OK. I lied to you.
Last week’s trip to an alpine stream wasn’t my last of the general trout season, but then, after my flyfishfromhome.com post, let’s face it – you’d be a fool to trust me anyway.
Lumpy ice buildup reflects last warm sunlight of the day.
(Clearly, I intend to toy with my readers again, so, you know, deal with it, suckas.)
In fact, the only reason you know I’m not fabricating this report is because I admit I got skunked – the kind of admission no self-respecting, self-promoting outdoor writer would make if he didn’t go fishing. (See the logic?)
That’s the Underground: We’re all about the Truthiness, except when we’re not.
You’ve been warned.
Oh Yeah, the Fly Fishing
Though some enlightened Upper Sacramento winter fishing regulations mean I’m never far from a Quality Fly Fishing Experience, it’s hard to ignore California’s general trout season closer.
Last week, I thought I’d staggered through the last trip of the season, but on Sunday, that little nagging voice on my shoulder (the one that wears waders over its cloven hooves) told me there was still time.
So I went fly fishing. On a tiny stream I fished for the first time earlier this year.
Why?
I guess because I’m a deeply tortured individual, suffering at the hands of my my own wader-clad personal demons.
(Frankly, how much weirder could it get?)
Fortunately, I get to deal with the voices right on the stream. And though that stream is apparently fishless (as if all the little trout had been airlifted out for the winter like some kind of trouty theme park) – it’s still damned nice.
The mountain wasn't too hard on the eyes either.
Sadly, I lack any pulpish Man v. Trout action sequences to fill out my word count thrill my readers, so I’m going to voice a few observations about fly fishing small streams on cold season closers:
- When it’s cold at home, it’s colder on a tiny stream that’s spent the last couple thousand years digging its own tiny gorge, where cold air presumably settles in large quantities starting mid-November.
- That cold thing? It means you need a warm jacket, and there might just be an icy glaze on the rocks.
- That ice thing? While those Patagonia Riverwalker “sticky rubber” wading boots are the perfect small stream wading boot (they’re like rock climbing shoes on the boulders), they (important note to self) don’t function well on ice-glazed rocks. In fact, they don’t function at all.
- That cold & icy thing? It’s a small problem when the trout are eating, but it turns out that trout don’t eat as much when the water’s cold. So it gets to be a big thing.
- That eating thing? It turns out (and I should have learned this last week) that trout in small streams don’t really eat dry flies at all when it’s really cold and icy, and in fact, they don’t seem much interested in small nymphs or streamers either.
- That 7′ 3wt Diamondglass fly rod I never fish? It’s actually pretty stunning on a stream this size.
Plan B
With the trout not eating and the wrong battery in my slowly dying digital camera, the Wonderdog and I fell back to Plan B; we hiked up the tiny river gorge to see what was up there.
See, in addition to screwing with my readers, I derive happiness from looking for places to fly fish that other people maybe haven’t fished lately, and this stream offered that potential, though in part because its trout are tiny and the fishable spots rare.
Still, the Wonderdog and I did bushwhack our way up a particularly steep stretch – which contained zero worthwhile holding water – stepped out on a ledge, and found something interesting waiting for us:
Next year? I think so...
Let’s hear it for Plan B.
The Big Finish
In the end, a pair of trout too small to hook threw themselves at my fly, so no fish were harmed in the making of this fishing report.
Wally the Wonderdog – not exactly built for rock hopping – suggested he’d been badly harmed by a criminal lack of dog treats, but then, he says that pretty much every trip.
He’s consistent, if not agile.
In an odd, long-term-thinking kind of way, it makes sense to close out this season with a trip dedicated to finding places to fish next season.
It’s also telling.
Some have suggested I don’t always keep my eyes on the horizon – that I’m more grasshopper than ant.
Yet I’m already looking ahead to next year, suggesting I’m more of a grownup when I’m playing than when I’m acting like an adult.
See you next season, Tom Chandler.
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