Small is Beautiful

It can be risky to indulge in nostalgia. I’ve discovered that the biggest trout I’ve caught continue to grow in size as time goes by. That 18-inch rainbow I once hooked on the Stanislaus? It looks closer to 22 inches now, and it isn’t only the fish that get larger. The battle to land them also takes on an epic quality in my mind — at least a 30-minute struggle, say, with lots of acrobatic leaps and dives by the trout. Of course, I’m not the only angler to embellish his or her triumphs, but I think Californians are more likely to fall into the trap.

It’s simply that we’re lucky to have so many wonderful rivers and lakes to fish and so many big trout to pursue. That bounty creates a sort of tunnel vision whereby our concentration focuses on a trophy while the smaller streams with smaller fish go begging. You won’t see that happening in other parts of the country, where blue-lining is a popular aspect of the sport. The term derives from the fact that such streams resemble tiny blue capillaries on a topo map. They’re not always easy to reach. You must be willing to get off the beaten track and explore, but you’ll likely be rewarded with naturally reproducing wild trout in a setting empty of other people.

High summer is when I gravitate to these creeks. Maybe it’s nostalgia again, but I remember when our most famous Sierra rivers weren’t so crowded, and you could always find a spot to call your own. But I’m willing to sacrifice the chance of a trophy for the pleasure of being relatively alone, knowing full well that I won’t hook a trout any bigger than 8 to 10 inches, although there are exceptions to that rule. The feeling of being on my own puts me in touch with the essence of the sport and reminds me of why I love fly fishing. With a fly rod in hand, I become part of the natural world, aware of the water’s flow and the trilling of birds, and not merely a predator angler who can judge the worth of an outing only by the size of the catch.

Creeks offer other delights, as well. It’s exciting to wander into the woods or through a meadow and stumble on one you’ve never fished before. There’s something primal about the moment that awakens the hunter-gatherer in us, or at least in me. The heat in the mountains can be brutal, so I’m happy to swap my waders for a pair of shorts. That makes the bushwhacking and hopping from rock to rock much easier, too. Wild trout in creeks are usually aggressive feeders. They don’t see many aquatic insects at the higher elevations, so I pack only a few basic dries, such as the Elk Hair Caddis and Parachute Adams, size 14 to 18, along with a handful of terrestrial imitations. Almost any fly will work, really, if you walk softly and don’t spook the fish with false casts or your looming presence. You want to dap your fly and cover every riffle and pocket quickly and efficiently.

As an all-purpose rod for small streams, I’d choose a 3-weight shorter than 8 feet, although you’ll have even more fun going lighter with a 2-weight or less that doesn’t overpower the trout. It’s imperative to check the water temperature. If it climbs above 65 degrees, the trout may go on the nod, and you might as well take a nap yourself. I stick with a short leader of roughly 7-1/2 feet to exercise better control when I do have to cast, and I keep moving, too, and try never to throw a shadow.

I’m especially conscious of how I present the fly. The water is usually very clear, and when the current is fast and tumbling, as it often is in mountain streams, your fly should ride high, so don’t scrimp on the floatant. Dry-fly fishing was a niche sport, in fact, until the 1890s, when British anglers began applying kerosene to their flies to prevent them from sinking. That made the trout sit up and pay attention, and the game was on. The kerosene left behind ugly oil slicks, but it worked better and was less offensive than the mutton suet and bacon fat that some anglers relied on. Kerosene went the way of carbon paper when Mucilin hit the market in the 1930s.


One of my favorite places to hunt for blue-line streams is the North Fork of the Yuba between Sierra City and Downieville, where the river’s tributaries hold wild rainbows, browns, and brookies. You must wander through the woods to find them, but if you succeed, you’re in for a treat. The streams flow through a sylvan landscape of canyons overhung with a canopy of maples, dogwood, and Indian rhubarb. Access requires the ability to scramble over boulders and through thickets, but the steep-sided pools are thick with eager, beautifully colored trout. The water can be gorgeous, too, emerald green and as clear as a pane of glass. You might doubt that such streams have any fish at all until a rainbow surfaces as if by magic to take your fly.

I made my first visit to the North Yuba area forty years or so ago, and I’m being nostalgic again when I recall Downieville in the old days before the town had a hotel or a wine bar or any of the other fixings you find in upscale places. There were no mountain bikers, either, so anglers didn’t have to dodge them on their blazing descent from the high country. Along Main Street, the benches were occupied by geezers and would-be prospectors peddling gold flakes in tiny vials. I once stayed on a working cattle ranch and had the misfortune to be sitting on a rickety porch sorting my flies and surveying the heifers when an earthquake struck and tumbled me out of my chair and halfway down a hill.

Another creek I favor is a tributary of the American River’s Silver Fork. Oddly, I first noticed the stream in the winter, while I was staying at Kirkwood and cross-country skiing. In spite of the snow on the ground, the creek put me in mind of trout, so I made a mental note to check it out during the summer. It looked completely different, of course, very low and clear, rather than fast flowing, and again

I entertained some doubts about the possibility of any fish being there. But I had terrific luck in a meadow section, where I caught a half dozen brookies to seven inches in an hour. Like a number of Sierra creeks, this one’s worth visiting only in the early season. By August, it’s reduced to a trickle, and you’ll be swatting at a battalion of mosquitoes.


The Tahoe Basin might have the highest concentration of tributary streams in the Sierra Nevada. At least 34 empty into the lake. On the California side, they’re open from the Saturday preceding Memorial Day through the end of September (artificial lures only; catch and release), which is a much shorter season than the year-round angling allowed on most Sierra waters. These streams are subject to the vagaries of high-elevation weather, as well, but when the conditions are right, you may find good angling. As usual, the trout are wild and small, although that’s not always true. It was on one such creek, never to be named, that I defied the odds and netted a two-pound brown lurking beneath an overhanging bank. I don’t know who was more shocked, the brown or me. Lunkers actually aren’t so rare in the Tahoe Basin, since the fish migrate from the lake to spawn, and some never go back — a trophy where you least expected to find one. The economist E. F. Shumacher published a celebrated book called Small Is Beautiful in the early 1970s. Schumacher was ahead of the curve on climate change, an early advocate of appropriate, human-scale technologies to free us from the stranglehold of fossil fuels. If a strategy demands large rewards at any price, it’s probably flawed, he believed — see Elon Musk and Twitter for an excellent example. I have no idea if Shumacher was a fly fisher, but I like to think he’d approve of my fondness for small streams. If you crave a quality experience away from the crowds, you’d be making a mistake to overlook our blue-line waters.

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