Upper Sacramento

The L&T Nancy is back from her weeklong trip, which basically means it’s time to stop gouging dinner directly from the peanut butter jar.

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.

After 15 miles on cross-country skis, my brother and I were a little punchy.

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.

Fly fisherman don’t experience hope as a powerful emotion as much as a permanent character pathology.

Though the fly fishing’s been slow, we all know it could turn any minute, and if things pop into high gear when you’re at home and someone else is on the river, you’ll suffer the indignity of knowing you’re a lazy slacker, bereft of grit or staying power.

That’s how — despite a stretch of bad fishing on the Upper Sacramento River — Dave Edmondson and I found ourselves far upriver, fishing a section I rarely see.

 
Sure, we didn’t catch any trout, but we looked pretty damn good doing it.

The results, sadly, were predictable; despite going "ugly" right away (I never touched a dry), neither Edmondson nor I made anything happen in the trout department.

This time, my pocket thermometer registered a chilly water temperature of 43-44 degrees (it was 47-48 degrees at the bottom end of the river).

That’s not an auspicious number, but then, I’ve seen trout eating BWOs in lower water temperatures, so the cold doesn’t excuse their lackluster performance.

Apparently, these trout aren’t grasping The Big Picture.

Damnit, I’ve got a blog to fill, and those slacking trout are denying me my Colorful Trout Photographs, or even fly fishing’s hoariest staple: the Puffed-Up Hero Shot.

Despite the non-cooperation of the trout, we’ll keep trying. Until then, see you on the river, Tom Chandler.

The reports about the Upper Sacramento have been uniform; it’s tough sledding right now, even if you stumble across a decent hatch.

Of course, something’s always happening somewhere — a lesson I learned in my bass fishing days, where boat after boat would return to the dock with empty livewells, but somebody always hammered the fish.

With that reality in mind, Steve Bertrand and I ran way downriver, looking for active fish, rising fish, or just hungry, stupid fish.

Yes, I’m crushing Bertrand’s head. Crushing it.

And yes, it’s never a good sign when I lead a fishing report with a "just screwing around" photo — one where I’m crushing Steve Bertrand’s skull with my all-powerful fingers.

That photo suggests — despite covering a lot of river, peering into a lot of water, casting to a lot of promising runs, and burning too much $4/gallon gas — pictures were about all we had to show for our efforts.

 
At least somebody was getting it done.

The river looks great; flows are plenty fishable, water clarity is good, and you can’t look at the better runs without knowing they’re loaded with fish.

Without delving into the gory details, I’ll simply say that I fished a dry and took pictures, while Steven rapidly progressed from dry fly to dry and dropper to serious nymphing rig — with exactly the same results.

Looking, but not finding.

We both knew of places where we probably could catch trout (because Steven had just recently), but damnit — we wanted the motherlode. We wanted to find the fish nobody else had.

Today, Wayne and Steve are off to the Pit River while I stayed behind to <cough> work, and file this all-encompassing fishing report.

Sorta Gear Porn

Raine’s Upper Sac Special (the first [and still solid-built] model) and Velocity Radius

While I’m pretty set on the gear front, I recently scored a heavily discounted Velocity Radius reel at the Sierra Trading Post, and fished it on my Raine Upper Sac Special, which provided a pleasingly smooth, balanced package.

In other words, at least it was warm, and green and sunny, and the casting was good.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

Yesterday found me staring out the window at perfect BWO weather, the precipitation evenly split between rain and snow, seemingly unwilling to commit.

Rather than continue staring, I dragged together the big pile of all the stuff you take on winter fishing trips, piled it into the truck, invited Wally the Wonderdog along, and left.

 
March Brown. One of two I saw…

It all looked good; the Wonderdog and I drove to a remote stretch of river (actually, I drove; Wally sat in the back and issued directions).

Once there, he attempted to sniff/mark/dig out pretty much every bush while I rigged up and rooted around the bankside brush for clues.

Encouragingly, I found a handful of medium-sized stonefly shucks and a pair of March Brown adults.

Good signs, and like hopeful fly fishers everywhere, I immediately laid it all out in my head; I’d pound up a few trout on a big dark stimmie before the BWOs started, then switch to #18 dries and pound the rising fish (there’d be hundreds).

