Yesterday evening - in the grip of some irritating work details - I found myself headed for a stretch of water where the rocks were big, the rock-hopping hard, and the trout very small.

There I’d meet the absolute minimum of humanity (which was sort of the point).

Tiny flows, little trout, zero civilized veneer.

The beauty of fly fishing is that life recedes; at some point it becomes just you, some water, and a few trout, who may or may not have any interest in what you’re doing.

That’s a far simpler equation than what you experience in your everyday life, and it might explain the hold this sport has over some of us.

At this time of year, small-stream trout are spooky; the low water levels mean they’re extremely vulnerable to predators, and the “wander up to a bubbling run and catch a trout” stuff that worked in the spring is a sure-fire recipe for an unslimed fly by late August.

Two things I like: Parachute Hare’s Ears and classic fly reels.

My two best fish came on casts made from my knees - casts you’d normally say were far too long for a small stream.

Since I made them and caught the trout (a pair of 7″ fish - big for this tiny stream), it’s a story that nicely illustrates the relativity of phrases like “too long.”

Small freestone streams tend to strip away all of fly fishing’s civilized artifice; you do what you have to catch fish, and sometimes that means duck walking behind a boulder and dapping the fly from the tip of your $500 fly rod.

In other cases it means making long casts from your knees, and the trout judge whether you got it right or wrong - not some writer sitting in an office a continent away.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

fly fishing, fishing, small stream, trout

Powered by ScribeFire.

Bertrand only seconds away from a 17″ rainbow trout.

Trout populations run in cycles; the last couple years we’ve seen good numbers of bigger fish on the Upper Sacramento River (a little unusual for the Upper Sacramento), but this year, most fly fishermen are catching a lot of small fish.

That’s not bad - little fish grow up to be big fish - and despite a self-centered belief to the contrary, nothing’s ever static in nature.

What Steve and I found downriver wasn’t the big-fish bonanza we’d experienced in prior years - nor the Trico spinner fall that I knew was a long shot, but wanted to fish anyway (Rosenbaeur at Orvis fired up a nice Trico-specific podcast) - but as we know, the lord giveth, and the lord taketh away.

So while Steve caught the 17″ rainbow that should have been mine, I managed to land a nice spotted bass, apparently making this my Year of Species Diversity.

A spotted bass - 11″ of pure dynamite. Really.

I’m sure I’m forgetting something, but that’s ten different species this year, which is already four more than last year (rainbow trout, brown trout, Westslope cutthroat trout, Coastal Cutthroat trout, brook trout, landlocked Atlantic Salmon, lake trout, smallmouth bass, spotted bass, bluegill).

To somebody who travels a lot or fishes saltwater, ten species isn’t much of a body count, but to someone who lives in the mountains - and lacks much in the way of real warmwater fly fishing - it’s a sign that something’s going right.

Sure, a quick trip to Singlebarbed’s selenium-tainted brownlines would up the species count considerably (carp, pikeminnow, largemouth bass, etc), and yes, there are still redbands and steelhead to be had locally, but I’ll get there when I can.

As for the largely ignored spotted bass, they move up into the lower river when the lake warms up, and while they’re not a secret, mentioning them to most fly fishers leads to glazed looks and pointed questions about the evening hatch for trout.

For the record, a spotted bass is far tougher than most rainbow trout, and since they happily eat streamers, you ignore them only if you’ve got a sure thing going elsewhere.

Streamer Heaven

And yes, in addition to the Year of Species Diversity, this is also the Underground’s Year of the Streamer.

Sure it’s funny looking in a Hollywood sort of way, but it catches fish.

Ian Rutter’s spent the better part of a couple years force-feeding me streamer propoganda, and because I’m a slow learner, it wasn’t until the last year that I tumbled for them in any real sense.

This year, pretty much every time I’ve tied on a streamer something interesting has happened, and in a few cases, that “something interesting” was very big and had fins.

(Note to self: Ian’s OK despite his poor taste in southern rock bands.)

For the record, I also landed several rainbow trout, though the bigger specimen I drove all that way for (at $4.59/gallon) didn’t eat a big streamer, but instead came unbuttoned from my black, #20 Yong’s Special midge.

Small and black are beautiful on the Upper Sac.

I managed to hook a couple others in the footlong range on the Yong Special (the Zebra midge is another favorite), which are clearly imitating the blackfly larvae coating some of the rocks.

