The always quotable John Gierach wrote this about living alongside a trout stream: “Profound relaxation kicks in when you find yourself able to satisfy one of your more acute cravings, like, for instance, the need to fly-fish for trout in a stream just about any time the mood strikes, and to occasionally even have some success at it. . . . The day I moved into this house on the creek . . . I knew that, in time, I would become deeply familiar with it, and that a lot of good things would flow from that.”
This is what I, too, found when my wife, Diane, and I moved to a home overlooking the Sacramento River more than twenty-five years ago. I never thought we would ever move from the Bay Area, where we lived for over thirty years. An image of a place on the water changed my mind. When we brought that image to life, a lot of good things did indeed flow from that.
The lower Sacramento River, one of the top rainbow trout rivers in the world, tuns through the towns of Redding, Anderson, and on to Red Bluff. It is a big river. Releases from Shasta Dam (actually from the Keswick afterbay impoundment) and rainfall determine its flows, which can range from 3,000 cubic feet per second (cfs) in a severe drought year to 100,000 cfs at flood stage. Summer regimens range from 9,000 cfs to 14,000 cfs, which are artificially high to send water to Central Valley agribusinesses. Wading opportunities open up with flows below 8,000 cfs.
Every section of the lower Sac from Keswick through Anderson holds abundant rainbow trout. A boat accesses the most water, but shoreline locations for wading are widely available. And although I have preferred the evening to fly fish this river, any time can be highly productive. Thirty-to-forty-fish days are possible, but so, too, are slow outings. Although the lower Sac is primarily fished with nymphs, dry-fly fishing can be superb during some hatches.
The wild resident rainbows are a resilient mix of different ancestral strains from three major river systems — the Pit, McCloud, and Sacramento. They average 16-1/2 inches. Each season, anglers land fish of 5 to 6 pounds, with fish of 8 to 10 pounds possible, although rare.
The largest fish perhaps occupy the river above Redding’s Caldwell Park. A close friend who lived in that area regularly drifted down this stretch while running a small streamer pattern on a sinking line. His scrapbook of pictures includes shots of very hefty trout.
Fly fishing for rainbows from Redding down through Anderson is all superlative. From there on, it is less so, but steelhead and Chinook salmon add another enticing dimension.
I look for good holding water (usually deeper water where fish hang out) and good feeding water (often shallower water where fish come to eat). These change, depending on the time of year, time of day, and especially, food sources. How a fly fisher figures all this out for such as big river as the Sacramento is subject to that long-standing adage, “Know the water you’re fishing.”
One stretch of this waterway — near our home on the lower Sacramento — became my special piece of river, and I got to know it intimately. And here’s the ticket: any fly fisher can find a part of the lower Sacramento, or any river of choice, and learn it as I have done.
Home Water
Our place is on the Sac across and downriver from Anderson River Park. Remarkably, for over twenty-five years, I have had the entire shoreline here — call it a quarter mile — all to myself. Drift boats pass by, and some anchor in the big pool directly below our property. Anglers routinely fish the opposite shoreline, but no one but me fishes this side, where there are homes.
Low flows expose a long rock ledge that extends across two-thirds of the river. The main current runs down the far side, but some of the river flows to my side, where it tumbles over this ledge in frothy chutes before dispersing into a gigantic pool, larger than a football field.
In the first summer months when we moved here and in the next few years, I fervently fished almost every evening. With high summer flows, I mainly had to fish from a bank with the river about eight feet below. What I found, to my amazement, was that as dusk approached, countless rainbows would begin slashing on the surface in a feeding frenzy for hatching caddis.
With the water boiling with trout, it was hard not to fool one every now and then, but it was definitely not a cinch. Not only did my fly have to distinguish itself from thousands of pupae, it also had to behave like them. Frustratingly, I would often cast fruitlessly into this cauldron of feeding fish. I surmised that the problem was that my fly was coming down to the fish, instead of rising from the water’s depths. I still managed to hook lots of trout, but I never really solved this puzzle. I initially used a two-nymph combination, one usually a beadhead to sink the flies in the churning water. The best nymph pattern in varied sizes was a Bird’s Nest. Infrequently, I used an indicator with two f lies — the rig most f ly fishers employ when fishing the Sac. In one burst of success, I once got 18 consecutive hookups with this method, all fish between 12 and 14 inches. Still, I never truly embraced it, because I found the rig clumsy to cast and prone to tangles.
