny Pheasant Tail-ish nymph combo, while Wayne got serious with a two-nymph rig - which he was fishing on a no-name, very cheap, need-electrical-tape-to-hold-the-ferrules-together bamboo fly rod.

Wayne specializes in doing weird things to bargain tackle (the rod was $25; the reel cost him $2.50, but functioned like a reel costing twice as much), and in this case, it worked.

The no-name rod with the cheap ferrules and reel seat not only survived, it played the fish nicely.



He hooked two trout, and I landed one that turned out to be a 16" Upper Sacramento Rainbow with some of the longest, most elegant fins I've ever seen on a trout (and here I thought I fly fished for the scenery).

Natural variation is one of the unsung features of Mother Nature; you never know for sure what you're going to find, see, hook or land, and when you no longer  care, then it's time to find another sport.



All in all, a successful Super Bowl Edition of the Trout Underground, even if I still couldn't tell you who the quarterbacks were or recount the key plays at the water cooler, but then, I've put myself into a situation where I don't have any of those nearby either.

The Details
For some reason, I keep shooting this picture over and over:



I fished the Raine prototype 8.5' 5/6wt, and I'm leaning towards deciding it's a 6wt. Being as it's a prototype, he's making some changes to the taper, but while he's futzing around with numbers and big machines, I'm happy to keep fishing the thing until it goes back to his shop for dissection.

Meanwhile, the Patagonia Sticky Rubber Wading Boot trials continued, this time on a more widely varied stretch of water than before. A post, my geary Undergrounders, is coming soon. Maybe one or two more trips.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

Foiled again.