A couple inches here means closed roads higher up...

I was planning to stage a last-minute alpine commando raid sometime this week, but with a new garage door to install and a couple of teaching gigs on the calendar, a last trip to the high country was probably an illusion anyway.

One stream will remain accessible and I probably will hit that before closing day, though without a lot of hope; this stream originates in some mountains, where all this snowfall is accumulating.

With a couple warmer days ahead, a lot of that snow will melt and dump into the stream, and it’s not the higher flows that necessarily get you, it’s the sudden drop in water temperature (to just above freezing).

In fact, I might have just talked myself out of it.

Especially with the BWOs apparently underway on the bigger rivers.

See how confusing fall is for us outdoorsman types?

On Saturday we held Little M’s third birthday party at the house, and rather than watch Wally the Wonderdog steal a metric ton of birthday cake off the kid’s plates on the low tables (I’ve seen it before, and it’s not pretty), I took him for a walk in the snowstorm.

There might be only one or two things better than hiking through the woods during a snowstorm, and it occurred to me that this is probably why I’ve developed an itch to go squirrel hunting in the fall.

Not for the squirrels (which I hear are pretty tasty), but as an excuse to throw a .22 over my shoulder and wander around in the woods for a couple hours with the Wonderdog.

It’s similar to my reasons for fly fishing for smallish trout in remote places; it’s gorgeous, it’s contemplative, and for all you know you’re the last person on the planet.

Fish and game might even be optional.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

When I’m at the tail end of hike into the backcountry or heading home after a day spent laboring up and down the boulders and bluffs of a remote stream, the same thought occurs.

If I did this every day of the week, I’d be one thin, healthy, grinning, stress-free son of a bitch.

Why do we find ourselves in places like this?

Life intrudes on that vision almost the second it occurs; mortgages, kids and clients are never all that far from the front of my mind.

And lacking a winning lottery ticket (I don’t buy them, so my odds of winning are only marginally less than those who do), I won’t be fishing five times a week anytime soon.

And despite the weight loss, fishing every day would probably become a chore.

My fishing horizon has shortened dramatically the last couple years, and I think that’s why I’ve been on a backcountry/small stream kick.

At the end of the day, immersing myself in something wild (which means largely devoid of other people) feels pure — like I engineered a clean getaway instead of a trip to the grocery store.

A mountain rainbow trout (colors turned up because it's beautiful)

That’s hardly the whole picture, but then, there isn’t a “whole” picture. Which is why the “why I fly fish” essays never seem to work; most of us aren’t really clear about why we fly fish.

I know I’m not.

In fact, it’s a damned mystery.

We trot out all the usual poetic mechanisms (solitude, escape, nature, challenge, drunkenness, rebirth, etc), but in the end, we do it for the same reasons we eat certain foods and drink wine and hang around with certain people.

Because we like it and we don’t break any laws doing it.

What else is there?

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

I’m amazed by the things I find on streams I thought I knew.

That means I’m two fishing reports behind, and while it’s better that way instead of the opposite, the smart blogger might just invoke blogging bankruptcy, where I declare all writing debts void and move on with a fresh slate.

But I’m not (so much for native intelligence).

Last one of these until next year? Probably not

The Small Stream In Fall

Small stream fly fishing in the fall is not the same game it is in the summer; normally predictable streams can turn deeply mysterious, and last Sunday I didn’t get a single grab on Stream X until 1:15 — after which it fished beautifully.

(I don’t know who throws that switch or where, but I’d like to see if I can get a schedule.)

I’ve taken a couple of fall trips where I couldn’t even intentionally spook a trout — and that on a stream where simply raising a fly rod would normally send trout scattering to every corner of the pool.

The good news is that I only played the fool for half of last Sunday, though the afternoon swagger was tempered by the realization that even though I was catching nice brown trout from a small stream, I regularly flushed much bigger brown trout when I hooked the “good” ones.

For that matter, the whole “small stream guru” conceit I sometimes experience on the stream is typically the victim of episodes like this:

I threw a cast directly into a clump of overhanging weeds, then yanked the fly out of the grass and into an overhanging tree, pulled it down into the water — where the current wrapped the fly line on a half-submereged branch — before I tidied it all up and then thew the next cast directly into the same clump of weeds.

I’m never sure if I’m the only guy who does that stuff or I’m the only one foolish enough to write about it, but either way, it puts all that “Death From Above” posturing right to sleep. Which — for a guy with a “highly directive” three year-old daughter — is probably a good thing (though probably unnecessary).

Pretty, but a little too shallow to hold bigger trout.

It’s still early enough in the fall that each trip doesn’t have to be the last, but it’s possible I won’t make it back to Stream X before enough snow flies to make the dirt roads impassable.

You can take intellectual shelter in the whole cycle of life thing, or — like me — you can reason there are plenty of grass clumps to cast into on the Upper Sacramento, which is open all winter.

See you fishing, Tom Chandler.

Somebody caught trout this weekend... (even if I can barely walk now)

More to come. As soon as I’ve recovered enough to type.

Cell phone photos aren't my cup of tea apparently...

