Two weekends ago, a pair of us humans fished the Upper Sac under what we both described as “pleasant” conditions.

Thanks to the selfless sacrifice of my #20 winged compadres (and an upstream reach cast), we hooked many rainbow trout.

Ahh, my BWO friends made all this possible...

Truly, we appreciate your help, though we’d like to point out we made sacrifices of our own (we accidentally left the thermos of hot chocolate at home, a travesty that still brings me to tears).

Days later, in the same sunless, cloudy-but-pleasant conditions, Chris Raine and I found more BWOs, and more rising trout.

They were very big trout.

At least three were 16″ long, and at least four others were bigger than 12″ (and those were just the ones I know about from firsthand, personal experience).

Yes, my friends, it was a very good day. And again, that was due largely to you, the BWOs (and that reach cast).

So it was with some excitement that Raine and I noticed last Tuesday’s forecast was for “Perfect” blue-winged olive weather.

Wet. Drizzly. Miserable even.

Manly stuff. To fish it, we would have to show courage.

We could not contain our child-like glee. (Admittedly, Raine doesn’t do “glee” all that well. In fact, the little dance is downright embarassing.)

We piled on the warm clothes. The rain jacket. The gloves. The gooberish hats.

And went to the river.

And stood.

In the rain.

In other words, my dun-colored friends, we showed.

But you didn’t.

Nor did the trout.

What gives?

(And why am I writing like a college Hemmingway wannabe?)

The Hemmingway-Free Zone

I’m always a little startled by the number of people who say their favorite hatch is the Blue-Winged Olive.

It’s a great bug and all, but you almost never have to compete for a spot on the river when the BWOs are hatching.

Which, come to think of it, is probably why it’s a favorite.

Right now, the Upper Sacramento remains in astonishingly good shape for February, but then, we’ve experienced an astonishingly absent winter.

The snowpack is around 30% of normal, which is not an edifying number for us small stream types.

The fishing is good, but apparently not during perfect blue-winged olive weather. (It’s going to suck next summer, when the lack of snowpack is going to hurt a lot of my favorite small streams.)

Turns out almost nothing is ever simple in nature.

The Details

Because I’m still on the clock (much Hemmingway-ish copy must be written), here are a few details:

• You can have all them fancy flies, I still live and die by my Quigley Cripples (the Engle-modified micro version) and the amusingly-easy-to-tie Roy Palm emerger (shuck, biot body, dubbed thorax ball and two wraps of blue dun hen hackle).

• On the last trip I wore my one-size-too-big Orvis wading boots, and damned if my feet never got cold, and those studs of doom gripped nicely. These puppies work as well as they did last year.

• Location is everything. The first trip, the two of us hooked eleven trout yet landed only one, courtesy an accelerating tailout current that gave a hooked trout immediate leverage against a #20 hook. Not one broken tippet or bent hook, but only one landed trout. Not breathtaking.

• As we stood in the drizzle and watched no bugs float by and no trout rise, I told Raine this would never happen to a better outdoor writer, and he allowed as to how my tendency towards complex sentences might have doomed us.

It’s hell when your own friends turn on you (hey, I’m not the one who forget the hot chocolate), but it wasn’t just us.

I spoke to local uber-guide Craig Nielsen, who has the Klamath wired and has been basically crushing them, but even he found the crushing a little slower on the same wet, “perfect” day.

Apparently, I find it comforting when others suffer with me.

The explanations are endless. Falling barometer. Rising river. BWO Christmas. Karmically disadvantaged fly fishermen.

Whatever.

Fly fishing is like that; we reach for understanding, yet the moment we think we achieved it we’re reminded we basically don’t know shit, and probably never did.

See you on the river (in the rain), Tom Chandler.

Except when it isn’t.

On Sunday, it wasn’t.

The first fish (and the only picture).

Up here, we’re still in the grip of our indecently nice winter weather — a run of sunny, rain-and-snow-free days that defy the “winter” label.

The banks of the Upper Sacramento (the upper bits) should be carpeted with snow, and I should have skied down the road, but simply drove it instead, and could have done it in a two-wheel drive. I even fished some of the afternoon in a single long-sleeve undershirt before slipping on a light jacket.

It’s early January, and I was fishing a bug with its roots in a hatch that began in early October, and while I haven’t seen an October Caddis for weeks, I had an inkling.

For years I’ve suggested the “best” time to fish the October Caddis dry isn’t during the actual hatch. I can’t count the number of times I’ve caught more and bigger fish on an #18 PED parachute while October Caddis popped off the water like slow-moving hummingbirds.

Thousands of big bugs in the air, yet few — if any — trout eating them on the water.

Until they start dying.