Once the high summer f lows subside, sometime in September, the river opens up for easy wading. Here in my stretch, rock platforms get exposed, interspersed with channels, pools, and riffles. Fishing along the shoreline, I began using a single nymph or emerger pattern, casting out into the current where it could be swept down to feeding fish — “swinging.” In several choice spots, the main current f lowed strongly, but offshoots jutted toward the shore, where fish often waited for food.
The large pool directly below our home is prime water. From rock platforms, I could make long casts and have the current take the fly on an extended swing — great for trout to see it. Often, the take would happen at the very end as the nymph rose to the surface.
Across the years, this simple and straightforward technique has served me well. A rainbow’s strike at a swinging nymph can be ferocious, with the trout usually hooking itself. When no fish are feeding near the surface, I often switch to a weighted fly, such as a Woolly Worm, and sink it in a run or pocket. This tactic has proved very effective, particularly when stoneflies occupy the water. Dredging the depths with beadhead nymphs or by adding split shot has been another effective method.
I have fished during the day at times. The frenzied rises have been absent, but I still have caught fish, sometimes impressively large fish. The best method to employ has been more unpredictable, often a matter of trial and error.
I hit upon another relatively unique way to fish my home water — float tubing in the giant pool. At low flows, in places with very minimal current, the Sac can accommodate this approach. Being able to access choice spots unavailable from shore is hard to beat. One of my most productive outings came on a February evening, with a profuse hatch of caddisflies all about, while I maneuvered in my float tube to cast to the most productive feeding lanes.
With low winter flows, sometimes down to 3,500 cfs in scarce rainfall years, much of the river opens up to wading and excellent fly fishing. Salmon are in the river at this time, as well, and trout will gorge on protein-rich salmon eggs dislodged from the redds. I’ve seen pictures of rainbow trout that are almost as deep in girth as they are long. Most fly fisher’s presentations include an egg pattern at this time.
That covers the basics. It’s the exceptions, however, that proved the most lucrative for me.
Surprises
While traversing the river shoreline one October evening, I had to bypass a quiet pool alongside a bank that forms in the early fall. To me, it was dead water, the kind trout would never occupy. Except that is, when they did.
Up to this time, I had found that rainbows would stop feeding with the onset of darkness. On this evening, however, as I was reeling in, I detected fish activity in this pool. Trout — big trout judging from their slashes — were cruising about feeding, even close to the bank. Caddisflies were soon crawling all over my hands and neck, delivering a clear message.
The following evening, I managed to hook an 18-inch fish here in the dark. For the next several weeks, I fished this pool almost every evening during the legal hour after sunset. For these highly selective fish, I had to fine tune my techniques. Bringing two rods helped in case of a tangle. One tactic was to cast my fly across the pool and retrieve it ever so slowly. If I felt the slightest resistance, I would lift my rod, hoping to feel a heavy weight. Other times, I would raise the fly or drag it across the surface to get a fish’s attention. All of these surface tactics worked. A hooked fish would typically rocket out toward the main current, giving me all I could handle.
I estimated that I hooked as many as 80 trout, most measuring in the high teens, from this one pool across several years. One night, six fish showed on the surface, and I managed to hook all six.
At some point, the mad evening rise on the Sac slowly petered out. I’m not sure when it happened or why. It is speculated that the reconfiguration of Shasta Dam to deliver colder flows for salmon dampened the caddis hatches. They are still there, but less abundant. Mayfly hatches remain profuse.
Whenever the caddis decline happened escaped me, because by this time, I had ceased fishing most evenings as leisurely walks and quiet evenings at home came to replace those vigorous hours along the shoreline.
But the lower Sac still had a major surprise left for me. It was prompted when a visiting friend stopped by in late July and asked, “How’s the river been fishing?” I stared at him, trying to recall the last time I fished it.
So the next evening, I headed down to the river to check it out.
I went to nearby water that I fished more frequently as the years passed. To reach the runs, I had to wade across a channel, so flows had to be under 8,000 cfs. When they are, it opens up a wide expanse of choppy riffles, flat runs, and varied pools. It is water usually unavailable until the fall, but the federal Bureau of Reclamation had lowered the river this July. Word was they did so to help endangered winter-run Chinook salmon to be able to dig out redds.