I’m heading upstream — to a part of a stream I’ve never fished. Lots of bouldering and bushwhacking so the fly rod is staying in its sock until I get to the new stuff.

Which means I’m walking past pretty stuff like this. Discovery hurts…

The cold spring meant the wildflowers were firing on all cylinders (they should have been done a month ago), and everything that wasn’t a flower wore the hard-working green of summer leaves.

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(click the images to see full-size versions)

Older Bro and I hiked into this tiny alpine meadow stream based on his recommendation; “You’ll love it, though don’t get too excited about the size of the fish.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

And frankly, I was proud of him. He’s a relatively new fly fisherman, but aside from the casting and the knots and drag-free drifts, he’s already mastered the art of couching his recommendations in case the weather’s bad or the trout are sulking or the other guy’s a headhunter.

I’ll be blunt; I think a lot more people say they love these little streams than actually fishes them; they’re pretty, but for a lot of fly fishermen, fish that seem to top out at 9 inches (we got one 13″ and one 10″ fish on this trip) add a little glitter to that other, bigger water.

Still, we hiked the length of the meadow and fished our way back up, and before we even strung up our fly rods my heart rate was picking up.

I even tried a couple of the standard gambits on him (“Didn’t you notice the special reg poster at the ranger station? This stretch is bamboo fly rods only…”).

Sadly, he didn’t fall for any of them, but then, he’d probably been disappointed if I didn’t try.

I admit I was disappointed by the state of my lower body after we got back to the car; if we went farther than six miles I’ll eat my government surplus Boonie hat, yet I felt like I’d been crossed the continental divide, and with a heavy pack.

The late, great Jim Gade once told me that the way to avoid geezerhood was to not start thinking like you were an old man. “Once you start thinking you’re a geezer, you’ll start feeling like one.”

Tomorrow — if I can drive a stake through a couple projects — I’m going for a walk.

The Fishing Details

I fished a (probably) 60 year-old Phillipson Peerless 8′ 5wt, and I was reminded that although the rod wasn’t necessarily designed to cast a leader, the mass of the bamboo in the tip does tend to load the rod when there isn’t enough line to do so.

And if you’ve worked your way through the pictures, you can imagine how rarely we cast more than a foot or two of line.

As you might imagine, fly selection wasn’t exactly critical, though given the sheer tonnage of grass and insect life living around the stream, I wasn’t surprised when the Arizona Mini-Hopper worked slightly better (OK, it’s hard to know for sure) than anything else I tried.

After all, it’s as much a beetle or caddis as it is a hopper, which seems like a pretty ideal combination for a stream so often visited by terrestrial bugs.

See you somewhere green and wavy and Brookie-filled and beautiful, Tom Chandler.

(Shot and shipped from my mobile phone)

On a small Stream today with Wally the Wonderdog.

We are both happy animals. More later.

That ended last weekend, when Wayne Eng and I hit a piece of little-fished small stream. The brown trout weren’t anywhere near as abundant as the mosquitoes (nor as aggressive), but they would eat a dry fly in a way that was recognizably my kind of fly fishing, and suddenly, winter and our long, cold, high-water spring simply fell away.

And did so in what amounts to a rampantly beautiful… spot.

How's that for a great fishing spot?

Regulars know I refer to my local small streams with highly unoriginal aliases like “Stream X” and “Stream Y.”

In a fit of creativity, I’m naming this stretch Stream XXX, because while the brown trout aren’t fish-porn worthy, I’d suggest the location itself qualifies as Small Stream Porn.

Of the Triple-X variety. I mean, look at it:

Wayne Eng, small stream style

No, don't even ask me (or him) where it is...

If you’re a fly fisherman, that’s major wood action (I’m referring of course to all the downed timber, which provides exceptional trout habitat).

Stream XXX was running high — higher than I’d ever seen — but it was still wholly fishable. High water tends to discourage trout from taking dries (they’ve got a lot more water to move through), but thankfully, enough trout made the trip to keep it interesting.

I started the day throwing the vaunted new Mini-Hopper, which accounted for four trout (and several other grabs).

Then I found this #10-sized penny from heaven on bankside brush:

That's #10 Bug Porn

That prompted a switch to a #10 March Brown (Catskill style), which went to a watery grave a few fish later, precipitating a move to an Old Joe Kimsey Favorite — the orange Skinny Humpy.

The beauty of a Humpy is that each fish frays it towards a state of grace; the more chewed it gets, the better it seems to catch trout (short of total dissolution).

The Humpy achieves a state of grace...

That, my friends, worked like stink, proving that Joe Kimsey probably still knows more than we do, and we buried him a while ago.

It’s gratifying to stumble on the fly of the day, but more importantly, I was fishing and casting and hooking trout instead of lobbing who knows what who knows where, and the sensation was, well… triple-X pleasurable.

The Clothing Angle

Firmly in the “unpleasant” column we find the mosquitoes, who attacked in force and got worse as the day progressed. They’re irritating to the point of distraction, and at one point, I found myself trying to re-tie my leader while stumbling around in circles; stopping and sitting on a log was an invitation to insanity.