Fly Fishing’s Confidence Game

Fly fishermen often pretend at knowledge they simply can’t possess. It’s a time-honored tradition, so when I say that the trout “know” the late-season October Caddis on the water are probably dying and therefore can’t escape, it sounds pretty good.

When I add — as a virtual certainty — they realize winter is here and the food-free spawn is coming soon afterwards, so they’re seizing the opportunity to bulk up, it all seems reasonable.

But really, who the hell knows?

The fly and the rod, a pretty stellar combination before the snow falls.

I can say that Wally the Wonderdog and I fished for less than two hours, most of it spent rigging up and hiking down the rails (and in the Wonderdog’s case, rolling in something dead).

I only had three grabs.

But what grabs they were; slashing takes, like Northern Pike eating mice.

And yes, all the trout were big, at least by Upper Sacramento standards (they always are in winter).

The October Caddis

The big dying October Caddis pattern (a prototype tied by Raine, who has since changed the pattern) floats low in the water and the CDC wing no doubt looks tattered — like you’d imagine a dead October Caddis would look.

The first trout was a good 14″-15″, and like winter fish always do, he felt heavy and firm and solid and alive in my hand. After so long without a fly rod in my hand, it felt a little like I was reaching back into my past.

The second fish only stayed on for 4-5 seconds, and I’d suggest he was as big as the third, which — when I tried to measure it against the wraps on the fly rod — went on past the 18″ wrap.

Unfortunately, we come to the bad news; unless I can find some kind of accommodation, this might have been Wally the Wonderdog’s last fishing trip on the Upper Sac. In the past he was only peripherally interested in the fishing, but over time, he’s wholly keyed in on the fish to the point he’s trying to retrieve the damn things right out of my hand.

Wally the Wonderdog is pretty keyed in on trout...

It makes for a tough time landing and releasing them (not to mention getting a picture), and sooner or later he’s going to catch one and kill it.

And I’m leaving out some of the language used when he decided to swim through a run while I was casting to it, or those moments when I lose a fish because I’m trying to horse them out of his reach.

Plus he’s not as spry as he used to be, and we hadn’t even reached the two-hour mark when he started limping and falling back, which meant it was time to go home.

We all get older, and the trick is to figure out what still works for us, and in the Wonderdog’s case, that might not involve scrambling up and down steep rocky banks — not exactly the Lab/Basset’s forte to begin with.

The Gear Stuff

I fished the 8’3″ Raine Hollowbuilt 5wt and the Rio Avid DT5 line, and the combination — at close and medium ranges — was astonishing.

Big dry flies are tough to fish accurately at short ranges; they’re wind resistant, so until you’ve got enough line mass driving them, they open up your loops and kill accuracy.

And accuracy is pretty much what it’s all about in this kind of fishing.

A short, strong leader is a necessity, as is a rod that will throw a decent loop at short range.

This happened three times -- plenty when the trout are big...

When Raine built new tips for this bamboo fly rod (converting it from a 4/5 to a true 5wt in the process), he added a little line speed to the equation.

It’s almost as if he’s reinvented the semi-parabolic style rod, only without all the weirdness.

More To Come

With the first real storm of the winter not expected until January 18 (and that’s a long-range forecast, which is worth about as much as you’d guess it was), the dying October Caddis bite might last a little longer.

With most of our options out of reach, my short trips are confined to the river or the nearby lake, though with a big deadline on the table, it may be a couple more days.

Fly fishing in winter is often portrayed as a kind of manly pursuit practiced by those lacking common sense (a label sought by many these days), but in truth, it always feels quieter and more reflective, and the sense of stillness is almost palpable.

Because nobody’s going anywhere in a hurry — and any expectations of a spring-level body count are gone — it’s as if you’re freed from the need to move quickly, and three big trout eating a dry fly is more reward, frankly, than it feels like I deserve.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

My chance to get all arty and pretentious...

A little snow. A big step towards winter.

We’ll almost certainly see some nice weather (right up until late December), this suggests winter is arriving – and that the fly fishermen will now largely disappear.

In a way, that’s too bad; the BWO hatch can really pick up steam (well, as much as it does on the Upper Sac, which isn’t a lot), and you can still score heavy with a dying October Caddis pattern.

Then again, I’ve never been averse to having the river to myself.

Of course, it also means it’s time to winterize our Palatial Estate, and break out the winter clothing – the subject of an upcoming Underground post.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

As in very alternate. As in squirrel fishing. (Found via Taunted by Waters, who probably knows from nuts, being as he largely is one)

What do the Undergrounders think? Acorn No-Hackle? Oak Emerger? Or simply a Royal Peanut attractor?

When's the fishing & shooting season end anyway?

The coming snow storms will seal off access to most of the river, and the large BWO hatches tend to disappear by mid-January anyway.

