The calendar doesn’t necessarily agree, but for fly fishermen, it’s effectively winter here at the foot of Mount Shasta.
Snow has fallen (and melted), the winter gear has been broken out, and the L&T and I spent much of the weekend cutting, moving and covering all the stuff that needs to be cut, moved and covered before the snow lands on you with hobnail boots.
In prior years, this wasn’t the job it is now, but moving to a place where there is brush, animals, and 200′ of driveway means cutting the dead-and-likely-to-fall-on-your-head tree limbs has to be done, and before it snows for real.
It’s the second year in a row we’ve found a heaping pile of bear scat over by the apple tree, and I’m happy to see the local wildlife putting the “wasted” apples to good use. The winters here are long, and slapping on a little extra weight isn’t a bad thing (unless you’re a coddled, over-comfortable human).
I took a picture of the evidence in question, but intelligently refrained from posting it, because a picture of bear shit doesn’t generate quite the same excitement as standing next to it, knowing a 200 pound carnivore was standing at this very spot, and yes, apparently they do shit in the woods, at least those containing apple trees.
The Late Fall Follies
From a fly fishermen’s perspective, it’s a frantic time of the year; windows of opportunity appear and vanish about as quickly as the calls come in, and there’s no way you can fish everywhere you should.
The McCloud’s up. The McCloud’s down. It’s dirty. It’s clearing. The steelhead are in at _____________. Big fish are munching October Caddis at __________. BWOs midday at _________.
And if the forecast is right and a storm hits, all those already-icy alpine lakes will be lost for good (too late!).
Some years it’s permissible to write about this with a relaxed, nostalgic bent, but this year simply doesn’t feel that way.
You take on responsibilities because they make sense at the time, and presumably you get something of value in return, but when a friend calls with news of steelhead – and you’ve got responsible, adult things tying you up the next three days – the whole grownup thing starts to look a little suspect.
I don’t fly fish for a living, and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to, but when you’re not fishing – you’re chained to a word processor or staring at the neutral fabric-covered wall of a cubicle or facing another day behind the wheel or whatever – the prospect does offer a certain appeal.
Tomorrow Means Fewer Choices
Adding an edge to winter’s approach is that gradual narrowing of your fly fishing opportunities (there are still more than you think), and the knowledge that this year’s winter fishing promises a different feel than prior years.
For example, the first year the Upper Sacramento River was opened to winter fly fishing, the fishing was stellar, and a couple friends and I threw tiny dry flies at pretty much the same couple of places until the river blew in late January.
Naturally, it hasn’t been anywhere near that good since, but then I have stumbled on a couple of interesting little secret spots I wouldn’t have found if I’d been hustling downriver every day.
Yes, getting to a couple of them requires strapping on skis (at least once the snow flies for real, which often isn’t until the Holidays), but almost all acquire a quiet, lonely, and yes, “exclusive” feel in the winter.
Once the standing water starts to freeze, the groupies go home, and while it’s common to posture at this point – suggesting that only “real” men fly fish in winter – that’s no more accurate than suggesting “real” men only fish for steelhead, or trout, or tarpon, or use corn or plastic worms or flies.
Fly Fishing the Freezing Season
Most of us fly fish precisely it’s because it’s not what we do for a living, and for the places we find it, and because the rest of the world recedes, narrowing our lives to the razor fine tip of a spear: “Is that a #20 BWO, or a #22?”
The winter modulates and amplifies all of the above; the places we normally fly fish are quieter and colder, and yes, there’s a hint of danger, even if it’s largely symbolic in the age of miracle fabrics, cell phone coverage, and mobile heaters (cars).
In the winter, the trout are also less likely to eat a #6 Stimulator, and most of our fly fishing acquires the patina of “technical” even if it’s no different from a normal late-summer evening hatch.
Still, as the options narrow, the tip of the spear grows ever finer, and the artificial world we consider “real” recedes even further in the face of smaller flies, spookier fish, and temperatures that quickly leave their mark on exposed flesh.
Of course, winter fly fishing isn’t any less “real” than fly fishing in the summer, but because it’s far removed from our daily lives (where warmth, convenience and food are the norm), it simply seems that way.
See you on the river, Tom Chandler.
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