Once the little bugs faded, the March Browns would start hatching, and I’d catch a few more (bigger) fish on a #12 parachute.

The plan. You gotta love a man with a plan.

Stonefly shucks, but no trout.

What could go wrong?

The stimmie failed to attract even the briefest attention, and though the Wonderdog and I fished a fair amount of good-looking edge water (the river’s up, so the edges tend to fish better), nothing happened.

Still, we made it back to the "technical" water in time for a sizable BWO hatch, and I — like the Wonderdog — was licking my chops.

Unfortunately, not a single trout rose to eat the bugs. Or the micro-mayfly I hung under the stimmie. Or the March Brown dry I tied on in desperation.

Those March Browns? The slackers never showed up.

While all this happened, Wayne Eng and a friend were fishing only a short distance above me (I didn’t know it), yet when we spoke on the phone, it was if we’d fished two separate rivers.

They saw few bugs, but lots of redds, and the few fish they caught fell to egg patterns. I saw what looked like a few redds, so I’d say yeah — it’s started.

I’m not much for chasing fish on redds — a holdover from my bass fishing days when targeting spawning fish felt a little less than sporting.

After all, they can’t simply give you the fin and glide away, and the battle becomes one of persistence rather than skill.

The good news? There’s a lot to fish up here, and I’ve been itching to try some different water. With local guide Steve Bertrand back and dusting off his fly rods, I’d say we’re looking at something different relatively soon.

See you elsewhere, Tom Chandler.

I need one more big project to clear the boards before firing up some fly fishing time, but instead of a Wonderdog-driven afternoon walk, I heaved the sausage-shaped mammal into the truck and reconnoitered a couple of spots on the upper river.

The gods Wonderdog is pleased, my friends. That means good fishing this year.

The first spot wasn’t on the river at all; it was the jumping-off point for a proposed (and certifiably crazy) 10-mile (one-way, all uphill) winter ski to a frozen lake for… ice fishing.

If any of my fishing friends suggested it, I’d recommend a 72-hour stint in a padded cell (sans shoelaces and belt), but at the end of winter — and in a twisted, bizarre way — it sounds almost reasonable to me.

That, my friends, is a subconscious cry for help.

The Upper Sacramento

With the start of the ski route sussed out, Wally and I turned our attention to a couple spots on the upstream end of the Upper Sac.

The snow on the roads is gone and access is not an issue, but sadly, nothing was happening on the water. I didn’t arrive until 3:00, but I never saw a bug, a rise, or even a suspicious wrinkle.

Thinking I missed a hatch, I went through the eddies and backwaters looking for shucks, drowned mayflies, etc — and found nothing. Upriver access point #2 yielded exactly the same results, so it’s likely I’m not missing much.

Wayne Eng’s been out on the river and it’s a largely deep nymphing game for him, and neither of us knows much about what’s happening way, way downriver, where it’s warmer (and the less-hardy people live).

The river itself is in good shape; flows are reasonable for this time of year and while the water clarity doesn’t approach fall levels, it’s pretty good.

I believe I saw the beginnings of a couple redds, though inexplicably, the trout don’t place little red flags next to the things (I’m not a biologist, though I play one on the Internet).

‘Tisn’t the Season

I’ll be blunt; this isn’t my favorite part of the fly fishing year on the Upper Sacramento. A sense of ennui surrounds the river (or at least my perception of it), and activities like the Ice Fishing Ski Trip of Doom and the Annual Reorganization of my Leaky Wader Collection start to seem more reasonable.

At some point, I start to see real hope of the spring hatches and I’ll snap out of it, but until that happens, brace yourselves for more really, really bad ideas.

See you where the deer and the Wonderdog roam, Tom Chandler.

Chasing a March Brown hatch based on a thin rumor is like chasing ghosts in broad daylight; the odds for success are slim, and the opportunity for drama almost non-existent.

Still, when you’ve spent the last couple weeks staring at the several feet of snow outside your office window, chasing a ghost hatch is as much an exercise in self-preservation as an act of faith.

I’m happy to be here, though my hat’s in danger of being blown away.

So there you are on the river, and no, the March Browns aren’t hatching, and the fish aren’t rising, the wind is blowing hard enough that you dedicate one hand to holding your hat, and frankly, you couldn’t care less.

