The beckoning of wild trout and the anticipation of a tug on my fly rod draws me up the dirt road. Moving water pulls on my soul. Two hundred yards upstream from the old La Grange Road bridge, I stop on the pavement to examine the run below. Already, the sound of the splashing riffle washes away any remnants of the week’s stresses. The lower Tuolumne is my fall and winter sanctuary.
During the fall and winter, when the upper Tuolumne River is a mere trickle under the Sierra snow, the lower Tuolumne below La Grange Dam is a quaint, relatively little-known, and hence underappreciated tailwater in the Sierra foothills east of Modesto. Its trout are often wild, fat, and impressively acrobatic. In the riffles and runs, trout average 12 to 18 inches, but fish in the 20-inch range are sometimes hooked. The deeper, slower-moving portions of the river can hold wild native rainbows exceeding 24 inches and five pounds. During the summer, a few anglers will pack float tubes upriver half a mile to the big, deep water to cast streamers in hopes of tangling with one of these monsters. But even though the big fish are mostly caught on streamers, by studying the trout and reading the water, you can hook these trout on nymphs and dry flies. However, landing such fish is another thing altogether. The regulations for the Tuolumne specify barbless hooks only.
With the exception of 2011, when the Tuolumne averaged over 3,000 cubic feet per second between January and June, and for short periods in the spring, most years, before offsetting irrigation draw-downs mitigate the spring runoff, this jewel of a river offers consistent flows during most of the ten months that it’s open. Typically, the water flows are approximately 160 to 170 cfs, ideal for wading. (But always check river flows at http://cdec.water.ca.gov for the Tuolumne or any foothill river before heading out, especially for those controlled by dams.)
The Tuolumne is closed in November and December to accommodate a normally modest chinook salmon run. Generally, the first salmon appear in November, and although salmon fishing is prohibited, trout fishing is allowed through October. The Tuolumne is one of my favorite winter and early spring rivers, but in the fall, during ideal flows, it shines like a diamond.
Today, on my visit, the early morning air is cool, but the sun warms my face as I lean on my wading staff, looking for rising fish. Two days remaining in the season — my last fix until January, I ponder. Suddenly, a small dimple appears in the otherwise smooth tailout. This is what I came here for.
Even this late in autumn, it pays to be on the water by nine in the morning — that’s when the first bugs can appear. Granted, October emergences on the Tuolumne won’t rival the prolific hatches in March and April, but they are sufficient to catch the attention of sizable trout.
The splashy riffle 50 yards upstream sparkles as I descend the trail to the flat tailout run. I’ll work my way up there later, I think, but first I’ll feed a dry fly to these risers.
I approach the tailout from downstream. Pausing to get a look at what bugs are on the surface, I slowly pull line from the reel and shake some slack from the tip of my 4-weight rod. Nothing is hatching yet, but that can change quickly. A caddisfly bounces across the water. It looks like a caddis imitation will be the standard fly to start the day.
Last March, I seined the riffle and found it a literal smorgasbord of caddis larvae and mayfly nymphs, mostly Blue-Winged Olives and Pale Morning Duns. The trout residing in the run below that riffle thus are accustomed to dining on a specific menu. Figuring out what’s on that particular day’s menu is the trick and the difference between fishing and catching. The daily October specials are caddisflies and, later in the day, Blue-Winged Olives. The prospect of big trout on dry flies is more exciting than drifting egg patterns behind spawning salmon.
Caddisflies returning to the water’s surface to lay their eggs are the most likely item on today’s breakfast menu. I launch a size 14 brown caddis imitation, landing it amid white foam bubbles in a narrow string. It’s something I learned early from my f ly-fishing friend Lex Gamblin: always fish the foam line. After several drifts, a fat 14-inch rainbow splashily inhales my fly, and the fight is on. It leaps three times before I scoop the fish up in my net, a big-bellied, silvery hen. Fifteen minutes later, a crimson-gilled 16-inch male eats the same fly.
During a well-defined Tuolumne hatch, you will need to match the emerging bugs very closely. If you do, and the fish are rising regularly, your drift can sometimes be less than perfect, but still successful. In the absence of a hatch, these wild fish will take caddis or Adams patterns, but these flies must be perfectly dead drifted — not easy in the conflicting currents in this tailout — or the well-educated fish will reject them. These Tuolumne trout are very sensitive to microdrag and will spurn any ill-presented offering. Because microdrag is a likely culprit when “they’re just not biting today,” a downstream drift on a bit of a slack line works well.