Some deal with mosquitoes via chemical weapons, though I’ve largely given up on Deet. The stuff melts fly lines and bamboo rod varnish, and works (I believe) by altering your DNA to the point that mosquitoes no longer recognize you as a mammal.

Is that really something I want covering my body?

Better, I think, is to simply cover up:

The mostquito-proof fly fisherman

This looks odd, but it’s a damn bit better than constantly swatting your eyeglasses off your face.

Note the CalTrout-styled buff, which — when combined with a hat — leaves very little skin exposed, yet doesn’t run nearly as hot as you’d think.

And yes, that’s a long-sleeve, one-piece Patagonia Sun Hoody — a lightweight, cover-everything piece of clothing — the kind of which is currently found on a lot of flats fishermen, who are more concerned with sun exposure than bugs.

I’m trying it here in the decidedly flats-free Northern California mountains, and so far (that’s two trips), I like the hoody better than your typical long-sleeve fly fishing shirt, which isn’t nearly as snag-free.

Also in the ensemble (but not the pictures) were a pair of Glacier Glove sun gloves, which protected the back of my hands from mosquitoes and the sun, and if you’d ever seen them, you’d know that’s a good thing.

There is plenty more testing to come, but as someone who hates both bug repellent and sunscreen (and who has some serious skin issues), I may just be looking at my mosquito-driven future — a lightweight fishing rig that leaves only my eyes and fingers exposed.

The problem is that you look a little like you’re from outer space (or France), and I’m going to immediately write a letter to Patagonia asking for a camo version of the shirt, figuring that buys you more acceptance in rural areas than silver.

The Footwear Angle

After deciding they were failures on freestone streams, I wore the Patagonia Rock Grip wading boots, and they worked beautifully, but then, of course they would.

This stream was all mud, gravel, grass and trees — barely a slippery freestone-style rock in sight.

A long, downstream drift sometimes works...

They’re wonderful wading boots when they’re not filling the same niche as ice skates, but most rivers come equipped with rocks, and Tommy needs a pair of studded rubber soles for the tough stuff.

The search continues, though I might just opt for the studded Orvis boots in the right size. Sometimes searching’s overrated.

The Fly Rod Angle

This visit concluded my test of the Orvis Superfine Touch 8′ 4wt, a rod that has performed admirably, and I stand by my earlier thinking that it’s a modern interpretation of the classic 8′ 4wt small stream rod.

I’ll write a longer review soon, but will say it’s a nice, modern rod — one that is (somewhat atypically) designed to fish at reasonable small-stream ranges, and has all the heft of a toothpick in your hand.

Rods so light you almost don’t notice them are a manifestly marketable these days, though personally I’d probably still opt for my 8′ 5wt Phillipson — which has enough mass that you can feel it loading even when you’re only casting a leader.

I also recognize the personal nature of that reality, and we’ll explore that more in my review of the rod.

See you on a small stream, Tom Chandler.

Does he feel silly, or what?

Small, but pretty...

We are, after all, the “get ‘er done” species, yet striding briskly up to a small plunge pool – as if you were powering your way into a Starbucks for your caffeine fix – offers up only empty places where trout used to be.

“Sneaky” is absolutely necessary – a truth known to every predator on the planet save the one who has forgotten how to hunt outside the local supermarket.

Who's Huffy?

With midnight already behind me and a full day ahead, this particular fly fishing adventure will be told in images instead of words (outside of a few details).

That’s because there exists another universal truth – this one not forgotten by man – that suggests it’s far better to make time to fish than to steal time to report about it, so beyond telling you Older Bro and I fished this tiny stream last Saturday (I fished a 7′ 3wt Diamondglass rod, and one glance at the dense willow thickets should tell you why) – and tossing in a few details – you’re largely on your own.

Every once in a while we'd fish a willow-free area (and love it)

I’d fished this stretch a month ago, and it fished better then. It’s later now and the water was just a teensy bit lower, the fish were spookier, and despite accumulating a lot of time on my hands and knees, the body count was lower. It’s even possible I was handily outfished by Older Bro.

A post-fish cleanup of the 7' 3wt Diamondglass...

Fishing a really rugged stretch of water might be the ultimate weight loss plan; once you start rock hopping from one pool to the next, you basically have to maintain your momentum. Stop, and you’ve just made your job twice as hard.

By the end of the day, I was beat and tired enough that the walk out seemed a lot longer than it was. Thus do we offer proof of Relativity.

A day of this, and we were both beat...

The fish weren’t particularly selective – though several did flash on and then refuse the stimulator I fished early in the day – but they were far from pushovers.

For the record, no trout in water this thin and clear is a pushover.

Royal Wulff worked about as well as anything else...

I have no idea why I took this...

Boulders are the angler’s best friend; willows his biggest enemy. And – unless you’re really, really into tying knots – 4x tippet is pretty much required.

Stand tall, and you'd go fishless. Slink and you'd do OK...

Hey, I’m in a picture, though I’m also reminded that we were fishing in the midst of the rifle season for deer, which leads me to wonder if I shouldn’t have ordered that blaze-orange Boonie hat.

In fact, I think I will.

Rare photo of Fly Fishing's Most Beloved Blogger

See you on a small stream, Tom Chandler.