Blackfly larvae cover some of the Upper Sac’s rocks.

Closeup of above: these are tiny (about #20-#22).

They’re more common on the lower end of the Upper Sacramento, and when you’re down there, it’s hard to miss with a black midge larvae pattern.

And yes, I think it amuses Steve Bertrand that this annual Big Fish Trip is about the only time all year I’ll fish a nymph rig from the moment I hit the water.

I don’t think nymphing is the Official Fly Fishing Technique of the Devil, but I’m not in love with it, citing a lack of grace and an overabundance of stuff that wants to tangle as my excuse. At least that’s my story.

Still - when the flies are small, the split shot count is low, and the trout are big - nymphing can be OK (for absolutes, better visit another blog).

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

Of course, the Upper Sacramento River is my home water, and yet - because of work and trips - I haven’t seen the thing in close to two months.

One cast, one fish. To preserve my perfect average, I should have stopped there.

Naturally, you don’t whine about fly fishing places like Montana and Maine, but because you know your home waters well, you’re keenly aware you largely missed the Pink Alberts, early summer’s “secret” big spinner falls, and that your annual trip to a Big Fish Stretch You Don’t Talk About Online is way overdue.

Time for all that later. Tuesday evening, I couldn’t take it any longer, and headed to a nearby stretch - something I’ve fished as much as anything on the river.

The Great Gear Search

While my fly fishing gear is scattered around the floor - bits of Montana and Maine still attached - I got to the river with pretty much everything (except hemostats, which I needed, and the BWO/midge box, which I didn’t). I did remember my roll cast - the most underrated, underused, can’t-live-without-it cast on the Upper Sacramento.

Feeling contemplative, I brought Raine’s hollowbuilt 8.5′ 5/6wt quad.

It’s a rollcasting machine, and while I hesitate to mention it - fearing Raine will remember he loaned it to me and want it back - I will say it kicked butt on water where most seem tempted to haul out their 3wts.

Raine’s hollowbuilt quad and a reel I use simply because I like the way it looks.

On the Upper Sac, indiscriminate use of light-line fly rods isn’t always rewarded, and there are days when I wonder why a reasonably tapered 6wt - the “normal” trout rod just a couple decades ago - isn’t still the standard.

But then, it’s entirely possible that’s just me retro-grouching; I’ll leave that to a later post.

Steve Bertrand met me in the turnout, which was good since I’d brought a big ziplock bag of surplus potato salad from the Shasta Summit Century (a guide care package).

Being in a basically wiped-out mood, I was happy to watch for a while, though if I didn’t crow a teensy bit about connecting with a 12″-13″ rainbow on my first cast, I’d probably be dead.

I caught a handful more during what looked like a sparse, mixed hatch that could have included PEDs, caddis, and midges.

Given my preference for presentation over bugs, I caught all my trout on a #16 Quigley Cripple, and after catching a couple on a small caddis, Bertrand eventually tied on a Quigley Cripple that had been mauled so badly in a prior use that I shortened the name to “Quig” to reflect the loss of materials.

Lots of color, little trout: Bertrand’s brown tout.

He quickly used it to connect with a small brown trout, which probabably came from the lake through Box Canyon dam, though it always fires my imagination: is there any significant brown trout reproduction on the Upper Sacramento?

I’m checking it out, and will let you know.

Fish question aside, it was the kind of laid-back evening you enjoy on your home waters when you don’t have anything to prove, or a body count to meet, or a deadline for going home.

You’re just there, waiting for something to happen, realizing that sitting quietly and watching the river stream by means something is happening, though it might fall under the heading of “internal dialog” instead of “big hatch of bugs and large trout.”

There is more local fly fishing headed the Undergrounder’s way, though where that fly fishing will happen is anybody’s guess.

I’m in a strange mood surrounding fly fishing; getting someplace remote feels more important than the fishing itself, which suggests another hike into the mountains.

See you somewhere, Tom Chandler.

Everything is breaking loose simultaneously, and a barrage of choice means no matter where you go, you’re missing something somewhere else (as if the laws of physics could somehow be repealed for fly fishermen).

 
Steve Bertrand looks calm, but then, he’s a guide, so he’s got lots of time to fish.

Still, I’d heard tantalizing reports of evening hatches of big bugs (and big trout) on the Upper Sacramento, and in fly fishing’s universal gesture of hope, found myself on the river tying on a #10 parachute.