On this late-July evening, after wading across the channel, I headed for the choppy riffles.
I began by swinging an emerger pattern, probably a Sparkle Pupa, across and down the rippling water. On the fourth or fifth cast, a vicious hit jolted my arm, followed by a strong f ish tugging and knocking at the end of my line. I got it on the reel and allowed it to run, reeling in slack when I could. This was a big, strong trout. And then the line went slack.
That hurt — a lot. But it was a marvelous greeting on this reunion visit.
After a few more casts, another fish struck. This one, too, ferociously resisted and streaked about. I played it carefully and then brought in a richly colored three-pound rainbow.
On another cast, the fly halted. I struck, but no hookup. I sent the fly out again, and before it was swept down, it halted abnormally. A hooked trout then shot across the riffles and jumped high out of the water. In the net, this full-bodied rainbow showed mainly silver with few markings.
Before the evening ended, I had hooked two more, losing the first, but landing the second, another tenacious rainbow that ripped line off the reel and into the backing as it made several long runs.
The next evening, after a fishless hour, I hooked two stout rainbows in the last minutes before I left. Wading back, I saw rises in the long f lowing stretch below where I had crossed, something I would definitely check out.
When I returned, it was evident that lots of fish had moved into this slow-moving water to feed — its depth was only two to three feet. I netted three strong rainbows here, all above three pounds.
On visit four, I hooked four fish in the riffles and three in the long run, each a fat, healthy specimen. It was the classic evening scenario in which trout left their holding lies and entered these insect-rich waters to feed. All of my hookups were on a single nymph that I fished on or just below the surface.
On the next outing, a close friend joined me. His setup consisted of a Ted Fay Black Bomber and a light tan emerger as a dropper about 18 inches up. I thought he might miss out on the surface action, but he took five fish in the riffle stretch, never once moving, while I caught nothing. However, as we were leaving, I hooked a strong, hefty fish in the flat run that took me deep into my backing. When it leapt out of the water almost seventy-five feet away, I could barely see it.
This phenomenal week of fishing was just the beginning. I returned there evening after evening, consistently getting hookups with strong, fat rainbows, most between three and four pounds, a few even larger. Another companion joined me a few times, and if anything, he outdid me, mainly fishing dries on the surface.
I then invited a friend who had never caught a fish in the Sacramento — I had told him when the fishing got good, I would invite him down. After a couple of years had passed, that time had arrived. A very inexperienced fly fisher, he had still not hooked a fish after an hour passed. Then, remarkably, in the last thirty minutes, he hooked seven brutes, casting no farther than 15 feet — on his first Sacramento River outing.
The incredible activity lasted into October. Hookups were followed by long runs, line zinging down to the backing, jumps up into the air. I fully understood that when flows dropped below 8,000 cfs in late summer, this is the place to be.
It didn’t happen again for three years. When it did, I took our fly-fishing son to this part of the river. But disappointingly, although the river and runs looked the same, the fish just weren’t there as before. The few hookups we got were in the 10-to-13-inch range; a 15-incher was a trophy. Such middling fishing persisted for the rest of the year.
Why such a change occurred, I cannot say. Trout populations and their activity are unpredictable, at best. What I can say is, for the better part of three months that one year, I experienced the best that the Sacramento or any river in the world can offer a fly fisher. I’ll take it.
Always New, Always Reliable
It’s deeply satisfying to look back and recall all the special Sacramento River rainbow trout I brought to the net. I tend to forget the many times when I visited the river and came up empty, which happened as frequently as not. But every minute on the river proved rewarding in some way, if only by being there, joined by the sights, sounds, smells, myriad birds and mammals, and the occasional explosion of a salmon out of the water right before me, raising my heartbeat and my spirits.
And despite how familiar I grew with the pools and runs I fished over years and the nature of the trout I sought, each of these elements never stopped surprising me with its variations.
Such knowledge has come to mean that in these advanced years, I am able to pay a quick visit to the river, cast to a familiar piece of water, and know that a trout will probably be there to greet me. This is hard to beat.
Note: Bob Madgic has written two books on the Sacramento River: A Guide to Fly Fishing the Sacramento River (River Bend Books, 2015) and The Sacramento: A Transcendent River (River Bend Books, 2013).
