Steelies

I just spoke with a friend who was out on the American a few days ago and witnessed a lot of fish moving up the river. As we all suspected the rain has really set things off and we are expecting a good opener. My car blew a head so I will be stuck for a week or so with no fishing, but Brian will be out on the opener and I am expecting results. Hopefully we'll have some pics for you after the 1st!

Rain!!!

It was getting ready to rain when I left Sacramento yesterday afternoon to visit friends in Cloverdale, Ca. This morning I woke up to the patter of rain drops on soil outside. Went out to the river and it was already swollen and dirty. I think another push of fish should be on the way soon...

Float trip!!

Tomorrow I am making my first float trip on the American and I am stoked! Brought the pontoon out and getting ready to hit it up with a friend of mine. This will be a great opportunity to explore some new water and learn about the river, not to mention catch some chromers! Expect updates soon...

December Update

Hi folks!
Its been a while... finding a job has been a bit of a struggle. Maybe I should have stayed in Idaho!!! Oh well, on the bright side the half pounder action has been decent on the Lower American River which is only about ten minutes from my place in Midtown Sac. Made a visit to the fish hatchery last week up on Hazel Ave. and observed some beastly chromers in the ladder. Fish are here, just not too many yet. Man could we use some rain!!!!

Withdrawals......aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrhghhghhhhh

Well it is good to be back in civilization, going to bars, hanging out with old friends, and best of all... GIRLS!!!!! When it comes to women in Driggs, Idaho the situation is definitely bring your own! All of the pretty ladies out there are either married at nineteen or Mormon, neither of which makes them available to me. But hey, I went out there for the fish anyways, right? Which brings me to my main subject. I am suffering from major fishing withdrawals! You know... when you wake up at night in a cold sweat shaking and clutching an imaginary brown trout, or sit around watching your favorite TV shows while making casting motions with the remote. Some of us have even gone as far as to buy "fish porn," videos of professionals catching lunkers in exotic destinations like Patagonia and New Zealand just to ease the pain until our next fix. If fishing were a drug, Idaho would be the heroin of all destinations. Miles of scenic beauty packed with huge trout. I close my eyes and picture myself casting into an etherial sunset. The line unfurls as fluidly as the blood flowing through my veins. The fly lands without creating a ripple, and is instantly inhaled by the largest fish I have ever seen. I swiftly strike with a snap of the rod tip and experience the electric surge of an angry lunker ripping line off of my reel. A brilliant flash like an underwater bolt of lightning sends shockwaves of adrenaline through my body. I breathe heavily, and relish every ead of sweat that drips off my brow. There is no experience like it that I know of, a sensation that must be felt to be wholly appreciated. Fly fishing is my drug of choice, and I badly need a fix.

End of Season Update

Its well into fall now and the guide season is at an end. The lodge closed its doors for the winter on the 12th, and no sooner did it begin to dump snow all day!!! I need to get back to California where the sun is still shining...
Funny only last week I was catching 16-20" rainbow and cutthroat trout on dry flies and now I don't even want to go outside.
Weather aside it has been a fantastic season out here in Idaho. The South Fork is the most diverse and challenging fishery I have ever visited, and it has become my favorite! Stick around because I've got more sweet pics and epic tales coming soon...

