Home Water: The Sierra Nevada

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THE AUTHOR FISHES A FAVORITE POOL ON RUSH CREEK.

In my lifelong devotion to fishing, it’s been the tested and familiar that have captivated me. Few things satisfy me more than getting to know a portion of water well. Yes, I can thrive by exploring new rivers and lakes. It’s been said that leaving one’s comfort zone can reenergize both mind and body and rekindle the spirit. I agree. What can be more stimulating than lowering a fly in mysterious depths and being tantalized by what one might find?

But yet, I find greater rewards in returning, time after time, to a pool or stretch of river or piece of still water that I have come to know intimately and where I can count on trout taking a fly. This is water a fly fisher can call home.

Home water can encompass many forms and personal benefits, as detailed by some of our sport’s best writers. For instance, renowned writer and publisher, Nick Lyons, wrote:

It could be a private pond, a half-mile or ten miles of private trout water, a cove in a lake, a section of a shoreline, a couple of bends of a public river that everyone else and his brother consider their home water, too. But something in us hungers for the familiar, the known, the pleasure of fishing water that we know like the freckles on our arms. There is nothing surprising in this. We can only love when we know well.

Lyons also said of such a home water,

As I fished it the third and then the fourth time that summer, I realized I needed the regularity of the pond. It was a generous place, outside the mystery and ambiguity that I usually value so highly. I could depend upon the pond. It was a reliable place, a quiet place    I came to the pond for peace — for the predictability of catching a few good fish.

And here is how he described the Upper Michigan haunts of fellow fly fisher and writer, Robert Traver: “I often think of the wise old judge Robert Traver, and his exclusive love of bright, wild brookies in nearby water that he knows and loves. Not for him excursions to far flung corners of the world for one-week stands. Not for him the itch of newness. He likes the simple quality of what he knows well and has lived with — consistently.” For Norman Maclean, who wrote of the river that “runs through . . . all things merged into one,” his home water was “the river we knew best. My brother and I had fished the Big Blackfoot since nearly the beginning of the century — my father before then. We regarded it as a family river, as a part of us.”

During intervals in my life, I’ve returned over and over to a few select waters. I sought untrammeled places where one may fish in solitude and discovered that such opportunities can be the best our sport offers.

The North Fork of the Stanislaus

My first home water was the North Fork of the Stanislaus, surely one of the prettiest rivers in the Sierra Nevada. We had a cabin in Big Trees Village, above the town of Arnold, for about twenty-five years. During that span, I trekked pretty much every stretch of the North Fork, from its origins at Lake Alpine above Bear Valley to Calaveras Big Trees State Park, a distance of over twenty-five miles — more, if the twisting river is measured.

The North Fork of “The Stan”’ is a wilderness river. The terrain, with its gorges, is unapproachable in places. Granite escarpments and boulders eclipse a lot of the river, while other sections course through heavily wooded and brushy areas. One part of the river actually disappears for about a quarter of a mile, where it flows under and through massive granite slabs and blocks, testimony to a past cataclysmic event that sent canyon walls crashing. In my one visit to this stretch, it was great sport to run a fly down in the hidden depths of whatever water I could uncover and bring in dark-hued rainbows.

As rugged as this canyon is, varied dirt roads and trails (shown on maps) will take you to the river. At most road crossings, a campground and stocked fish will await you. To hook wild trout, you have to hike away, the farther the better, or tread a little-used trail to a remote part of the canyon. Although most catches will be in the 8-to-12-inch range, bigger fish can be taken, including lunker browns that lurk in some of the deep pools, particularly in the lower sections.

Most of my fishing occurred in the river nearest our cabin. Usually I took the Board’s Crossing road off of Highway 4 in Dorrington to the Sourgrass picnic area on the river. From there, I left my footprints on miles of the canyon floor in both directions while probing every inviting run with a fly.

Upriver was more intriguing, so I kept pushing farther and farther, first on a dirt road, then, after it swerved away from the river, a pathway through wooded areas. I traversed varied terrain, mostly on animal trails, then along the top of a small gorge. After this brisk hour-long trek, I reached a bend in the river in a U-shaped canyon. At its upper end, a waterfall plunges into a giant pool — a spectacular framing for what became my special piece of river.

STANISLAUS RIVER
THE NORTH FORK OF THE STANISLAUS RIVER.

Here, in a quarter-mile stretch below the waterfall, is a succession of platform pools, encompassing ripples, holes, glides, pockets, and eddies throughout — complex water capable of holding a lot of wild trout.

