I wonder how those not tethered to the seasons mark the passage of time, perhaps by holidays alone or the start and end of sporting seasons. But for anglers, hunters, and birders, each season carries its own pulse—its own signature of opportunities—woven with experiences from years gone by. With every issue of California Fly Fisher, we aim to honor those rhythms, to look back with gratitude and forward with anticipation.
This summer, mine was measured by the tug of stripers from the beach and the clarity of spring creeks near Shasta. I am not one to count fish, but instead count the time spent on the water as the achievement. Yet there are holes in every summer’s tapestry: the backpacking trip that never was, the mountains not yet wandered. Those will have to wait for next year.
My high point came far afield, deep in British Columbia, where the roads end and the steelhead begin. It is a place of chanterelles rising after each rain, and wild cranberries plucked from the riverbank. The trip began under the shadow of atmospheric rivers. One evening, drifting downriver toward camp, my brother and I paused at a run too good to pass. I carried a dry line, he a sink tip. I fished first; he followed. In the next hour, over a dozen steelhead tore into our flies—the finest stretch of fishing I have ever known. For four more days, the dry fly outshone the sinking line three to one, mornings and evenings alike. And to think—people canceled their trips on account of a little atmospheric river.
Now autumn calls. October caddis on the McCloud, thrown with a bamboo rod. Warm October evenings in the Bay, stripping Adachi Clousers for striper underneath a backlit Golden Gate Bridge. Cold November dawns on the Delta, with striper prowling. And still, the dream that pulls at me most—the pursuit of the great king salmon of the Smith River. For it is always the elusive that stirs our imaginations, and keeps us returning to the water.
Stay Fishy, California.