The March Brown Excursion

With the sun shining and temps edging towards 50 degrees — one of the faux spring days nature rolls out to tease us every March — I drove to the middle third of the river where the March Browns tend to hatch the best.

It’s too early for the Upper Sacramento’s March Browns to really take hold, and in fact, they’ll probably hit in April and still be hatching in May.

When I first moved up here, the March Browns were a wonderful — if sometimes ignored — hatch. Back then, the season didn’t open until late April, and I have no idea how much of the hatch we might have missed.

A March Brown Emerger; I have no recollection of tying this fly.

I’d sneak away from my work at the stroke of noon, often hitting a couple hours of good-to-stellar dry fly fishing.

On the way to way to the river, I’d run into other fly fishers leaving for lunch, apparently unaware of what was about to happen.

I’m a nice guy, but not stupid, and I never took it upon myself to enlighten anyone, and for a while, the March Browns felt like my own secret hatch, though that was self-deception.

Today, I don’t know if the March Browns have fallen on hard times or if my own timing has deserted me, but the hatches don’t seem as heavy as they were nearly a decade ago.

This year, we’ll see.

The Dynamic River

My first stop was on a stretch of the river that has often blessed me with good fly fishing, though it’s changed a lot since then. The last year we had an opening day, I caught a 16" trout on my second cast of the season (on a dry), but since then, it’s fished, well… small.

Everything in nature evolves, and my image of the river is often more a snapshot than a constantly changing movie. Still, I’m not wholly blind to change.

The low waters of last year allowed a string of willows to take root on a rock bar that never had willows before, and the channels in this long run are clearly redefining themselves.

Whether I find the wrinkles in this new stretch is largely dependent on the amount of time I spend there, and with so much of the river waving and beckoning like relatives at a family picnic, promises are easier to make than keep.

The Fishing Report

Oh yeah. The fishing. No March Browns. A handful of BWOs (the #22s), and a few #18/#16 mayflies in a yellowish olive color.

No rising fish. No break from the wind. And a stronger interest in walking along the river than nymphing, so that’s what I did.

I fished an 8′ Steffen glass rod and a new Lamson Radius (mega-bargain) reel that I’ll talk about more in another post.

Until then, see you on the always-changing river, Tom Chandler.

 
For those who — like me — have forgotten what a river looks like.

The Upper Sacramento’s flows are yo-yoing up and down, and we’ve entered the stage of winter where uncertainty turns fly fishing into a local’s game.

The flows ran well over 6,000 cfs after last weekend’s warm storm, and while they’re down below 3,000 cfs, we’ve still got a lot of low-altitude snow just itching to melt.

Morning hoarfrost on my porch railing

When the low-level snow melts — the majority of the flows enter the river via the tributaries — you can still find decent fishing by running way upriver, or by searching out those few fishable-at-high-flows nooks even friends don’t tell each other about.

Later in the year — as the higher altitude snow starts to melt and Lake Siskiyou begins to spill over the dam — the real runoff event begins, and because that’s flowing from the top of the river, your fly fishing options are deeply reduced.

The difference between the two runoff events isn’t always clear, though I recall the big runoff event always seemed to start two days before the season opened in late April.

That may not be strictly factual, but I am willing to say it always seemed that way.

Life was hard in the old days.

The Dunsmuir Visit

I got a good look at the river while I was in Dunsmuir working on the Trout Underground’s Ancestral Home (back on the market, kids). Frankly, it looked high, but in pretty good shape.

Because I’d rather be casting a bamboo fly rod than working, I also stopped by Chris Raine’s rod shop where — with his hip issues largely behind him — he’s got a dozen bamboo fly rod blanks in the works.

One of those rods was his prototype 8.5′ hollowbuilt quad, derived from one of his best-selling tapers — his 8′ 5wt Upper Sac Special.

I wasn’t expecting much; the Upper Sac Special is a hex (a six sided rod), and his new 8.5′ is a quad, and the hex/quad and 8′-8.5′ conversions are hardly straightforward.

Still, the prototype was pretty damned close. I think the 8.5′ prototype was best as a 6wt and maybe the upper half could go a hair thinner, but most astonishing was the lack of weight in the hand.