The shoreline here is traversable and open for fly casting, the abundant rainbows and fewer browns usually eager to greet a visitor. Diverse waters invite different tactics. Most rewarding to me was casting an Elk Hair Caddis or attractor pattern to a distant piece of water and having a trout make a quick grab. Sinking a Woolly Worm under a boulder where water gushed over it at the head of a pool typically led to the best catch of the day.

Sitting riverside under a giant ponderosa while munching a sandwich and swigging a cold beer, knowing I had this special piece of river all to myself, was pretty intoxicating. I lost count of my visits here across those many years, but it was well above fifty. I saw only one other fisherman in all that time.

The Tuolumne

During this same time span, I discovered another river that infused my life with meaning far beyond the fishing — the Tuolumne. As with the Stanislaus, I found my special water by putting on hiking boots, not waders.

I first got to know the “T” through whitewater rafting, another sport I heartily embraced. This rapid-strewn river is often referred to as “the champagne of rivers” for its beauty and technical rafting. In the 1980s, when a major dam was proposed that would have flooded much of the river canyon, a California contingent traveled to Washington, DC, to testify before Congress to have 83 miles of the Tuolumne designated a national Wild and Scenic River and thus protected from a dam. I represented angling interests at the hearings. How I got to that point involved many miles of tramping the river canyon. (Wild and Scenic status was conferred on the Tuolumne in 1984 as part of the California Wilderness Bill.)

In all, the Tuolumne River offers 158 miles of river to pursue wild trout. It begins with the merging of the Dana Fork and the Lyell Fork in Yosemite National Park. Then, after a flat stretch, the river starts it long, plummeting descent, crashing over several waterfalls, on down through the Grand Canyon of the Tuolumne. The infamous Hetch Hetchy Dam arrests its free-flowing state, drowning a valley that rivaled the Yosemite Valley in beauty and grandeur. After the impoundment, the river flows through the Poopenaut Valley. Farther downriver, the Wild and Scenic stretch starts, ending 83 miles later at the Don Pedro Reservoir.

Hearing that big trout populate this wild river, I wanted to hook some. First, though, I had to learn where and how to fish it. What I encountered was a very inhospitable canyon encompassing rocky cliffs and giant boulders, steep hillsides, thick vegetation infused with poison oak, and big rattlesnakes — perfect for leaving other anglers behind.

The big pools, though, were tough to decipher with a fly rod, leading to a host of futile outings. But determined to catch bigger trout than what the Stanislaus offered, I kept returning.

I accessed the Tuolumne via Lumsden Road — reached via Ferretti Road, a plainly marked turn off Highway 120 seven and a half miles east of Groveland — a bumpy dirt road that takes you to Meral’s Pool, the main launching point for rafts. Continue upriver on the road for another three miles, and you will reach Lumsden Bridge, Lumsden Falls, and Lumsden Campground. Although I fished with modest success in the rugged Jawbone Canyon above the falls and the more manageable stretches downriver, I soon settled on the river below Meral’s Pool. To reach the more open and traversable side, I paddled a small raft across this large pool. After hiding it, I would trek down the canyon, in places on an old feral cow trail. A few years into my visits, the National Forest Service built a trail from Meral’s Pool to the famous Clavey Falls, six miles downriver. But after a mile or so on the trail, I still crossed the river in low morning flows to get to the other side.

From the runs where I could cast a fly, I began to discover the Tuolumne’s signature rainbow trout — strong and healthy, most above 12 inches and on up to 20-plus inches. Finding user-friendly water was the challenge.

In going downriver and back, one long pool about two miles down consistently delivered action. The shoreline was open and inviting, where I could make long casts and get hits from aggressive trout. I usually wished I had more time at this pool instead of having to hustle to get back to my car. It then struck me: Why not just camp here? Thus began what turned out to be one of my most rewarding, and I might add, adventuresome outdoor experiences — spending innumerable days and nights camping alongside what came to be my favorite fly-fishing pool.

This pool, which sits below a long, tumbling rapid, contains productive holding water for trout. Varied currents create lanes and drift lines, while large submerged boulders provide protective lies. Insect life abounds, most prominently seen on hot summer evenings when dragonflies and other bugs fill the air.

After countless hours of probing these waters with a fly, I got to know this single pool deeply. And I caught tens and tens of beautiful, healthy wild rainbow trout.

THE TUOLUMNE RIVER
THE TUOLUMNE RIVER.