The Gulch

Seven hundred and eighty feet of mud and loose rock rose up before me as I prepared to push out of the canyon. My felt soled boots came in handy while I was wading around on slippery rocks in 1200cfs current, but they barely held their purchase on the steep, slimy sides of the canyon making every step that much more taxing to my already stiff muscles. I lurched up the canyon wall and between panting breaths let out an exclamation to my friend Sean, "I've been dreading this all day!" He just smiled and shook his head. Whining about it wasn't going to get us out any faster. I could feel my muscles begin to burn from lactic acid buildup and I was out of breath after the first quarter of the ascent, but like Sean I could only smile and move forward. We wouldn't have gone down there in the first place if it wasn't worthwhile. The fishing that day had been epic. While anglers all over the Henry's fork were being blown around in their drift boats and pelted with stinging rain, unable to hold position or even cast in the freezing wind the deep canyon provided an insulated buffer so that all Sean and I endured was hazy skies and an all day drizzle. Despite the mucky weather, fish lay behind every logjam and stacked on every good seam greedily slurping our dry salmon fly imitations and nymph droppers. Many little ones came to hand, but there were some nice ones too and a couple angry lunkers which produced drag screaming runs and hectic downstream pursuits. We were in there for the fish, and the fish were in there for the salmonflies. The giant stonefly, pteronarchys californicus. Fills the dreams of almost fly fishermen worldwide. It doesn't take much imagination to look at the 2-3 inch long insect and picture the frenzy that might ensue when thousands of them fill the skies and riverbanks, clumsily slapping the water to deposit their eggs or falling from rocks and tree branches to become easy targets for the hungry trout below. The Gulch is one of those magical places where for a few weeks out of the year this frenzy takes place, and we were there at just the beginning of it. Salmonflies coated the rocks, trees, and riverbanks in various stages of their mating cycles. They crawled up our waders and fell out of trees onto our necks. There were hundreds of them inside every fat belly of every brown and rainbow we caught. The frenzy was not quite underway, but in the not so far future we knew we would be there for it. As we exited the canyon I paused to take a deep breath and look back over the false horizon of boulders and shrubs that concealed one of earths finest fisheries. I could still hear the water rushing below, and although by lungs were burning and my muscles ached I felt incredibly lucky to be able to feel every bit of it, and I knew both Sean and I would be back for more.

Falling for the Pit

Ask anyone who has fished much of California about the Pit River and you are likely to get some enthusiastic responses. One of my favorites is "I'm afraid to go down there," with "that's a young mans river," coming in at a close second. Don't let the negative Nancys scare you away. Ask enough people and you'll be able to weed through the subtle code that keeps the Pit River one of the least pressured streams in California. You may even run into a few guys like me who rank the Pit among California's finest fisheries. For those who are willing to push themselves and their fishing abilities to the limit, the Pit is a true adventure.
When I first decided to make the 31/2 hour drive up to northern California from my home base in Davis I spent some time searching in guide books and on the web for any information I could find about this legendary river. All of the resources I found had one thing in common, warnings. Among the Pit's many dangers are snakes, steep trails, and miles of treacherous, jagged, slimy rocks that form the only path available to adventurous anglers.
At first I thought these were exaggerations cooked up to scare away all but the most dedicated and hardy anglers. I rose to the challenge and sped up to the little nearby town of Burney with fire in my veins, ready to beat the Pit River into submission, and quickly realized that those warnings are there for a reason!