Just upstream, a small piece of flat water below a short, shallow riffle usually holds trout, so I cross the river and stealthily position myself for a downstream drift. The flat is about two feet deep, and in the gin-clear water you will often see the fish move to take the fly. My reach cast lays the fly line upstream into the riffle and the fly at the upstream edge of the soft water. I lift some slack off the water with an upstream mend while the fly dead drifts into the flat water. As I mend to keep the line upstream, the undulating fly gently drifts into the zone. Instantaneously, the water ripples and a tail splashes the surface. The take startles me. I lift the rod as the trout turns away. In typical Tuolumne River rainbow fashion, the fishtail walks into the run below, then torpedoes downstream. One last leap, and the fish is gone. My line flies back at me and then collapses on the water like a dead snake. I’d rather lose a fish to that kind of fight than land one that slogs around on the bottom, unless, of course, it’s a sure-enough pig.
I gather up the slack line along with my slightly dented ego and send another drift down the riffle. After I work several drifts across the flat, my fly entices a strike from a trout two feet away. I see the fish quickly turn. My body tenses, not in anticipation, but in resistance to the overwhelming urge to jerk the rod downstream and pull the fly away from the fish. With all the discipline I can muster, I resist the temptation. What happens occurs in the blink of an eye, but feels like slow motion. I wait for the fish to break the surface before lifting the rod. The line snaps tight as the trout turns away with the fly in his mouth, resulting in a solid hookup. A few minutes later, I land another hen of a size similar to the others.
This same downstream technique works well in March and April. If you’re on the Tuolumne during even a sporadic PMD hatch, drift a size 16 Light Cahill or Sulfur downstream into flat water below any riffle. Tuolumne river trout seem to prefer flies riding low in the water, so fish a parachute or comparadun-style pattern, or trim the underside of a hackled fly.
After a few more drifts, I decide to move on. As I turn upstream, the big riffle there appears uncharacteristically splashy. Maybe the flows went up since I checked them. Wading onto dry gravel in the middle of the river, I stare intently at a small diversion running down the brush-choked left bank. Overhanging willows shade the water, creating a haven for trout. Last March, during a mayfly hatch, an 18-inch rainbow lurking under those willows came off the bank and inhaled a size 18 Adams. I landed that one, but two weeks later, his twin brother took a brown caddis, and before I could get him gathered up, he darted back into the submerged willow limbs and hung me up. I hate it when that happens, but at the same time, it’s cool as hell.
Concentrating on placing my fly close to the willows without snagging one, I carefully false cast, extending more line with each stroke. I crouch while easing into position for my first cast. A splashing sound to the right startles me. I quickly glance to the sound’s direction. The intense glare makes me squint. Thinking it was a rising trout, I pull slack to prepare for a cast to the middle of the river and wait for another rise to pinpoint my cast. As I squint into the glare, my edge sharpens, and my mind enters the anticipatory zone that’s practically devoid of sound. Focusing intently, I think, He’ll rise again.
Suddenly, a heavy splash and sight of a large caudal fin nearly at my feet snaps me upright. That was no trout! Looking upstream, scanning the riffle, I now realize why it was splashier than normal. I had thought it possible that I might see the errant early salmon or two, but I hadn’t anticipated this.
Considering that the management of the many San Joaquin River tributaries is for irrigation, urban water needs, and power generation, it’s surprising that salmon continue to exist in these rivers. If it weren’t for the California Department of Fish and Wildlife’s efforts, supported by various sportfishing organizations, salmon runs might not exist at all. That’s especially true for rivers with no fish hatchery, such as the Tuolumne.
The riffle was alive with at least forty beautifully wild chinook salmon jockeying for position on the most suitable gravel. Hyperaggressive males vigorously chasing each other were trying to secure their position with a hen. I hadn’t seen salmon stacked up in a riffle since I fished the Kenai Peninsula’s Deep Creek — a wonderful sight, especially on a California river this far south.
Where salmon spawn, trout are not far behind — literally. It takes fewer than five minutes for me to get my 5-weight nymph rod out.
