If you grew up on Long Island, as I did, you’d have found quality trout fishing in short supply. You can catch all the flounders and mackerel you want there, but a fat rainbow is a treasure. Most fly fishers favor the Connetquot River, a spring creek flowing through a leafy state park, where it costs 25 bucks to rent a private beat for four hours, reservations required, but then it’s still f irst come, first served. I fished the Connetquot once while visiting my folks and hooked a few hatchery fish — the state stocks between three and four thousand annually — although the native brookies eluded me. It was a nice day out, but I wouldn’t urge anyone to jump on a plane to fish it.
I mention my upbringing so you’ll understand how thrilled I was to move to California and discover dozens of trout-filled rivers, all free to fish. I’m still proud of the bounty we share and eager to show it off to angler pals who visit. That was the case with an old high school friend who turned up in San Francisco on business awhile back. Rob had stayed on the island when I headed west. He landed a good corporate job, raised a family, and took up fly fishing as a way to relieve the stress of his work. He soon became passionate about the sport, investing in high-end tackle and trips to the classic streams of the Adirondacks.
Rob’s home stream is the Connetquot. He praised it so lavishly, I felt compelled to throw down a challenge. For our long weekend of fishing, I chose the East Walker, a river synonymous with the words “big trout.” It flows for 75 miles or so from the Sawtooth Range of the Sierra to Walker Lake in Nevada, joining the West Walker en route. The East Walker divides into two distinct sections on the California side — the so-called Miracle Mile tailwater below Bridgeport Reservoir and the canyon section below the Highway 182 bridge. The Miracle Mile runs flat through meadows and features deep pools and undercut banks, while the canyon consists mainly of pocket water.
The reservoir contributes to the size of East Walker trout. Comparatively shallow, it stays somewhat warm, due to all the sunlight it receives. Cold water flowing into it from the mountains is 20 degrees warmer when it’s released. That warmth promotes the growth of aquatic life, enriching the river with nutrients. Native forage fish are abundant, and so are nonnatives such as carp and Sacramento perch. The trout feed greedily at a vast smorgasbord and develop the piscine equivalent of middle-age spread. Ken’s Sporting Goods in Bridgeport has the website to prove it — photos of 26-inch and 28-inch browns and rainbows and the gloating anglers who caught them.
I sent Rob a link to the website, of course, so he hit the ground running. It was early November when I picked him up at his hotel, an iffy time in the Sierra, but the forecast promised decent weather. I saw Rob’s eyes widen as we climbed into the foothills, and when he got a glimpse of the Sweetwater Mountains in northern Mono County, I knew I had him hooked. The Connetquot would never look the same to the poor guy. We reached Bridgeport too late to fish, so we settled for a steak dinner and drinks at the bar, swapping gossip about our classmates as folks will do. Our prom queen now hosts Tupperware parties, while the star quarterback’s in trouble with the IRS.
You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows. That’s how Dylan put it in “Subterranean Homesick Blues,” and we certainly didn’t need one Saturday morning. The wind blew from the north, fiercely and without pity, punishing us for being hung over. The temperature stood at 36 degrees. Could those dark clouds be a harbinger of snow? I expected a sparse crowd, but the Miracle Mile was jammed with fly fishers braving the elements. There was a rumor afoot that the big browns were moving upriver to spawn, and that accounted for the Gold Rush atmosphere. I decided we’d be better off in the less celebrated, relatively deserted canyon section. For Rob, this was another eye-opener. On the Connetquot, he didn’t have to clamber over rocks or worry about busting an ankle. Rattlesnakes weren’t a threat, nor did the streamside vegetation snag his back casts. He could wade without fear of taking an unwanted dip.
“This is like being in the infantry,” he joked. At least I think he was joking.
I’d like to report our day improved, but I’d be lying. The sun did break through at noon and sparked a little hatch of Blue-Winged Olives, but it soon disappeared behind the clouds. We tried some Czech-style nymphing with weighted Hare’s Ears and Pheasant Tails, scouring the depths without success until Rob — as if in answer to my prayer — finally had a strike. I watched in dismay as he reeled in a mountain whitefish, a bottom-feeding species native to the East Walker. Anglers often regard whitefish as trash, but that’s a bit harsh. They’re decent fighters and tasty enough, if you smoke them. A dip of smoked whitefish (goat cheese, chives, a squeeze of lemon) works well on crackers with a cold beer.
As dusk came on, we switched to streamers. The whitefish lost interest, but Rob landed a 15-inch rainbow on a Madonna. That slightly mitigated the guilt I was beginning to feel about the weather, although it wasn’t enough to grant me the California bragging rights I was seeking. But it did renew my optimism that Sunday would treat us more kindly. With that in mind, we exercised admirable self-control and indulged in just one after-dinner cocktail before going early to bed.
A light rain fell during the night, leaving us with an overcast sky in the morning. The temperature had risen into the mid-40s, and the Miracle Mile was not so crowded. Could all those anglers be churchgoers, Baptists and Presbyterians attending services? The odds were against it. More likely they were sleeping in after a Saturday night on the town. Rob and I claimed a patch of water and cast streamers again, swimming them to imitate baitfish. No takers, though, and no sign of a hatch, so I proceeded to scratch my head. Why not a midge? They form a significant part of the trout’s diet, especially in the winter, when other insects are scarce — and the conditions were borderline wintry.
Rob looked doubtful. He had never fished midges, and couldn’t grasp why a hungry trout would mess with a tiny bug if there were perch around. The trout don’t eat just one midge, I explained. Often, the midges are plentiful, and they gobble up as many as they can. I convinced him to give it a go and handed him a few size 16 to 22 WD-40s and Rojo Midges, then showed him how to work the fly on a dropper behind a dry such as a Parachute Adams as an indicator. It was a pleasure to be the instructor, for once. I’m usually the one taking lessons.
Midges are related to mosquitoes. As larvae, they resemble little worms, their bodies slender and curved. They live underwater, burrowing in the mud or clinging to rocks as they wait to emerge. In a matter of minutes, we began to hook fish, although none were worthy of inclusion in Ken’s gallery of superstars. The trout all fell into roughly the same class, 12-to14-inch rainbows, with one hefty brown (Rob’s) mixed in, but the constant action was more than enough to gratify us. I’d guess we caught and released 20 fish before we had to quit and get to SFO for Rob’s red-eye flight.
An angler projects a glow of satisfaction when he or she has done well, and Rob was beaming. He couldn’t help venting to the motel clerk. “You know midges?” he said. “Those tiny bugs? Trout love ’em. Let me show you the brown I caught,” and out came his phone. We had time for a quick drink at the airport before he boarded. A couple months went by before I heard from Rob again. His company had offered him early retirement, and he was thinking about accepting the deal. “One piece of info,” he wrote in his email. “Any idea what a modest cabin somewhere near the East Walker might cost?”