For round 1 I chose the steep, craggy canyon section of Pit 3 just below the dam at lake Britton. I parked at a dirt pullout adjacent to the dam and peered over the edge. I saw a toothy canyon with its mouth gaping wide, inviting me to climb down and be swallowed whole. I could only grin back with equal ferocity as gasoline coursed through my bloodstream, raising every hair on my body in a grim salute to the challenger before me. I eyed the tiny staircase which seemed to barely keep its hold in the loose earth of the canyon wall and began a slow descent.
The long climb down gave me ample time to study the water. It was reckless and wild, as if some giant monster was greedily sucking every drop down into it's thirsty gullet. Foam and bubbles rushed through sharp pointed boulders like saliva pouring from the mouth of a rabid animal. 'I can tame this animal,' I thought to myself.
I finally touched ground, if you can call it that, and made my way through a twisted maze of brambles and boulders to the river's edge. Miles of pockets lay before me, each one whispering a promise of beautiful wild rainbow trout. Going off of a tip I got from some friends I rigged up a short heavy leader and a single rubber legged stonefly nymph with a few bb sized shot to get it down in the fast water. Without hesitation I chose a nice looking pocket and plunked my fly in at the top, allowing it to sink until my line tightened and I could feel the shot ticking the tops of rocks on the bottom as I lead my fly downstream. On the third pass I felt a spongy feeling at the end of the line and the rhythmic tick of the shot hitting rocks stopped. Instinctively I set the hook and connected with my first fish on the Pit.
I waited for a moment, expecting the electric surge of a frightened fish trying to flee to safety. Instead the fish floated lazily to the surface and rolled on to one side. It was a huge brown trout, with deep golden flanks and a jet black dorsal surface. It was as calm and collected as if the #8 hook it had just inhaled had been a salmonfly nymph rather than a stinging counterfeit. I had no argument with this, and I thought to myself 'this fish is going to make landing my first trophy brown easy!'
I pulled my net out and slowly edged down to a spot where I could land the fish as it dove and buoyed in the current. As I eased the fish toward me and reached out to land the fish its calm demeanor gave way to violent panic, and with a flap of its tail that sent a spray of water flying into my face it took off, rocketing to the opposite bank where it attempted to dig into a number of rocks and crevices. Finding no refuge it turned into the current and bolted downstream causing my reel to sing at the top of its lungs, and I was delighted to listen.
As the amount of line on my reel quickly dwindled I realized I had to make a move fast. I looked downstream at the broken, slippery rocks and wicked tangles of blackberry and chose the only path I had...straight through all of it.
The fire in my veins exploded into an inferno of energy and I leapt from rock to rock like an apache warrior. Thorns tore at my skin and sticks whipped my face but my footing was fast and agile as I pursued the angry lunker downstream. I could still feel the jolting head shakes of the fish and I knew I had it hooked solid. It was just a matter of who would give out first.
We finally reached a point where there was a bush that stuck out just a bit too far into the stream for my line to clear, and as the fish sped downstream the line became entangled in its spindly branches. I could tell the fish was still on and I thrust my rod into the mess, trying to use it to pick the line free. Miraculously I managed to free the line and the fight was still on. I jumped on top of a big boulder and pulled hard, heaving the fish up to the surface. My heart sank when I saw that it had somehow spit the hook from its jaw and was now hooked in the tail. To make matters worse the monster was pointed directly downstream into a big rapid, and had every advantage of weight, leverage, and momentum.
I made one last desperate pull hoping to drag the beast away from the fast water but it had already won. With a final burst it jetted into the current and I felt a jolt as our connection was broken and the line went slack. The chaos settled into the quiet rhythm of water on rocks as the wild encompassed me. I looked up at the sky and an adult salmonfly clumsily flew by overhead. I smiled at my own humility as I racked up the score in my head. Pit: 1, me: 0.
But that was just the beginning of a long and exciting relationship, where a battle became a game and somehow along the lines transformed into an everlasting love affair. That is how I fell for the Pit.

