Over the last 1.5 weeks, eight feet of snow fell on the town of Mt. Shasta, and not to put too fine a point on it, my back felt every inch of it.

That’s why it wasn’t that hard to convince the dutiful part of my brain (the Hippoworkus) to abandon the computer for two hours and ski into the Upper Sacramento for a quick hit of fly fishing.

The Wonderdog and Glacier Glove pack

It was hard not to get excited, though even someone with the self-delusional capabilities of a blogger would know this wasn’t a heavy-duty fishing trip.

More a lunchtime ski trip with the chance for a little fly fishing sandwiched between the sweaty portions.

Our record snowfall was disappearing fast under the impetus of 60+ degree days (purrrrrrr) and nighttime temps that stayed above freezing, and the river definitely reflected it.

The snow was soft enough that when I jumped off the snow berm, figuring I’d start the downhill stretch with some flashy downhilll speed, the skis simply stuck four inches into the snow, and I face planted.

Auspicious beginnings.

I was even reduced to double-poling my way downhill — a reality which suggested a painful slog uphill on the way home (I wasn’t disappointed).

Still, the Wonderdog was as happy as I’d seen him in weeks, and while he probably thinks his job is to sniff everything in sight, it’s clear his real job description includes “Reality Check for Owner.”

Mission accomplished.

The Fishing

I fished for only a half hour (you can take the boy out of the office, but you can’t take the office with you into the outdoors, and my big site project launches this weekend), and sad to say, no trout were harmed in the making of this fishing report.

At one point, I was fishing a micro mayfly nymph and the tiny bobbicator stopped for just a second, but because I’m like most dry fly fishermen (I fucking know better, thank you), I didn’t set the hook.

When it happened again the second time through, I did lift the rod, and for a few seconds, I experienced the undeniable reality of a trout on the end of my line.

Later, I’d tromped out of the water and was taking off my wading boots when a handful of BWOs went by, which stopped me cold.

It was sunny and rising fish were unlikely but I’m a sucker for a hatch, and apparently the BWOs know it because another cluster came off, and that was it.

I’m pretty sure they were yanking my chain (apparently BWOs have a Hippoyankus).

It’s looking like a busy weekend and while I’ve got plenty on the front burner for next week, there’s the near certainty of some kind of outdoor adventure.

See you there, Tom Chandler.

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