Big bugs often equal big fish, and last night a big bug was a ticket to a splashy take on pretty much every cast… from small fish.

Catching 7" trout on every cast might be somebody’s idea of fun, but after you launch a couple out of the water with a hook set, you start to feel a little greasy, like you were conning elementary school kids out of their lunch money.

So Steven and I moved upriver in pursuit of bigger fish, and though we never got on them (like we did last year), I did land a 14" chunk and lost another about the same size.

It wasn’t the epic big fish night, but it was still trout eating big dries (which means it was damned fun), and we fished hard enough that I only stopped long enough to take two photographs.

Interestingly, the "same" trip last year netted us many big fish, and it happened prior to Memorial Day, when the river was lower than it is even now — a good lesson for those of us who expect the river to run like the Swiss train system.

For those making the trip, the river’s very fishable, but don’t accept that as license for doing stupid things; crossing isn’t a given, and while the flows are coming down, it ain’t summer yet.

The Gear

After fishing the 8.5′ Steffen glass rod on Tuesday, I thought I’d drag along the Orvis prototype 8.5′ 5wt Helios fly rod and see how the two compared.

 
Looks like it’s floating, but it’s sitting on a rock

The Orvis Helios is a fabulous rod — unbelievably light and very zippy — and I can understand why they keep winning awards for the thing.

Still, my low-modulus casting stroke is seemingly hardwired into my genes and tomorrow’s trip will involve fiberglass, though I’ll freely admit graphite manufacturers are finally building a little "feel" into their rods.

Good for them.

See you somewhere (I’m hitting a just-opened alpine brookie lake tomorrow), Tom Chandler.

The backcountry’s opening up, bugs are flying around the Upper Sac like confetti, and when I called Oregon Guide Dave Roberts from the river to taunt him about catching trout on a Pink Cahill, he fired right back with the news he’d caught 30 Rogue trout on a stonefly dry.

Damn.

Of course, we’ve got a few stoneflies of our own:

Yup. The Golden Stones are playing the Upper Sac.

Normally, I try to find a philosophical underpinning for my fishing reports, but today’s crazy, and the time I spend writing this means less time writing paying work, which means less fishing down the road.

You get the drift.

So here’s the scoop:

• #16 Pink mayflies (we creatively call them the "Pinks") started somewhere around 10:30-11:00
• Golden Stones were much in evidence, though the fish apparently tune into them a little later in the day
• There are many rumors circulating about Green/Brown/Gray Drakes - and the fish who eat them
• The Upper Sacramento is still a bit high, but eminently fishable
• Wayne and I left at 4:00 (things to do), but the fishing was supposed to be better later in the day
• I fished my 8.5′ 5wt Steffen glass rod (soft tip for pocket water casts, but enough guts to pull a fish out of fast currents)
• Bring sunscreen

I had ten grabs over the course of four hours of fishing — all on a #16 pink cahill. Sadly, I only landed one.

Wayne had fewer grabs on his golden-stone sized stimulator, but actually managed to get one into the net:

Pretty Rainbow Trout who made a simple mistake; that ain’t a stonefly

The Upper Sacramento is all green and gorgeous, and a after a long winter and an interminable spring, the color simply dazzles my weary, monochromatic eyes.

Wayne Eng on the newly green Upper Sacramento River.

Decisions, Decisions

The problem with spring is that everything happens all at once; I’ve twice put off my alpine small stream trip to fish other venues, always reasoning I’d fish it next.

Of course, now the week is half over, and Saturday and Sunday are spoken for (a shot at a pair of alpine brookie lakes).

So in addition to staving off divorce and making a few bucks, I’m faced with a choice between Rogue stones; a ready-to-break-open Upper Sac; and my poor, neglected alpine stream (for those counting, that’s essentially four choices, but only three days).

I know most the Undergrounders are in tears; my plight has almost certainly touched you deeply.

Wayne Eng fishing the far side of a current tongue (1 grab, no fish).

Never fear, Undergrounders. I’m a survivor. I’ll make it.

See you somewhere (I simply haven’t decided where yet), Tom Chandler.

In short, runoff’s fading, the water’s warming, and yes — the bugs are hatching.

I spent Saturday in the mountains and Sunday on a sagebrush reservoir fishing for bass (more on that later), but I’ll be spending more time on the river very soon (perhaps as early as this evening).