Here is what I wrote in my book Pursuing Wild Trout (1998):

I loved how the water flows through the pool, creating the unique ebbs, runs, and swirls I came to know so well. I loved standing on this rock, that piece of shore, and making long casts to what I came to know as the prime holding lies of the trout. I loved the obscurity and character of this spot — where I sat under an oak tree, rested on the sand against a rock, placed my sleeping bag. I loved knowing this place intimately, its many sides and moods that I grew to trust and count on. I felt connected to the other elements present here — a water ouzel bobbing on a rock midstream, the sounds of a woodpecker pecking on a dead pine, mergansers zooming up and down the canyon inches off the water, black bumblebees seeking nectar from blossoms of the nearby button bush, the canyon breezes, the constant presence and sounds of the river.

Such a place on a river, similar to what I found on the North Fork of the Stanislaus, produced a deep sense of fulfillment. These were places where I relaxed, reflected, felt peace and contentment, grew in spirit, and what only mattered at the moment was casting a fly to a far piece of water.

Rush Creek

I’ve written about Rush Creek in a recent article on the June Lake Loop Region (California Fly Fisher, July/August 2019), but my home pool there merits its own telling. It was located in the designated Wild Trout section from Grant Lake to Mono Lake. The stretch I routinely fished, including this pool, is located in the upper part of this long run. (As reported in my article, much of this stretch is now barely accessible due to the dense vegetation strangling the channel.) Completely invisible from the bank,

this hidden pool can be accessed only by fighting through some mean wild rose bushes on the hillside above it. The bushes, in fact, have become so impenetrable in recent years that access is mainly from upstream and then by tramping through a small side channel. The pool, or more accurately, the run, is only about thirty feet long and fifteen feet across, set within willows, yet with a relatively user-friendly, open shoreline.

I have fished this pool for many years (we exchanged the vacation home on Ebbetts Pass for one in the June Lake Loop) and have set on a specific routine. First, I approach it with stealth, usually on my knees, and run a fly (the pattern varies) along the near shoreline. (One year, I hooked a two-pound brown with my first cast of the season here in high water, only to lose it due to the failure of a knot in last year’s tippet.) After a few of these short-line tactics, I again lower the fly and let the current carry it to the bottom of the pool, where a (usually small) fish is often holding in the shallow water.

I then cast to the head of the pool and allow the current to carry the fly down the deep middle. This predictably will entice a strike. If not, I switch to a sinking fly, such as a beadhead nymph, and run it down deep in the pool. Again, if a fish is there, which one usually is, it will hit the fly.

Having exhausted this half of the pool, from top to bottom, shoreline to the middle, I then cast to the opposite side, which is only about fifteen feet away. I try to place the fly as close to the land as possible. A retrieve away from the shore often produces a take. If not, a trout will sometimes chase and take it as the drift brings the fly out toward the middle and down the run.

I then cast to the far, tail end of the pool, where there is deeper water flowing near a bush. A bigger fish often is holding near the bush and will burst out and seize the fly. And lastly, I turn to the far head of the run and try with a backhand cast to sling the fly under a bush there. When successful, if the fly sits for a second, a fish will grab it. Usually, this is the biggest best fish of all, typically in the 13-to14-inch range. A few times I have taken a fish from each part of the run.

Across two decades or so, I have hooked hundreds of fish in this one pool, mainly browns, but rainbows, as well. Rarely do I get skunked, even if only one small trout gives itself up.

I have taken companions to this pool, where they predictably catch their first fish on Rush Creek. A couple sought to go back on their own, only to report that they couldn’t find the pool.

Special Waters

Over the years. I have been blessed with uncovering these special waters, each a trustworthy haven across many years. One of our sport’s most eloquent writers, Ted Leeson, expressed what this experience means to him:

Still, we see some rivers better than we see others. For whatever reason — our histories with them, an unusually powerful aesthetic rapport, some unspecifiable eloquence — a few such rivers, perhaps only one, come into focus for each of us more readily and significantly than the rest. They grow into places of deep fixity in life and align themselves like compass points in the mind’s geography. My own such water is a fine, clear, spring creek, small by most measures, but substantial enough in its way to furnish just this kind of anchor for the spirit. When times come, as they invariably do, when what is needed most is a form of existential triage, I am certain that if I can just get back to this place, equilibrium will somehow return. If the word “ balm” describes anything, it is this water. I don’t know whether this means that my stream is a starting point or an ending point. Perhaps just a point of vantage. But I think that this feeling, more than anything, is what is meant when fishermen speak of “home water.” Such places manage to draw from us the best qualities of something like a soul and put them within reach.