I’ve always felt that reminiscing about the past should be done sparingly, lest one take their eye off the incredibly precious life chapters still waiting to be written. No one wants to become that sad soul who everyone tries to avoid at family reunions because their need for a captive audience and reliving days gone by has superseded common courtesy and the fact that no one else really cares. But just this once, I want to whisper about a few of my special places, why I care about them, and why I think you should, too.
What makes a fishery special, you ask? The answer varies from person to person, but rarely is it only about the fishing. While I’m as guilty as the next person for my capacity to fish obsessively, the places I consider really special are also associated with extraordinary things I’ve seen, heard, or felt in these places while seeking fish. Eventually, you develop a relationship with places as if they were beloved friends. You create a history together, and a threat to their well-being (or their very existence) becomes a darned good reason to fight.
If you have a sudden need to go stir the potato salad or turn up Aunt Cora’s hearing aide for her, now would be a good time to excuse yourself.
The Upper Sacramento
Did you just yawn at the prospect of reading yet another piece about the upper Sac? If so, you deserve to be hauled ’round back to the wild-trout woodshed. Think about it: 38 miles of the prettiest trout water imaginable, in close proximity to a railroad that tried to kill it and a freeway traversed by tens of thousands of people every day. Repeat after me . . . eight thousand trout per mile . . . eight thousand trout per mile. . . .
A quintessential California story, the very existence of the upper Sacramento River wild-trout fishery practically defies reason. How can such a magical place survive and prosper in a state containing almost forty million souls? Despite proximity to so many people, the river is largely devoid of anglers, especially if you are willing to hike the railroad tracks for only a few minutes. In terms of quality fishing, abundant points of access, and genuinely stunning scenery, I’d say the upper Sac is about as close to a perfect trout stream as you’re ever likely to find.
I caught my first Northern California trout beside Sims Flat Campground, water made famous by the likes of anglers such as Ted Towendolly, Ted Fay, and Joe Kimsey. Some even suppose this is where short-line nymphing got its start. Perhaps it did. Generations of anglers who started out as kids chucking garden hackle to hatchery fish here have evolved into some of the fiercest wild-trout advocates.
The Cantara Loop incident (nineteen thousand gallons of herbicide spilled into the river from a train derailment) back in the early 1990s nearly killed the river, but an unexpected outcome of the disaster also showed what an extraordinary fishery we had and have again. Until that point, no one really knew how incredibly productive the river was. A “healthy” trout stream is considered to be capable of sustaining three thousand to five thousand fish per mile. Biologists believe the upper Sac has fully recovered. Say it again: eight thousand trout per mile . . . eight thousand trout per mile. . . .
Reliving the past: I’m not sure where members of a large fly-fishing club had parked that day, but obviously their vehicles were far enough away from where I left my truck to convince me I had that section of the Sac all to myself. (This was back during the years before clubs learned not to send huge groups on outings and overwhelm fisheries.) However, when I reached the water, anglers for almost as far as the eye could see were stationed on every likely spot, just hammering away at the river. I noticed a group of four guys taking turns drifting nymphs through a nice slot and immediately recognized why no one was hooking fish.
It’s a good lesson to learn, especially on streams like the upper Sac and the McCloud River, streams that have some really deep sections. (Of course, this was knowledge I’d gained the hard way, by first being that guy blissfully doing it all wrong.) I asked if they were through fishing that section, and they said “Yep.” Someone added there must not be any fish in that hole anyway. I knew otherwise.
Before I finish this ramble, I have to admit that I’m a cliché kind of guy. I read stories or watch movies all the time where I know exactly how they’re going to turn out, and that’s OK. You may even suspect how this one will end.
I clinched six or eight spit shot about 10 inches above my nymph, took off my floating strike indicator, and slapped my nymphs into the water upstream from the deepest part of the hole. I started to dredge, and when the end of my flyline hesitated, I lifted the rod and felt the weight of a sizeable fish. I heard someone yell, “Hey, he’s got a fish!” and suddenly I had company as I netted a 20-inch-plus rainbow trout.
When things like that happen to me (being a showboat), part of me feels like some kind of Boy Scout, while other parts of me feel like a horse’s patoot. Everyone was looking at me. I took it as a teachable moment and showed them my much heavier rig, explaining how I fished it and why. On any other day, I probably would not have caught that fish, but it’s true: sometimes you just get lucky.
