Going fly fishing in the middle of a workday is one of the reasons I abandoned the Silicon Valley and moved to the Upper Sacramento; running out for the afternoon BWO hatch is a lot easier when it's not bookended by a five hour drive.
Sometimes, it's not just a luxury - it's a badly needed escape from what we euphemistically call the "pressures of everyday life," and clearly it's a universal concept; I just got off the phone with about-to-go-fishing Wayne Eng, who was also tired and sore from all last week's snow removal.
Like me, he was wondering where all his fly fishing time had gone.
That's why yesterday I found myself strapping on the skis and slogging to the Upper Sacramento River - too much work and snow removal makes Tommy a dull, boring (and potentially homicidal) boy (no, I'm not saying any more).
Skiers Only
The road to this section of the river isn't plowed in winter, so I threw some skis in the car (along with Wally the Wonderdog, whose stubby legs aren't exactly snow-friendly). The ski in was all downhill, but hardly the stuff of a Warren Miller epic.
The texture of the snow could be described as "mashed potatoes" and even going downhill was a slog (and no, "anticipation" wasn't how I'd describe my feelings about the wet, uphill ski out).
Still, the river's beautiful in the winter (based on the empty hotel rooms and restaurants, too few people know that).
We arrived at a stretch of slow, technical water; while I pieced together my fly rod (an 8'3" hollowbuilt 4wt - a 3pc for transport reasons), the Wonderdog began drinking his body weight in Upper Sacramento River water.
I'd love to relate the kind of steely eyed mountain man savvy it took to spot a trout, but in truth, a good one began sipping BWOs right in front of me. This was 1:00 in the afternoon, and while the BWO hatch wasn't heavy, it was heavy enough to move at least one trout.
In what I'd later realize was a Gross Tactical Stupidity, I didn't slip on my waders and wading boots. And yes, on the fourth drift, the trout ate something near my fly (at least where it would be if I could see it, which I couldn't because of the glaring snow on the far bank).
I lifted the fly rod, and homicidal urges suddenly went away.
And yes, it was a big trout; after a couple of seconds of ponderous head-shaking, he rolled on the surface, and his big, broad tail caught the attention of the Wonderdog, who immediately swam out in a wet, cold, misguided attempt to retrieve the fish.
This isn't one of Wally the Wonderdog's most endearing traits, but I gave the trout a little line, the Wonderdog circled the "splash zone" once (the fish was well upstream by then), swam back all disappointed and confused, and all was well - until I tried to tail the trout, which is when the hook simply popped out, and he was gone.
I wanted to get a measurement, but after the initial caveman-want-food instinctive disappointment stuff went away, I was fine with the outcome.
He was at least 17" (probably a good deal more than "at least"). That's a good fish almost anywhere (especially on this river, especially on a #20 dry, especially in the middle of winter).
Even better, after I immersed my hand in the water retrieving a couple dozen pieces of .22 brass some slob had left behind, I was happy enough to only get wet once.
In a nuts-and-bolts fly fishing report, that would be the extent of the story; I saw another fish rise once, but he didn't respond to a dozen drifts, so I laid down the rod, skied up and down the river a bit, came back, took pictures of bugs in the snow, and around 3:15, started the inevitably painful uphill slog.
Forty sweaty minutes later - with Wally the Wonderdog already snoring away in the back seat - I was in the truck and heading home. Which was only ten minutes away. Did I mention why I moved up here?
See you on the (snowy) river, Tom Chandler.
Special Bonus Wally the Wonderdog Section
for Kentucky Jim: