Fishing Report

I’m tempted to stand on a large rock, hold my arms out to the sides and pronounce myself the King Of The Fly Fishing World (hey, it worked out great for that Titanic guy).

Stunning, and bigger to boot.

I took a 90 minute tour of a local small stream (in the world of the self-employed fly fisherman, that qualifies as a slightly long lunch), and once again, I’m the beneficiary of a pair of excellent water years.

This stream is small and is typically home to a lot of 6″-7″ trout. Today I caught one that went 10″ (the largest I’ve hooked in that water), and the average was in the 7″-8″ neighborhood.

And I caught many trout.

In other words, I mirrored my experience at last week’s expedition; after two good water years, the trout were 8%-10% bigger than normal (and hungry).

A smarter fly fisherman (and a better outdoor writer) would pocket the difference and chalk up the extra size to skill and cunning, but I’m told that — as a daddy — I need to exercise restraint.

Something about being a role model.

Damn.

Sunday I flog the Subaru towards Lassen for a rendezvous with Older Bro, where I hope to catch the season’s first Brook Trout (still The Official Char of the Trout Underground).

Expect another self-congratulatory post soon.

See you on the Brookie Highway, Tom Chandler.

Returning to a favorite alpine stream after eight months away is a little like Christmas when you’re a kid; there’s a slim chance it’ll suck, but even though you don’t know exactly how the happiness will manifest, odds are you’re going to be happy.

That's me! (image by Older Bro)

And we were happy.

Older Bro and I parked my 200,000 mile Bronco (a truck guaranteed to draw the bare minimum of attention from thieves) and walked the extra mile to the creek.

And for the first five minutes, not much happened.

Then it did.

Two fish here. One there. Three from that run.

Now repeat for many hours (it slowed a little around 1:00, then came back to life about 2:30).

One of Older Bro's victims (image by Older Bro)

And despite the lack of practice, I felt sharp. The fly dropped where I wanted it and drifts weren’t the problem.

The problem was keeping the Beetle Bug floating after repeated maulings.

It was, frankly, the kind of problem that plagues me too rarely.

It wasn’t stupidly easy, but the trout were there, they were looking up and hungry, and yes — after two excellent water years, the average brown trout was just noticeably bigger than in prior years.

In the past, I’d suggest 8″ was an average for this stream. This time it was more like 9″, and I caught four in the 12″ range (no, when the fishing’s that good, I don’t measure).

Those are big trout in this stream.

Why are they this stunning? We are faded ghosts by comparison.

And if you haven’t already suffered enough, I’ll express my appreciation for the concepts of perfect weather and stunning lack of mosquitoes (the bugs can be brutal up there), both of which were in attendance.

Frankly, all we lacked was a beer chopper crewed by the Swedish Bikini Team. (Older Bro promised to work on that for the next trip.)

The Gear

I fished my 8.5′ 4wt Diamondglass, a rod only found lacking under the windiest of conditions, though I had the 8′ 5wt Beasley Leonard 50DF sitting in the truck.

Older Bro fished an 8.5′ 3wt Orvis Superfine Touch that is an impressive fishing tool, though it offers just a skoosch less feedback than the truly impressive 8′ 4wt Superfine Touch.

I’ve also come to the conclusion that a 7.5′ leader is just a hair long for these kinds of streams (lots of trees and brush on land and downed timber in the water); after 15 minutes I cut mine to 6’9″ and suddenly I was the Slightly Overplump God Of Fly Fishing Casting Accuracy.

I’m heading back soon, though the mosquitoes have no doubt noticed the nice weather. Let’s hope I avoid a repeat of my last mosquito nightmare, and that on this small stream, Christmas comes at least twice a year.

"Hey you kids, get offa my stream!"

For a couple hours Saturday, my life was neatly contained by the following: boulders, cliffs, and giant fallen logs.

This was the result of a bad gamble, but then, you probably already guessed that.

Bastard wouldn't stay in focus (the nerve!)

Instead of a long drive to a known-fishable stream, I thought I’d try a couple local streams, figuring they must have fallen into shape by now.

Which highlights the following reality: my predictive powers need some work.

You go into this stream at the bottom of a tiny gorge and come out at the top. You could say it requires a certain commitment.

This stream is smothered in willows, boulders, bluffs, cliffs and fallen timber (often in devilishly Gordian combinations), and while you can usually escape the worst of it by simply going up the middle of the stream, it turns out you can’t if the stream is running high.

Every ill-advised trip has a moment — the go/no-go decision when the smart money says “this isn’t looking all that good.”

Apparently, I drove right by that moment, and at freeway speeds.

Maybe I need to buy a drift boat...

Instead of exhibiting common sense, I climbed up and down and over and under and through things until my legs retained the raw masculine strength of cooked spaghetti. Fortunately, I was able to console myself with the fact it simply means I’m criminally out of shape, 51 and fat.

The Old Guy Trifecta.

I did manage to scrape up four nice little rainbow trout, which — if I’d eaten them — would have returned approximately 1/10 the calories I burned on the trip.

Behold the mighty hunter. Feel my rippling thews.

See you trying (and failing) to pry the lid off the extra-strength Tylenol, Tom Chandler.

Look at what you find when your face is in the dirt...