In addition, the Upper Sacramento’s flows get spikey, though that doesn’t mean some fly fishing can’t be had – especially if you’re handy with a pair of xc-skis.

Still, the end of the season has a rhythm all its own, the hopeful portion of which includes getting things ready for next season – when it will once again be warm and sunny, big bugs will hatch, and the days grow longer.

For now, there’s a big pile of rod tubes in the Man Cave that need sorting (saving the two you’ll potentially fish on ski/fish trips or road trips to other rivers).

There are reels to unspool, lines to clean, and yes – waders to patch (time to fix the pinholes you’ve been tolerating).

Then there’s the other gear; a rifle & shotgun which need to be cleaned one last time, oiled against rust, and then locked away until the weather improves, the snow melts, and the local shooting ranges open.

Fly fishing and shooting are traditional sports practiced in a modern setting, which is probably why the act of drawing an oiled patch through a rifle or shotgun barrel – or unspooling a fly line and coiling it loosely – feels timeless.

The connection to the past is almost unbearably romantic, which is probably why I pay special attention to an end-of-season rite that – strictly speaking – isn’t truly necessary.

There are plenty of year-round places to fish within a couple hours drives, and while a good snow can close the Dunsmuir range, it also tends to melt out fairly early – and in some cases they even plow it so the local CHP officers can qualify.

And yes, I’m still shooting my 10 meter target airgun in the Man Cave.

In other words, the concept of “season’s end” doesn’t really measure up to the reality, and to those who couldn’t wait to point that out, I say the following:

Screw reality.

After all, ignoring inconvenient facts is also a traditional sporting concept, and in this case, it’s one I’m happy to embrace.

Thus, despite the fact I’ll probably fish several times between now and better weather, the fishing season is over.

And while I’m shooting pretty much continuously at home, shooting season is also over.

Simply put, I deny reality, and replace it with my own.

And I’m doing so because it pleases me, which is appropriate.

After all, I shoot clay “birds” which no one can eat, and bust my butt to catch trout – which I then release.

If observing an enjoyable – if largely illusory – milestone adds to either experience, then it’s time to embrace that milestone.

This season’s over.

Long live the season.

His latest column in the Boulder Daily Camera is typically clean and clear, focused as it is on winter midge fishing, a pursuit that – in the style of predators everywhere – Engle’s stripped down to the bare bones:

It may sound strange, but my strategy on these difficult-to-catch fish is dogged simplification. I use a “soft” 9-foot, 5-weight fly rod, a hand-tied 12-foot leader of my own design and a single size 22 or smaller fly pattern that imitates a midge pupa or, less often, some sort of low-riding dry fly or cripple pattern.

I would probably be more successful if I fished a tiny dry fly and trailed the midge pupa imitation behind it because I could use the dry fly as a strike indicator. But I’ve caught enough midging trout using two-fly techniques and it was a good day for me when I finally figured out that what I like most is catching a trout in the most direct way possible.

My most memorable fish have been the ones where there was as little between me and the trout as possible. That means no junk or gizmos attached to the leader other than a single small, unweighted fly that I’ve tied myself and the application of a no-nonsense aesthetically pleasing, but practical, cast.

The icing on the cake is when the trout takes my artificial fly in precisely the same way that it has taken the naturals.

I wish I’d written that.

In truth, this is precisely the kind of fly fishing I thought we’d get when the Upper Sacramento was opened to winter fly fishing.

Oddly – unless I’m completely missing the right time slots – we almost never get fish working midges in the winter, though it’s something we often get in the summer. Go figure.

I’m not complaining about the Upper Sac’s winter BWO hatches: challenging fish, clear water, small “technical” flies, long casts – these are a few of my favorite things (unless I’m doing poorly, when it kinda sucks)

As further proof that Einstein’s theory of relativity applies to fly fishermen, it’s clear that in the Underground Universe, one trout caught on a nearly invisible #22 emerger is more satisfying than one caught blind nymphing.

My infrequent trips to Idaho’s Big Wood River in winter have produced the kind of minimalist, tiny-fly fishing Engle’s talking about, and yes, every time I approach the Upper Sacramento in winter, I wonder if this is the time I’ll find them eating midges.

See you on the river (chasing midges), Tom Chandler.

As far as winters go, this hasn’t been much of one, but despite the lack of snow and surfeit of sunny weather, everybody’s doing the same things they’d do if they were staring at 8 foot snow berms.

Chris Raine’s in his shop, huddled over some massively dangerous power tool (they’re all massively dangerous to me). He’s turning piles of high-grade bamboo into shavings and fly rod strips, and eventually high-dollar bamboo fly rods.