We’re heading into that magic few weeks of the year where the trout could start keying in on big flies (and for a few, they already have). The McCloud’s in great shape, and yes, the backcountry’s starting to open.

It’s a time of year when your small handful of fly fishing choices can explode into a bewildering mass of options in the space of one week.

Then there are the big bugs, including (but not limited to): stoneflies, golden stones, drakes (of various persuasions), etc.

In fact, the Cinnamon Caddis are already making appearances all over the river, and observant fly fishers are already finding stonefly shucks stuck in all the usual places.

If all that potential and possibility makes your head spin a little (fly fishermen are basically greedy bastards), then it’s time to consider a vacation, or exercising a few sick days (not that you heard it here).

See you somewhere, Tom Chandler.

Spring is springing, and it’s time to get on the damned water.

The Upper Sac’s hovering near 1000 cfs (expect a short spike over the weekend due to higher temps and sunshine). That’s eminently fishable, though crossing the river at all your "usual" spots could result in some significant shrinkage.

Be careful.

The really good news? The bugs are afoot, my Underground friends — several different kinds.

Weaving together a report at this time of the year involves interrogating talking to friends with homes near the river, and the reports suggest everything from the cinnamon caddis to the odd Green Drake.

Bob Grace of the Ted Fay Fly Shop typically got right to the point: "It’s the beginning of the good times — the start of the period when you can get at all the stupid fish."

The McCloud’s back into shape after the crazy flows of last week, and while the backcountry remains somewhat snowbound, there’s hope for some of the smaller waters — one of which I should be fishing right damned now.

Life intrudes, and you sometimesw do what you have to instead of what you want to, and the key is really to minimize the number of "have to" moments.

See you on the river (all weekend long), Tom Chandler.

Sun, rain and dramatic skies were on tap — as were smaller waters.

The silver lining, of course, is that while small stream trout may be little and wary, they’re not particularly picky.

They flee at the sight of a looming biped waving a stick, yet still eat a #16 Adams wired to 4x when the water’s covered with #20 PMDs.

A small-stream Brown trout; our biggest might have stretched to 12″.

Steve Bertrand and I kicked around four different stretches of the same small stream on Friday afternoon, and while Steve classified it under the work-related heading of “intelligence gathering,” he eventually got into the spirit of the exercise as much as I did.

In fact, he borrowed my 8′ 5wt Steffen glass rod, reasoning the sometimes blustery wind demanded a 5wt but that smaller trout showed best on a relatively pliable rod.

A pair of small-stream 5wts: Diamondglass & Steffen 8′ glass rods.

The fishing itself required stealth (witness today’s sore knees) and some fast reaction times, and with my small-stream reflexes dulled a little by winter, I didn’t exactly distinguish myself.

Over the course of the day, I had better than two dozen grabs, but landed less than a dozen fish.

Most were in the 7″-10″ range, though my biggest topped 11″, and did the hard work of landing himself; he jumped at the sting of the hook, and ended up on the grass at my feet.

I fished (with little apparent difference between them) a #16 Red Humpy, a #14 Royal Coachman, and a #16 Adams.

You can’t step across it, but a long-jumper could clear it.

The Brown trout were typical small-stream browns; feisty and aggressive, yet they’d run when you walked right up to the pools instead of sneaking there on your knees.

The weather — cold and blowing hard at home — was considerably warmer and calmer at the stream (absolute proof you should always go fishing).

Periods of rain and wind alternated with sun and calm, and the fish didn’t care much either way, though when the wind blew a cast into the grass on the bank, the fly fishermen sure did.

It rained on and off. Fortunately, fly fishermen aren’t made of Alka-Seltzer.

It’s tempting to describe a day on a small stream in terms of its restorative powers, but in truth, it’s just plain fun with a fly rod — fly fishing stripped of all the things we’ve added, but maybe shouldn’t.

See you on the (small) water, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: fly fishing,fishing,small stream,fly fishing small streams,fiberglass fly rod

For fly fishermen, it’s not bad at all:

The cooler weather has dropped the Upper Sacramento flows to very fishable levels (careful, looks like it might be spiking). (The headhunters among you might recognize this as worthwhile Streamer Weather.)

Still, the water the water remains fairly cool:

It’s drizzling as I write this (Saturday am). I spent yesterday on a small stream whose name and location I am not going to disclose. Report coming soon.