Foul Weather Fun

For most anglers the thought of fly fishing brings up fond memories of standing knee deep in cool water to beat the heat of the afternoon while casting to rising trout with a dry fly. They look out the window or check the weather before even thinking about going fishing and only fish on the best days of the season. There is nothing wrong with this fair weather philosophy. For those who fish just to get outside, breathe some fresh air, and enjoy their surroundings there is no better time then a seventy degree June day when the trout are rising and the fishing is easy. Even if the fish aren't active it is still a joy to be in the outdoors soaking up the sun. After all fishing is all about the experience, right?
For some anglers, however, it goes beyond simple enjoyment. Those who want to learn and progress as fishermen recognize that they must practice in a variety of different situations and conditions. Anyone able to cast will catch trout when they are feeding haphazardly during the height of a hatch, but it takes practice, skill, and experience to catch the same fish when they aren't readily eating. The only way for an angler to gain that level of expertise is to expand their horizons, getting out there more often and fishing hard despite wind, rain, snow, and otherwise cold or unpleasant weather.
Steelhead anglers are a great example of this philosophy. They brave the elements day in and day out, freezing their butts off and many times getting skunked in the process. They do this because they understand that's what it takes to catch steelhead, and every time their fly is swinging through that run or their nymph is dead drifting along a good seam they know that there is a possibility of hooking a fish that makes it all worth their while.
Many fishermen believe that some of the best fishing can be had during some of the worst weather. For example Bernie Taylor, author of Big Trout writes about light penetration being a key factor in fish activity. He explains that trout, having sensitive eyes and no eyelids for protection from the sun, will generally shy away from bright light and feed actively only during dawn and dusk when they can get the jump on their prey while staying safe from predators. Fishermen may enjoy getting some sun, but trout don't. When the sun is high in the sky and Joe Bob is soaking up rays and flogging the pool all those trout are hunkered in the deep hiding along cut banks, dropoffs, and in the shadows of rocks. On cloudy, windy, or otherwise miserable days those trout don't have to hide away and it is quite common to find them actively feeding throughout the day.
Even if they aren't catching trout, anglers who fish during adverse weather situations can increase their fishing skills dramatically. Take two anglers for example. For the sake of this article we'll call them Joe Bob and Johnny Trout. Joe bob only fishes when it is sunny outside and there isn't a breath of wind. He goes out every once in a while and catches a fair amount of trout. He always enjoys himself and considers himself a pretty good angler. Well one day he decides he is bored of fishing his local stream and books a trip with a guide out in Montana where he hopes to have the trip of a lifetime. He gets out there on the big day only to discover that it is blowing 30 mph and being inexperienced in this type of situation he can't get a good cast, doesn't present his fly correctly to very many fish and goes home disappointed, probably blaming the poor guide and giving a lousy tip for a lousy day. Now take Johnny Trout. Johnny wants to be the best fisherman he can be and gets out on the water every chance he can. He has been out on more than one windy day and figured out how to deal with it. He books a trip on the same river the same day and nails the fish. His experience and dedication pays off with memories he will have for the rest of his life.
Some of the best seasons to hook the fish of a lifetime are late fall and early spring when fish are gorging themselves in preparation for winter or coming off a long cold season with little to eat. Targeting fish during these times inevitably means dealing with bad weather. There is always a chance to randomly catch hog any time during the season, but fishing during the right time even if it means getting rained or snowed on can pay off in a big way.
As the quality of equipment available to anglers improves, more and more fly fishermen are venturing out during adverse weather and hooking the fish of their dreams. Sometimes shelling out the extra bucks is what it takes to stay warm, dry, and comfortable, but standing knee deep in 36 degree water with snow falling all around them while they cradle the biggest fish they have ever seen, most anglers can't even remember they have a checking account.
Just about the only thing anglers should keep in mind when considering the weather for a fishing trip is safety. This is common sense. If it isn't safe simply stay home, but don't let bad weather keep you from becoming a better fisherman and hopefully catching some beautiful fish.

The Angry Lunker

It began during a day hike with my family to a small lake just a few miles from our summer getaway in Lake Tahoe, California. The trail was short but steep, following a small brook which cascaded over wide granite slabs hurrying along its way down into Emerald Bay on Tahoe's southwestern rim. We stopped beneath a small waterfall to take a break and enjoy the splendid scenery. My cousin Moose had a fishing rod with him, and I watched as he pulled trout after trout from the churning whitewater in the pool beneath the falls. The fish seemed to materialize on his line, causing the fishing rod to spring to life, dancing with every jerk and head shake. I was amazed at the confidence and grace Moose displayed and I knew right then that I had to try fishing for myself. Soon after I was exploring similar streams and tributaries of Lake Tahoe and catching trout on my own. It didn't matter to me what size or species they were. I wanted to catch them all, the rainbows, browns, and brook trout. Each fish unique in appearance and behavior, each posing a new challenge to the inquisitive mind of a developing angler. I remember one such trip which changed all of that. It was just after opening day and I was fishing beneath a bridge that spanned a quiet little west shore tributary of Tahoe. Imitating what I had watched my cousin do years before I flipped a small Panther Martin into the bubble trails and pockets below the bridge, focusing my gaze on the spinning, flashing lure as it pulsed through the current towards me. A large flash broke my focus and my rod doubled over, bending with a life that I had never before experienced. The grace and confidence I had witnessed in my cousin could not be applied to this situation. I strained against my new opponent, trying to gain control over a force that would not be contained easily. I had hooked an angry lunker, and the ensuing battle would forever change the way I looked at fishing. When I finally brought the fish to hand I held it up in front of me and I knew that I had tapped into something special. Ever since I have put all my effort into searching fish like that one and hooking them on terminal tackle and fly tackle. Trout, steelhead, bass, panfish, and even carp have been my quarry, but I hope to expand this list in the future by tangling with saltwater giants. I started this blog to chronicle my journeys in searching for the ultimate angling experience, hooking an angry lunker!
Charlie