Edmondson’s been traveling a lot for work, Wayne’s installing flooring in his own Man Cave, Ian Rutter’s gritting his way through the eastern show circuit, and Dave Roberts is teaching fly tying classes and calling to taunt every time he scores another cloudy-day, Rogue River BWO hatch.

Me? The last pair of weeks have been a little unsettling, involving odd pains and news you’re not wholly sure you want to hear. It’s all good now – in fact it’s possible to go fly fishing without wondering if my cell phone coverage is good enough to get a call out in a hurry – but it’s still winter, which is to say none of us are fly fishing as much as we could be.

Yesterday – in a good post-doctor mood – a quick trip to the river would have been stellar, but in the winter, there are damned few “quick” trips anywhere.

With an hour (tops) in hand, I found myself tromping through the nearby woods with Wally the Wonderdog, cleaning up piles of shotgun shells left behind by slobs shooters.

In the summer, a quick trip to a nearby stream emerges at a single impulse; it involves little more than wading boots, a light fly rod and an Altoids tin of flies (maybe a extra few minutes if the fish were eating dries).

Those are the trips the Undergrounders rarely read about (for all sorts of reasons I’m not apologizing about that), but during winter, there’s more gear, more clothing, and – for some reason – way more searching the Man Cave for lost crap.

And speaking from a purely legal perspective, the nearby little waters (with the stupid fish) are closed.

Winter’s the time of year when you can say “no” to fly fishing for all sorts of reasons, and the bar on what constitutes a “good” reason seems to have fallen considerably from its summer levels.

I’m not getting flies tied and fly lines cleaned, my office is still a mess, the Man Cave garage is still in disarray after the sheet rock people folded, spindled and mutilated it, and those writing projects are still moving slowly.

I’m not advocating sloth or watching I Love Lucy re-runs or even [gasp] wasting time on the Internet; I’m just wondering where my summer fly fishing time – that handful of disconnected hours each week which normally find me on the river – goes when the weather turns cold.

I’m still fly fishing enough to stay sane – a big improvement from a few years ago when the Upper Sacramento was closed to fishing in winter – but I’m not fly fishing enough to escape the thought I should be doing it more.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll go fishing, and with any luck, find a few answers.

See you on the river, Tom Chandler.

It’s pretty out – the light and water both evidencing that hard-edged, crystal clarity they acquire in the winter – and the fishing is slow and methodical.

That’s mostly due to the cold-blooded nature of trout, who are moving very slowly. It’s also a good fit with the angler’s requirements: you’re wearing extra clothes, it’s hard to tie on tiny flies with frozen fingers, and falling in usually means the fishing day is over.

This will be one of the few times this year I walk out the door firmly resolved to use lead on my leader, though when you’re fishing a #20 midge pupae, you don’t need much.

Slow & steady win the race in winter, and if I land a couple of trout on a pretty river (with a few too many houses on it), so much the better.

See you on the Big Wood, Tom Chandler.

fly fishing, fishing, big wood river, idaho, fly fishing idaho, winter fly fishing

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Given the natural curiosity of the Undergrounders, I already know the question you’re dying to ask: “Will those Big Wood River trout eat a #22 olive midge emerger this time of year, or are you doomed to nymph a #20 red brassie on light tippet?”

The answer is: “I’m not sure.”

Those who’ve been poking around the Underground for a while know I’ve fished Idaho’s Big Wood River several times, but always in January and February – the dead of winter.

The Big Wood River, 2005

While my time there produced some fun photographs, temperatures in the teens meant fishing was difficult, and also meant rising fish were rare.

This week’s trip should find me facing high temperatures in the mid 30s; cold enough to keep the pretenders away from the river, but warm enough that ice won’t be a problem until late afternoon.

Interestingly, the local fishing reports seem to have faded away for the year, the inference being that anyone with brains is skiing Sun Valley’s famous slopes, leaving the trout for next spring.

My last trip was in 2006, and I did surpisingly well fishing a single tiny midge nymph in the slower runs, plowing through several feet of bankside snow when I wanted out.

My last day of fishing found me walking the two miles home in a chillling post-sunset headwind. I was perfectly warm in my waders and wading jacket, but when I walked in the house, the L&T noticed the whole front of my jacket was frosted over, the lower two snaps iced closed.

That’s either a testament to the quality of today’s fly fishing cold weather gear, or an indicator of my general state of obliviousness.

This year, my poor ears should enjoy a bit of long-sought cold-weather relief; a Patagonia Synchilla Duckbill cap. The Underground already loves the combo of a visor (imporant when you’ve got eyeglasses), ear flaps and yes – enough breathability that it won’t cook my brain while hiking.

The Patagonia duckbill hat

More as it happens.

With 14 hours of driving ahead of us, I’ll be dark Monday and part of Tuesday, but back online afterwards.

See you in Idaho, Tom Chandler.