You don’t buy hollowbuilt bamboo rods because they’re lighter (they usually are, but it’s about the casting action), but the prototype was very, very light in the hand, especially for a rod that threw a DT6 a good 65 feet without any histrionics.

The fly line just kept unrolling, and the only real barrier to this being the cosmic 8.5′ 6wt was the close-up casting. I think he’ll get it right.

No, the taper’s not quite ready for prime time, but the next one will be, and my mission at that point will be to distract Raine (”look, over there — away from this just finished rod“) and steal the thing.

It’s not foolproof, but it’s a plan. Man’s got to have a plan.

My other plan is to get the hell out of the house and do something later this week. I don’t know if it will involve trout or skis (or both), but you’ll likely hear about it here.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

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Fly fishing the Upper Sacramento River in winter isn’t always about the bugs.

In the middle of a gray, snowy winter, the phrase “making hay while the sun shines” acquires a patina of meaning that simply doesn’t exist on your average warm, summer day.

I don’t know if an itch to go fly fishing instead of working necessarily qualifies as an emergency, but it damned well felt like one. We haven’t exactly seen an overabundance of sunny days, so when one appears, you fail to take advantage at your own peril.

 
Does the lack of this constitute an emergency?

So I grabbed a fly rod and skis, packed the Lowe winter day pack, and loaded the tail-wagging Wonderdog into the Bronco.

The ski trip in was all downhill, so I had ample time to focus on Wally the Wonderdog’s tendency to chase me downhill, then cut in front of me when he got ahead (think it’s that hunting dog instinct).

A portrait of the writer as a shadow.

Still, I arrived sans face plant, got unpacked, put on waders, rigged the 8.5′ 4wt Diamondglass rod, and watched.

And watched.

No risers, though there were midges on the water. If prior winters are any indication, we’re past the point where you can count on an olive hatch, though you shouldn’t necessarily count them out either.

 
This is one cool midge rod. Sadly, it isn’t being made any more.

For once, I was prepared. The 8.5′ 4wt Diamondglass rod is ideal for this kind of technical winter fishing, and I tied on what’s been a killer midge for me — a glass bead variant of the Yong Special.

It’s a nothing fly — basically black sewing thread wrapped on a hook to give the body a taper. I add a pearl glass bead to imitate a detached blackly larvae (found in huge numbers way downriver), but figure the glass bead won’t hurt even in the absence of blackflies.

I tied it behind a BWO parachute, and fished one short stretch of river for about 90 minutes.

The result was a pair of hookups; the fish in the picture above simply came unbuttoned, but the 16" rainbow below — photographed after the light was gone from the canyon — made it all the way to hand.

Curse the poor quality light; it’s another rose-colored Upper Sac Rainbow

After releasing the fish, I kinda wish he’d come unbuttoned too; my hands stung like I’d been playing catch using a porcupine as the ball.

In fact — once the sun disappeared behind the canyon walls, everything got kinda cold, and with my sun-and-trout-related emergency deftly averted, I packed up my gear and started the slog out.

The long, uphill slog.

Which I would do again in an instant, though today I actually do have to work.

Every winter, there comes a time when I’d basically kill to see just one Green Drake get eaten by a trout, but that kind of electric moment is months away.

Instead, there’s a spare elegance to fishing in the winter, provided you meet the cold, the snow and the tiny flies on their terms instead of yours.

See you on skis, Tom Chandler.

Halfway up the hill.

I live in a town overrun with backdountry skiers — the kind of folks willing to hike most of the way up the mountain just to ski back down.

In that context, skiing on a barely inclined, snowed-over road isn’t exactly the stuff of high adventure, but when you sweeten the pot with a shot at some trout who haven’t been fished for since the snow fell, suddenly, an element of fly fishing adventure pokes through.

Hot damn.

Skis Are Faster Than Snowshoes

Snowshoes are foolproof and easy, but skis are fast. With greater range a given, I plumped for a more distant destination than last week’s snowshoe trip.

Winter pack, touring skis.

Sadly, “farther” didn’t equate to “better” — I saw not a single rising fish, and exactly two BWOs. I was fishing water known for its fickle nature, but like all fly fishermen, I started the trip with visions of big fish, and plenty of ‘em.

