I’ve always loved spring creeks. Hat Creek was the first I ever saw, and we bonded for life. As a novice fly fisher, I’d decided to try my luck on the wild-trout section below the Powerhouse #2 riffle. It was the beauty of the stream I found compelling, but the water, always described as crystal clear or gin clear, proved a double-edged sword. While I could see the trout feeding, they could see me, too, and they conducted a minute inspection of the flies I presented before rejecting each one. Suffice it to say I got skunked, but that didn’t stop me from becoming a spring creek fanatic.
Spring creeks figure in the very beginnings of fly fishing as we now know it. The river Izaak Walton fished in the 1600s, the Dove in Staffordshire, is a spring creek that rises through a bedrock of limestone (a “chalk stream”) and that holds both browns and grayling. If you care to follow in Izaak’s footsteps, you can buy a day ticket on the Dove for about seventy-five bucks. For another two hundred, you can bunk at the Izaak Walton Hotel and savor a pint or three of Greene King ale in the Dovedale Bar. The Test is even more famous than the Dove, a chalk stream that flows for thirty-nine miles through sheep farms, beds of watercress, and sleepy thatched villages where you might expect Hardy’s Mayor of Casterbridge to be living. There are only about two hundred chalk streams in the entire world.
Our California spring creeks don’t afford such picturesque literary settings, but they compare favorably in terms of quality. Sure, the Test is challenging, but it’s narrow, shallow, and a cinch to wade. The beats are strictly rationed, so there’s never any crowding. You pay for the privilege of fishing the Test, and that keeps out the ruffians, but Hat Creek requires a rough-and-ready cowboy attitude. You’re competing with lots of other fly fishers who share the same goal of hooking a decent trout, and they won’t cut you any slack. Still, there’s no better place to be when a caddis or mayfly hatch comes off.
Though the steady flow and relatively stable water temperature of a spring creek reduce the biodiversity — freestones have a greater variety of insects — they also provide a rich supply of nutrients to make those prolific hatches possible.
I soon took a second trip to Hat Creek, but I fared no better. Only on my third trip did I begin to get the hang of it and correct the mistakes I’d been making. A spring creek can’t be handled like a freestone. Fishing one properly is a bit like a seduction. It does no good to be impatient. You have to bide your time and wait for the right opportunity, or else you’ll spook the trout. The same goes for false casts — keep them to a minimum. Sloppy wading is another surefire way to kill your chances. I like to watch the stream for at least ten minutes before I make a move, looking for rise forms and thinking about tactics. If I notice a nose and mouth, the trout are probably taking adults, but a back and tail fin suggest they’re after emergers.
I’ve never been a match-the-hatch specialist. Ordinarily, I do just fine with my old standby dries, such as an Elk Hair Caddis, but that won’t work on a spring creek. The clear water gives the fish an advantage, and they refuse to be fooled by an artificial unless it’s a good replica of the bug they’re taking. The size of the fly is probably more important than its color or shape. Long leaders are the rule, although I keep my casts short for better accuracy. Some anglers can lay out forty feet of line and land their fly on a dime, but I’m not one of them and quit trying to be long ago. It’s the presentation that matters, not the elegance of your technique. Casting from the bank at Hat Creek, I’ve caught both browns and rainbows just ten feet away.
If Hat Creek is our most popular spring creek, the Fall River is our largest and among the longest in the West. The water flows out of the Medicine Lake volcano aquifer and stays so cold that hatches sometimes don’t occur before the early afternoon — Pale Morning Duns and Baetis through the summer months. It’s too deep to wade, seven feet on average. Access to the river is limited, and the fishing is often downstream from an anchored boat. The rainbows are fat and feisty, and will dive into the weedbeds if hooked, hoping to break free.
I’ve fished Fall River only twice, the second time in mid-June during the fabled Hexagenia hatch. I’d compare the experience to a blind date. I was filled with anticipation, but there was no guarantee anything at all would happen. Many an angler’s been disappointed when the Hexes failed to cooperate. I recall being in a friend’s boat and watching the twilight on Mount Shasta, convinced I’d go home empty-handed, when I heard the distinct plop of a Hex hitting the water, his or her mating dance done. Though it was almost dark, I caught a glimpse of the huge bug, fully two inches long and a soft yellow color. Soon there was no light left, and we cast to the sound of feeding trout. According to local lore, fly fishers do best when the hatch isn’t abundant enough to make for easy pickings. There should be just enough Hexes to whet the appetite without satisfying it, causing the trout to be less discerning.
Another of my favorite spring creeks is the upper Owens River. Like the Fall, it offers some magnificent scenery, flowing through the Owens Valley, with the Glass Mountains and the Sierra on the horizon. The wild-trout section from Big Springs to Benton Bridge is mostly shallow and demands judicious wading. The meadows allow for easy access, with no trees or shrubs to snag a back cast, but there’s also no place to hide, so stealth is the order of the day. At times, it’s worthwhile to approach a promising lie on your hands and knees. As a bonus, the creek’s open year-round, but I’ve yet to rent a snowmobile for a winter expedition. Even a self-confessed fanatic must draw the line somewhere.
But I’ve had some excellent fishing on the upper Owens in the summer using hoppers and caddis imitations. I also like dredging the undercut banks with a streamer and once hooked a sixteen-inch rainbow on a Muddler Minnow. That’s a nice fish for a small stream, but it wouldn’t earn me any bragging rights in the eastern Sierra. The website of Ken’s Sporting Goods in Bishop sets the standard for lunkers — an eleven-pound brown, say, caught in the East Walker. You won’t beat that on the upper Owens, although big fish do migrate into the creek from Lake Crowley to spawn.
Then there’s Yellow Creek in Plumas County. The first thing you’ll hear about it is how wonderful it was fifty years ago. That’s not what I’d call useful information, and besides, anglers have selective memories. The creek may not in fact fish as well as it once did, but there are still plenty of small, wild trout to test the skills of any fly fisher. The stream itself is barely five feet across in some spots. Light tackle is a must, as is the willingness to hike a good distance to get away from the campground. Though the water level can be quite low in September, that’s when the Little Yellow Stoneflies appear and provide some action. The list of spring creeks in California doesn’t end with Yellow Creek, by any means. There’s the Shasta River, for instance, a tributary of the Klamath. It may be tiny, but it has runs of coho and Chinook salmon, as well as summer steelhead. Another, near Tahoe, is almost as small, but full of little brown and brook trout. It’s the thrill of the hunt, not the size of the fish, that keeps me going. But, if I had a spare $530, I might splurge on a two-night stay at Hot Creek Ranch in the eastern Sierra for some serious angling, since Hot Creek is a spring creek with some seriously large fish. I’d have to leave my nymphs at home, as the ranch is catch-and-release with dry flies only, ideal conditions for a purist, or a fanatic, or someone who happens to be both.