The upper Sac is first on my list because it is as vulnerable as it is visible. Just because sections are seen by literally thousands of travelers every day does not mean we can risk taking it for granted, even for a moment. The fly-fishing community has proven capable of becoming a snarling pack of junkyard dogs when precious, historic fisheries are threatened, which is exactly why you are reading these words.
Keswick Reservoir
I love exploring, finding new places, and trying new things, especially as it relates to wild-trout fisheries. This speaks to how I stumbled upon one of my favorite fisheries, and I’m content with everyone thinking I’m a nut job because of the way I love to fish it, which is from a float tube.
I fished and guided on Keswick hard for many years and feel at least as qualified as anyone to talk about its fabulous angling. It astounds me how it’s so centrally located, just north of Redding, yet somehow remains so off the radar. People don’t fish it much.
It’s obviously grand to stumble upon such a great fishery so close to at least one hundred thousand people. Friend and writer Bob Madgic was the one who recommended I check out Keswick. When I landed my first fish there, a robust 24-inch rainbow, I knew this was going to be a long relationship. Keswick is special to me because there’s rarely anyone else there, it holds some truly huge trout (my best an honest 26-inch rainbow that hardly fit in my net), and fishing it the way I do is so unusual and productive, it’s a genuine kick in the pants.
I especially love reading fishing reports for Keswick Reservoir on various Web sites, because as a high school English teacher, I’ve always enjoyed good fiction. The truth is, I’ve quit caring if anyone believes me about the best way to fish it. I know what works on Keswick and what doesn’t.
I often read that a powerboat is the way to go on Keswick, and that’s dubious advice. The boat-launch ramp off Iron Canyon Road is the closest boat access, at least seven miles from the upper reservoir, where most of the best fish are. Depending on water levels, there are often huge boulders just under the surface of the water, difficult to see from a speeding boat. Add to that the fact that I’ve never seen anyone in a boat hook a trout on Keswick. I suppose it has something to do with how visible a standing angler is to the fish, but I’m just not sure.
My advice: drive across Shasta Dam (the guard will ask to see your driver’s license) and park beside the campground. Sling your float tube over your back and hike upstream until the path takes you next to a chain-link fence. Just before the big white tank, you’ll see a path down to the water. Launch your tube and kick over to the far side of the reservoir.
Some people are afraid of being in moving water in a float tube at first, but they very quickly realize that if the current is gentle, nothing bad can happen. Fish a beaded nymph four or five feet under an indicator and focus on water three to six feet deep. Most of the time, this means casting in toward the bank, but there are places where it’s just the opposite. Although these fish see very few anglers, they will not tolerate a poor presentation. Some days, the takes are pretty obvious, but sometimes all you will see is a heaviness or slight hesitation in your strike indicator. Set the hook!
Not far downstream, the reservoir makes a right-hand curve. After this point, both sides fish equally well. Fishing the deep moving water down the middle of the reservoir is a waste of time. The fish are off to the edges in three to six feet of water. Paths up to the hiking-biking trail next to the reservoir are fairly obvious. Choose one when you’re ready to quit fishing, sling your tube over your back, and hike back to your vehicle.
Reliving the past: I was guiding a gentleman and his teenage daughter on Keswick one hot summer day. A nice thing about tubing Keswick is that even when it’s over 100 degrees, the 50-degree water works as natural air conditioning. We were floating and fishing downstream together when I noticed something swimming in the water in front of us. It was too big to be an otter and had a head shaped more like a dog. Suddenly, I realized it was a big bear taking a dip. I yelled “HEY MR. BEAR!” at the top of my lungs and watched it make a perfect U-turn in the water and crash back up the bank and into the brush. Apparently the summer heat was unbearable.
Keswick made my list of special places because I think it’s important for our souls to haul our butts out once in awhile and try new things. Most of us spend far too much precious life doing ordinary, boring things day in and day out. Treat yourself to a fishing adventure that can be extraordinary, and don’t believe what you read on Web sites more interested in your wallet than in the facts.