Of course, if we always knew in advance how each fishing trip would play out, then we’d probably stop going. I’m pretty sure I would.

The ski in — in the neighborhood of two miles — lasted only 20 minutes, and the uphill trip out took less than 35.

I even figured a nice shortcut route, but let’s face it — I’m not likely to rush back.

Don’t need much gear for winter; glass rod, two boxes of flies.

Still, honing the skiing skills might pay off this spring; last year’s first backcountry trip didn’t happen until late May, and while I don’t have a clear destination in mind yet, I can think of a couple backcountry lakes that could be skied to far earlier, provided they ice out before the snow goes away.

Of course, it’s not just the fish I’m after, it’s the chance to be the first to fish for trout that haven’t seen a fly since the snow flew in the fall.

Fishermen are always looking for an edge — an artifact of our past as loincloth-clad, spear-wielding hunters — and the scheming sometimes takes on the characteristics of a military campaign.

Hannibal crossed the Alps with elephants; though historians say it was done to take the battle to the Romans, I suspect a cleverly camouflaged campaign to fish remote streams.

At the Underground, we’re not just about correcting history’s errors. It’s just another useful, free service.

See you on skis, Tom Chandler.

When life gives you lemons, you make lemonade.

When life gives you several feet of snow, you employ the same principle; you make a snowshoe trip to some of your favorite trout water.

I don’t know if Edmondson was fishing or praying for trout. Votes?

With cabin fever setting in all over the area, finding a pair of accomplices was easy. I called Edmondson, he picked up the phone, and I said “You up for doing something supremely stupid?”

“Absolutely” he said.

Wayne Eng fell for pretty much same line, which suggests an advanced case of snowstorm fever.

Thus, we found ourselves parked at a snow berm, shouldering packs and strapping on showshoes for the one-mile walk into our target pool.

At first, the going was easy; a snowmobile had compacted a trail in the snow, and the walking was steeply downhill. Later, we left the snowmobile track and started plowing through drifts a couple feet deep, which elevated the trip from fly fishing trip to aerobic fly fishing trip.

(I discovered the real distinction between the two the next morning.)

Though trout are waiting for us down there, first, a picture.

Naturally, our first spot didn’t produce anything — fish, rising fish or even bugs. After mucking around, we packed up yet again and headed to another spot.

There, we found a few trout lazily sipping BWOs — slow, maddening rises to a very sparse hatch.

I got one to eat a Sully tied emerger, and the fish turned out to be exactly one inch longer than Dave Edmondson’s landing net (I’m guessing 15″-16″).

The standard Underground Trout portrait.

We took turns fishing our one run, and Wayne hooked one that flashed some extraordinary color before coming loose, and Dave Edmondson had two takes, but never got a hook in either.

Frankly, the trout was a bonus; fishing a river where you’re dodging the ice chunks floating by — a snow-silenced river that hasn’t seen a single footprint in at least several days — is pretty cool shit all by itself.

As if fly fishers didn’t already carry enough gear.

And basically, I lied in the above paragraph. Catching the trout was cool — and a lot more fun than the hourlong hump up the hill in snowshoes.

Trout function in water that’s only a few BTUs above ice cube-hood, an amazing reality in itself, and they’re damned picky when the river’s that low and clear.

Catching them in winter is far from a certainty, and if the reward wasn’t in the trying, there’d be a lot fewer fly fishermen.

The walk out was a bit of grind, though not enough of one to stop me from planning a similar trip — to another snowed-in part of the river — in the near future.

Snow started falling again on our walk out, which wasn’t easy, but it was stunning.

Fly fishing in winter is a bigger logistical challenge than summer; you’re often carrying fewer flies, but a lot more gear designed to keep you warm in some truly inhospitable conditions.

Getting around in deep snow fires up the metabolism, but the last thing you want is to overheat and start sweating profusely. The second you stop — presumably stepping into a river of heat-sucking water — your body temperature plummets.

Thus, you have to carry enough clothing to balance the two activities, which probably means a daypack, and maybe a 3-5 piece travel rod.

Naturally, there’s more winter fishing to come. And just as naturally, you’ll hear about it here.

See you on snowshoes, Tom Chandler.

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