See you on Memorial Day, Tom Chandler.

The house is comfy and yes — he’s even got a special Father’s Day Deal.

And look for more posts in this vein; we’re going to take a look at some of the places to stay, play and eat around the Upper Sacramento River (with an emphasis on funky and friendly).

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

In truth, catching trout on opening day is more an observation of a tradition than a pent-up need to fly fish, but I still find myself headed out the door this afternoon for a little scouting session.

Tradition, it turns out, creates its own inertia.

As for the fishing, the flows on the local rivers look pretty good (though warmer weather brings them up), but first:

AN IMPORTANT FLY FISHING-RELATED ALERT

I heard a fourth-hand rumor — just confirmed (second hand) by Bob Grace of the Ted Fay Fly Shop — that the road to the Ah Di Nah Campground isn’t yet open (blocked by a snow drift), though the road to Ash Camp is passable.

Flows at Ash Camp are fairly low, and the McCloud should be absolutely crowded fishable for the opener.

Rumor also has it the Nature Conservancy caretaker had to hike into the Conservancy along the Pacific Crest Trail, so if you were planning to hit that water this weekend, better bring some boots.

More Fishing Reports

And speaking of the Ted Fay Fly Shop — California’s second-longest running fly shop — they’re going to try and keep their Guide Notes fishing report and Stream Conditions reports current this year, so better bookmark ‘em.

I also talked to local guide Craig Nielsen (owner of Shasta Trout guide service), who spoke to us from his hot tub and was leaving this afternoon for a steelhead trip on a secret Alaskan stream.

That’s style no matter how you spin it, and we’re awarding him an Official Underground Bastard Designation, despite him not inviting us along.

We can’t wait to see the pictures from the trip.

His clients have been catching fish on the Trout Underground deep nymphing, which pretty much squares with what all the other non-dry-fly snobs have been telling me.

Me? I wouldn’t know.

See you on opening day, Tom Chandler.

UPDATE: Scouting Day Photos

Technorati Tags: fly fishing,fishing,upper sac,upper sacramento river,fishing report,ted fay fly shop

Don’t get me wrong; I love fishing this river in the fall and winter, but opening day has largely became something that happens to other people’s home waters.

This year, things feel different. The Upper Sac is fishing tough, and apparently there’s a small gland in my brain stem producing "Get Out of Town" hormones, and I’m thinking hard about a handful of other streams and rivers.

The backcountry remains mostly out of reach, though I haven’t completely given up on one  particular adventure ski/fly fishing trip (you’ll know about it after it happens).

Given our cold, dry (damned to hell) spring, it turns out a lot of the normally blown-out smaller waters will be wholly fishable, and you could say I’ve noticed.

We got choices, Undergrounders. So what are yours?

That’s not a forecast designed to make the Underground’s Edgy Staff Happy

In short, I’m asking: with California’s Big Opening Day Clock counting down, where are you planning to fish?  (If your opening day isn’t soon, or has already passed, then just play along, and let us know where you’re fishing).

See you on Opening Day, Tom Chandler.

Two families of deer were making regular appearances and eating the blooms off our flowers, and even though you know it’s going to happen, you wake up one morning with snow on the ground and you’re still surprised.

Wonderpaw tracks in the snow.

The late spring storm happens most years, and several years ago — when we still had a closed season on the Upper Sacramento — opening day found us stepping over rafts of snow on the ground halfway down the canyon, remnants of a storm that moved through two days prior to the opener.

Welcome, Undergrounders, to spring in the mountains.

It’s a Race: Flows v Temperatures

We’re at the bonus portion of the year; we need warmer temperatures to get the bugs and trout going, but every spike in air temperature means a spike in river flows.

Lake Siskiyou — the reservoir at the top of the Upper Sacramento’s Canyon section — is full, so warmer weather causes it to spill, which is when flows get completely out of hand.

Fly fishing becomes a semi-desperate enterprise where you try to exploit the seams between warming weather and a raging river, and more often than not, you fail.

Still, it’s been a dry spring and we’ve had a gradual thaw, and if it’s one thing we’ve learned about fly fishermen, it’s that hope never quite dies.

And if it does, there’s always Lake Siskiyou; every fly fisherman I know tucks away a little secret “backup” water where he can get to it quickly in case of emergency.