The McCloud River
When I think of the upper Sacramento, I think of spacious, brilliant blue skies and gin-clear water. When I think of Keswick, I think of drifting past otherworldly rock formations in my float tube and holding a fly rod that’s bucking with a big fish. The McCloud River below Lake McCloud is a world of primordial beauty, shadows, blue-green water, and hidden dangers. It’s been known as an angling paradise for more than a hundred years.
If a trout stream could be likened to a building, the McCloud would be a Gothic cathedral evoking a sense of awe and reverence. Here is a place somehow outside of time. On the McCloud River, it’s just as likely to be the year 1016 or 1416 as it is 2016, and that’s just as it should be.
The fish are famous, some of the first rainbow trout to be captured, artificially propagated, and sent around the world to satisfy nameless, faceless anglers wanting the same things we do. Few places have given so much and needed so little in return. The narrow, shadowy canyon, steep banks, abundant poison oak, and fairly common rattlesnakes only add to the fishing experience. Wintu Indians lived here for thousands of years, taking their sustenance from incredible year-round salmon runs. Today’s challenge is to preserve the McCloud so it remains a healthy and properly managed wild-trout fishery.
While nymphing remains the most effective method for catching McCloud River rainbows and browns most of the time, the fish are also well-known for being receptive to both dry flies and streamers. You can fish all day with a nymphing rig (floating strike indicator suspended six feet above one or two nymphs and a split shot or two) and expect to catch fish. There might be hatches and dry-fly fishing almost any time of day in the spring or fall. During the summer, hatch activity typically occurs during the last hour or two of daylight. Most anglers think about fishing streamers only in the fall, when the brown trout are spawning, but this is a mistake. You can fish streamers on a sink-tip line any day of the season and expect to do fairly well for both rainbows and brown trout.
Reliving the past: Rattlesnakes scare me silly. Actually, that’s not quite true. . . . It’s being surprised by rattlesnakes that really gets me. I’m OK as long as I know exactly where they are, but when surprised, I am capable of vertical jumps that would be the envy of any NBA player. Despite my unreasonable fear, rattlesnakes are among nature’s most shy and docile creatures, and I’ve encountered many in the McCloud’s canyon over the years.
My friend Mike will never live down one day when I took him and his wife, Heather, to a spot across and downstream from the footbridge at Ash Camp. Mike and I were fishing, while Heather sat on the bank, deep into a novel. All of a sudden, Heather let fly with a full-on horror-movie scream that rose the hair on the backs of our necks.
“MIKE,” she yelled, “THERE’S A RATTLESNAKE RIGHT HERE NEXT TO ME. HEEEEEEELP!”
Mike and I all but flew out of that river and found Heather cowering not far from a healthy three-foot rattler. The snake was not coiled and didn’t seem nearly as alarmed as Heather. It was looking at us as if to say, “Hey guys. What’s the big deal?” We ogled the snake for a few minutes, and I snapped a few photos, at which point Mike turned around and stepped back into the river to resume angling.
I was genuinely surprised to hear language come out of Heather’s mouth that I had heard only in the company of longshoremen and certain diesel mechanics. The thrust of her comments had something to do with how Mike was going to get his posterior out of that river and escort her back to the car this minute and how he could kiss fishing goodbye at least for the rest of the day. No one bothered the poor snake after that.
It is important to support those organizations that support the McCloud River, such as the McCloud River Conservancy and California Trout. There is no place else on the planet like the wild McCloud River, and I can’t imagine living in a world where I could not go there to reconnect with primitive beauty that eclipses understanding.
Hat Creek
The most difficult place to fish I know of is also the cornerstone and reason for some of California’s best wild-trout fishing. It began as a wildly successful experiment in wild-trout management that led to the formation of California Trout and the California Wild Trout Project. When I recently saw a video of a crane lowering the new Carbon Flats bridge into place, my tongue swelled for a moment, and my eyes moistened.
The flat water on Hat Creek is the most challenging fishing I’m aware of on the planet. If you need to stroke your ego, you’d better head somewhere else. Hat Creek is the place to go to push your limits and maybe your sanity. It’s the kind of fishing where, if you make the perfect cast with the perfect fly to the perfect fish, you might get a grab, but only on full-moon Tuesdays during a leap year. OK, it’s not quite that tough, but it is tough enough to challenge even the best. Of course, anyone can get lucky, and sometimes big fish grab terribly presented, ridiculous flies, but that’s just fishing. It’s the kind of experience that either puts you in an institution or keeps you out of one.
