It was a warm spring morning, and the Upper Sac was running slightly high and turbid, with about two feet of visibility—perfect nymphing conditions. Knowing the fish would be seeing many large stonefly nymphs crawling toward the banks this time of year, I knotted a heavy Pat’s Rubberlegs nymph to my 3X tippet, suspending it about 30 inches below a large, buoyant Double Chubby Chernobyl dry fly. Wading out to a favorite stretch of water, I flipped the rig into a heavy riffle and let the big stonefly nymph tumble down into the deep run below. The colored water only heightened the mystery and anticipation, and I watched the big dry intently, certain it would plunge beneath the surface at any moment as a trout intercepted the nymph. Imagine my surprise when, instead, a large, chrome-and-crimson head calmly rose and engulfed the dry! For a moment, my brain refused to process this unexpected turn of events. When I finally struck, it was too late, and both flies flew into the air. A lost opportunity.
I excitedly stripped in and re-cast, invigorated by the unexpected surface action, though slightly annoyed that the big trout had taken me by surprise instead of simply eating the nymph as expected. Two drifts later, the dry disappeared, and I came tight to a beautiful 12-inch rainbow—a smaller fish, but this was more like it. A few presentations later, the Chubby disappeared again. As I reacted, a small but feisty fish leaped into the air, and I felt my rhythm return. I extended my next cast to the far bank and confidently anticipated the pull-down—only to be taken by surprise again as another large trout aggressively rose to the dry! I was late on the strike, but by sheer luck I managed to hook the fish and, after a spirited battle, slid the girthy rainbow into my hand. Releasing it back into the flow, I forced myself to pause and consider the experience. One rising fish could be an aberration, but two? That was a pattern.
Wading down to the next run, I removed the Rubberlegs and fished only the Chubby. Almost immediately, a nice fish rose and engulfed it, and I knew I was onto something. Over the next couple of hours, I discovered that, at least that day, the larger, alpha fish were keyed on stonefly dries. Whether I had a nymph dropper or not, my first casts into prime water consistently drew larger fish rising to the dry, while smaller fish, just as predictably, keyed on the nymph. I had assumed the cloudy water would make my dry fly invisible to trout sitting deep in the fast runs—an incorrect assumption, as it turned out. In fact, the larger fish consistently swam past the juicy nymph to intercept the apparently even juicier floating mouthful!
Later in the season, on the same water and long past the season for big stones, I was again enjoying a day fishing dry-and-dropper rigs, this time with a #14 Chubby Chernobyl and a small, beaded Frenchie suspended beneath. The action had been consistent, but after a few hours I found myself longing for the pleasure and simplicity of fishing a single dry fly. Nothing had been taking the little Chubby, so I took off the nymph dropper, switched to 5X tippet, and tied on my ultimate confidence pattern, a #16 Missing Link. I began wading upstream, picking apart the smaller pockets and runs, and relishing the occasional longer, deeper pool. It was exactly what I needed. I lost track of time as I immersed myself in effortless casting and the joy of fishing all water types, not just the deeper water preferred for nymphing. At some point, I was surprised to realize I was catching just as many trout, and of the same size, with the little dry as I had with the nymph earlier.
I’m not saying dry-fly fishing is better than nymphing—the truth is, both have their place in the trout’s “diet,” and I enjoy both techniques very much. Yet I believe fly fishing has a collective conscience that assumes nymph fishing will always be more effective than dries, except on the limited occasions when fish key in on obvious, prolific hatches. My experience in Northern California waters shows this is about 75 percent accurate and a significant 25 percent inaccurate. And in many Rocky Mountain streams, where fish have a much shorter prime feeding season because of long, harsh winters, dry fly fishing can often be an all-day, every-day affair.
So, if, like me, you enjoy fishing dries yet spend a lot of time in Northern California waters and automatically default to nymphs, try breaking the habit. Whether you’re fishing stonefly dries early in the season or smaller mayfly and caddis floaters in the summer, dedicate time each day to fishing a single dry, covering every part of the river you’re on, not just the deeper troughs. Especially in freestone streams, where fish can be more opportunistic feeders, you might be surprised by how willing trout are to rise. Sometimes all it takes is the confidence to leave the nymphs in the box.