Mine’s the lake (the streams don’t open until late April). What’s yours (feel free to offer false and misleading names)?

See you at the flow gauge, Tom Chandler.

Technorati Tags: fly fishing,fishing,upper sac,upper sacramento river,spring fishing,lake siskiyou

Yes Undergrounders, the influences of the much better half are already being felt, though a fishing trip with cave men fly buddies Dave Roberts and Chris Raine doesn’t exactly reinforce most civilized behavior.

Sadly, our hardy little band of neanderthals picked the wrong day to get together; we stared straight down the throat of a post cold-front day — those cloudless, cold, windy days that mar the fishing after a front has moved through.

Past experience suggests the fishing would slow, and with rising fish already absent from the Upper Sacramento River, I didn’t exactly hold out hope for a banner day.

Once again, I was right.

I’ll spare you the grim details with this report: no trout, no risers, few bugs, no nymphed fish. There.

The bright spot was evidence of Skwalas and a water temperature that — 1/3 of the way down the river — was approaching 50 degrees.

That seems to be the temperature where bugs and fish become active, and we could be looking at an interesting pre-runoff fishing spurt. I’ll keep you posted.

Test-Flying a Prototype Bamboo Fly Rod

The bad weather was offset by the rod I was fishing; a prototype hollowbuilt bamboo quad rod by Raine.

It’s an 8.5′ 5/6wt that defies what everyone believes 8.5′ bamboo rods have to be; it’s surprisingly light in the hand, yet remains wholly capable of dealing with strong winds.

You’ll hear more about this interesting, two-tipped rod as I abuse test it (one tip is a 5wt, the other a 6wt).

The Ghost Warden

Those of you who reveled in our post about busted-trout-poacher Larry Baker already know of the Underground’s open admiration for "Ghost Warden" Joe Powell, who led the sting operation against Baker.

Powell’s the local warden who’s seemingly everywhere at once, drifting between anglers like a phantom.

We ran into him yesterday, and he’d captured four Skwalas in a glass jar — proof the stonefly shucks we’re seeing along the river aren’t fakes planted by trout to mislead fishermen (it wasn’t much of a theory, but…).

We got the scoop on the Baker bust, and frankly, if I was poacher, I’d find another region of the state to play in.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

Proving that madness has a genetic basis, my brother and I (Scott) skied up the South Fork of the Upper Sacramento canyon, and predictably, it looked gorgeous.

It’s a little-fished stretch of the Upper Sacramento River above Lake Siskiyou, and if the stream’s year-round flows were like yesterday’s, I wouldn’t fish anywhere else.

 
Looking good: The South Fork of the Upper Sacramento.

Sadly, late summer and fall flows on the South Fork are destructively low, so the trout remain tiny. It’s pretty, but fly fishers tend to visit it just once, turned off by the finger-sized trout.

Last year’s thin snowpack was particularly hard; the South Fork looked like a good friend who’d fallen on very hard times.

By mid-summer, flows were minimal, and by late summer, the South Fork became little more than a series of shallow, tiny, overwarm pools.

To see the stream now you’d wonder just how big its trout might be; to see it last summer you’d wonder how many trout even survived.

Older Bro Chandler pegs the manliness meter in the canyon.

Our original plan was to ski to an alpine lake, the hope being we’d catch a Brookie through the ice. Sadly, the snowpack hadn’t yet started backing its way up the canyon, and a 20 mile round trip seemed out of the question (and yes, it would have been).

Instead, we slogged our way towards the top of the canyon, at one point "skinning up" the skis (layering grippy fabric on the bases) to slog up a ridge.

(Fly fishermen have a well-deserved reputation for poor fashion sense, but do bright orange vests even hold a candle to blue Holstein-patterned skins?)

The trip was a slog, but it was till mission accomplished; though we couldn’t fish (the South Fork doesn’t open until late April) its real purpose was as proof of concept.

I have plans for a post-opener ski/fly fish trip in a remote part of the county — one of those covert operations designed to put me on a stretch of good trout water a month before the rest of the fly fishing population can walk to it (and no, don’t bother asking).

To that end, Scott and I spent seven hours skiing, and while I’m sore (and making old man noises every time I stand), I’m still making plans and looking at maps.

Naturally, you’ll hear about it (well, parts of it) first.

Until then, see you at the Top Secret file cabinet, Tom Chandler.