Most anglers fish the Powerhouse 2 riffle, the broken water just below the powerhouse. That’s not the water I’m talking about here. I’m talking about all that flat stuff from below the riffle to the Highway 299 bridge. Over many years of fishing and guiding there, I quit trying to catch these fish on nymphs. They probably eat just as many subsurface aquatic insects as any other trout does, but you couldn’t prove it by me. It always seemed that the trout spent most of their time hunkered down underneath the weed beds, not eating until there is a hatch. Only then do they feed, and boy oh boy, are they persnickety. Here is what has worked for me. Wait until the last hour or two of daylight. Almost any day of the season there is likely to be some variety of hatching mayfly or caddisfly. Regardless of what is hatching, tie on a size 16 or 18 Paradun. Hat Creek’s trout will eat this bug if it’s presented right and Jupiter is aligned with Mars.
Don’t even think about casting upstream. What works is a downstream, dead-drift presentation, and it’s all about managing your slack line. Without enough slack, you skate or twitch your dry fly, and that’s bad (most of the time). If you have too much slack, when a fish grabs your fly, you will miss setting the hook. The margin of error is not great, so having boatloads of patience really helps. Any fish, large or small, is a trophy.
Reliving the past: I was one of several guides working with a group of high-roller clients who wanted to test their skill (and the skill of their guides) on Hat Creek fish. Each client had one guide, and they decided to take turns casting to a group of rising trout. The guide of the first one to land a fish would receive a hundred-dollar bill.
I’ve never been into gambling, and I’m certainly not in it for the money, but there was something about the challenge of that intense session that brought out the best in all of us. Long story short, I did not win the $100. My client was the first to get a fish to rise, but it managed to slip off his barbless hook. The French might say c’est la vie, such is life, but I say stuff happens.
Hat Creek is a tough stream to do well on. Only the really good (or really lucky) need apply. I find this fishing, this level of difficulty, riveting. You want to find out if you’re really good? Go to Hat Creek. If you happen to have a really great evening, don’t trip over your own ego. Tomorrow, you’re likely to get skunked.
There is a broader story here too, and every California angler passionate about wild trout should know it. Back in the late 1960s, the three-mile section of Hat Creek we know as the wild-trout section just east of Burney was anything but. For years, untold numbers of hatchery trout had been dumped into Hat below the Hat 2 Powerhouse, to the frothing glee of the fish-filet-loving hordes. Shortly after entering the water, most of the trout exited the stream to rest in coolers, leaving behind untold scores of nongame fish such as suckers, pikeminnows, and hardheads. A group of forward-thinking anglers, including Richard May, André Puyans, Joe Paul, Bob Carroll, and Herb Joseph thought we could do better. They first affiliated with Trout Unlimited, but later formed their own group, known today as California Trout.
PG& E biologist Jim Adams had heard about a scheme that proposed building a rough-fish barrier above Lake Britton to keep unwanted species of fish out and restocking the stream with native rainbows and brown trout. Richard May told me it was a tough sell getting all the groups together, but the project finally became a reality. Within a few short years, the great fishing became nationally known, and he even wrote an article about it in the very first issue of Fly Fisherman magazine back in 1969. I have a rare copy.
You should care about Hat Creek because this is where most of California’s best wild-trout fishing got its start, if only by extension. To me, it symbolizes what might be accomplished when good people work together toward a common goal. It also reminds me of how some special places rub off on the people who cherish them. Hat Creek has challenged me to become a better angler, not to be satisfied with where or who I am today, and to push myself continually to improve my fly fishing skills.
New Waters
As I finish this piece, I reflect on the fact that I haven’t lived in California for more than 10 years now. From my Oregon home, I’ve had ample opportunities to visit my California home waters often and to stay in touch with many of the incredible people who keep the special places special. I rest easy knowing that my special places are in good hands, at least for the time being.
Now I’m moving even farther away, to Spokane, to be exact, and cannot risk looking back any longer. You can only savor the past for so long before you inevitably take attention away from a future that beckons, yet is still indistinct. Time’s a-wasting! There are new waters for me to explore, and you as well.
