Originally published in Shasta’s Headwaters: An Angler’s Guide to the Upper Sacramento and McCloud Rivers
The sun had been up for about an hour, and October Caddis were already spinning past above the water. These big bugs appear like clockwork every fall and are another hatch that brings big fish to the surface.
They survive as adults for some time and, conveniently for anglers, are most active during the warmest part of the day. However, there are often so many naturals on the water that it remains difficult to interest a trout in well-contrived imitations.
I was fishing the McCloud, down in the Conservancy, and the fish were being less than responsive. Setting down on a rock, I pondered a group of anglers downriver, knotted up on the bend of a long pool. We were all fishing the big Caddis fly imitations, and in much the same manner. Yet I couldn’t help noting, with little satisfaction, that they were doing no better than I.
Considering our collective technique, and the total fishlessness of it, my mind shifted to the action of the caddisflies themselves. They carelessly wafted by, like adolescent birds in first flight, before plunging awkwardly down into the surface film to deposit their eggs. Now and again, one was trapped in the water and swept away by the current, madly flapping in a last-ditch effort to break free and avoid drowning. As I watched this, slowly seeping into my brain came the voice of an old man with advice from another day.
Dropping the long, free-drift concept, and putting his observation into action, I peered cautiously over my big rock. Pulling off just enough line to set the fly on the water, I plopped it into the eddy below. Once it began floating over a likely-looking pocket, I began skidding and bouncing it clumsily in the surface film. My twitching arm no doubt suggested a seizure of some sort, and I sensed the curious stares of the group down on the corner, who were still tossing out long, elegant casts.
Few endeavors put us in such intimate contact with our natural world than the trout and the fly. And there certainly are less interesting ways to spend a drowsy autumn day than in the study of both.
Suddenly the water in front of me exploded. A huge rainbow materialized and lunged viciously at the fly, nearly beneath my nose. In a slow-motion instant, it seemed I could count every spot on that trout’s head. It cast a fleeting glance at me, submarined back beneath the water, and bucked off downstream with a size eight Sofa Pillow stuck in its jaw.

Caddis stone cases attached to rocks.

October Caddis pupa emerged from its casing.
It was a revelation that shouldn’t have been that startling. Certainly, the desperate flapping of the Caddis to escape the broken surface tension creates plenty of unwanted attention. I recalled a similar drama that had recently transpired further upstream. While pausing in a shallow riffle to change flies before moving up, I was able to look across the bottom of the next pool without being observed. An October Caddis was trapped in the water, fluttering and splashing as it blundered toward the shallows near the bank. Immediately behind, a massive brown lunged, striking repeatedly at the Caddis and recklessly exposing its bronze and speckled back to air and sky. It finally retreated, having nearly beached itself on the gravel bar, and never did collect the frenzied Caddis fly.
A microcosm of fly fishing’s curious complexity, this relationship, not of us and our prey, but instead of the trout and its prey, offers shades of understanding to this game often overlooked. Few endeavors put us in such intimate contact with our natural world than the trout and the fly. And there certainly are less interesting ways to spend a drowsy autumn day than in the study of both. The conundrum is that as a predator, the trout is my prey because it, too, is a predator. Its instincts make it vulnerable to me, and if twitching an October Caddis pattern drives it into a frenzy, I may miss one, but I’m bound to get another. Hey, even trout miss a few.
In the world of the trout and the fly though, I’d still put my money on the big trout. One thing at least is certain: Each year, the October Caddis get a King Kong welcome.