Normally, I’d work the lower part of the riffle and the shallow run on the right bank with egg patterns approximating the color of depositing eggs, but this is still very early in the spawning process. The fish are not yet paired, with the hens just beginning to build redds. Salmon hens move a lot of gravel when building redds, so there might be a few eggs present, but the trout are more likely to be keying in on the plethora of bugs the excavations send into the drift. My fear is that a 5-weight fly rod might not be enough stick to handle the trout in that shallow run. Actually, catching a trout that is too big to handle with a 5-weight rod is more of a hope than a fear. After I tie on a Prince Nymph and a Copper John dropper, my first drift hooks an 18-inch male rainbow that races down the run and flops off in the flat below. Six fish later, four of which I’ve landed, the trout are gone — either hooked or spooked.
I look at my watch: noon. Pretty good action for half a day’s fishing. Hunger pangs create a sense of hollowness. Visions of trout yield to images of a sandwich and a cold beer. After lunch, I will try to tempt these trout with egg patterns before hiking to see what other shining facets this gem of a river has to offer.
Angling Elsewhere on the Lower Tuolumne
From La Grange Dam to the Tuolumne’s confluence with the San Joaquin River, the fishing season runs from January 1 through October 31, meaning this entire stretch is closed to angling only during two months, November and December. Artificial lures with barbless hooks must be used on the river between the dam and Hickman Bridge in Waterford. Below Hickman Bridge, the use of bait is allowed. Along the entire stretch of river below the dam, the daily bag limit is two hatchery trout or steelhead, and four of these fish are allowed in possession. Hatchery fish have had their adipose fin removed. If you catch a trout or steelhead with its adipose fin in place, it must be released immediately.
Although fly fishers tend to consider the lower Tuolumne’s best angling to usually occur in the area of La Grange, angling opportunities exist downstream, and the range of species that can be caught (such as bass and bluegills) increases, as well. Access, however, tends to be limited to road crossings and public lands, like parks. Adventurous anglers sometimes float the river, which requires a shuttle. It is important to note that floating this stretch is not necessarily safe; unwary recreationists have drowned. You can find a useful description of such a float online at www.cacreeks.com/tuol-val.htm. Note especially the reference to the Turlock Irrigation District’s “deathtrap” on the river.
—Richard Anderson
If You Go…
La Grange is a small, unincorporated community in rural Stanislaus County that, like many foothill communities. you could easily blink and miss if the road through town were straighter. The river area around La Grange is actually a regional park with easy access. The river park occasionally gets some nonfishing visitors on the weekends, mostly hikers, but during the week, you might have the river to yourself.
From Modesto, take Highway 132 to La Grange. At the four-way stop intersection of Highway 132 and La Grange Road, look to your left, and you will see a dirt parking area. You can park there and access the river on a foot-trail gate at the far end of the parking area.
There are several riffles upstream and downstream from the new La Grange Road bridge. The water is clear, and the fish are wild and can be found in skinny water, so fish before you wade. Often, my first casts are made standing 10 feet back from the river’s edge. A little stealth goes a long way. If fish are rising, but you are not sure what they are taking, try a size 16 or 18 Adams, an Irresistible Adams, or a small brown caddis pattern. The rise forms will differentiate between the two: subtle rises for mayflies and splashy for caddises. Blue-Winged Olives are a must to carry in January. You will see cream or yellow Pale Morning Duns as early as February, and they will continue to hatch into May. Use a Pheasant Tail Nymph or midge dropper in the shallower riffles.
To begin fishing at the old La Grange Road bridge, drive straight through the four-way intersection into the town of La Grange. In the middle of town, look for North Old La Grange Road on the left. Highway 132 makes a 90-degree right turn in town past the road to the parking area, so if you get to that turn, you’ve gone too far. Take North Old La Grange Road down to the parking area. In the riffles upstream and downstream from the bridge, you can fish dry flies or nymph the shallow water with a small indicator. Use size 16 to 18 Prince Nymphs, Pheasant Tails, and midge patterns. Egg patterns can be very effective when salmon are present. I have seen salmon in the river in January and February. Small streamers can work here, as well.
Fishing the riffles is best done with a 4-weight or 5-weight rod. I fish dry flies with a 4-weight, but nymph with a 5-weight. Fishing lighter-weight rods often results in playing fish longer and exhausting them.
Fishing the Tuolumne’s frog water — deeper, slower-moving portions of the river — requires a float tube, kayak, or small pontoon boat. You’ll need to pack your floatation device upstream for about half a mile above the Old La Grange Road bridge. Work the bank with black or olive Woolly Buggers.
Check the river flows before you go. Flows around 160 to 170 cubic feet per second are good. There is a Fish and Wildlife station on Old La Grange Road on the north side of the river. Conservation officers do visit this river, so make sure you use barbless hooks.
—Bryan McMurry
