Not long ago, I read an article in a sporting journal about an Iowa dairy farmer who quit getting up at sunrise to milk his cows. He liked to sleep in, so he did his chores in the late morning and early afternoon. That may not sound like a big deal to you, but it was to his neighbors at the Grange Hall, who wondered why he’d chosen to break with tradition. Farmers can be a taciturn bunch, but they finally worked up the nerve to ask him about it. The cows didn’t care one way or the other, the man explained, plus, he could stay up later and fish.
I don’t know if the farmer was a fly fisher, but I share his disposition. I’m never in a hurry to leap from bed to wet a line. My father, a bass angler, used to wake me at the crack of dawn, and I have semipainful memories of sitting in a boat catching exactly nothing. Even so, I followed his example when I first picked up a fly rod, but I soon learned that the early hours can be the least productive on a stream. Nothing much happens until things heat up and the bugs begin to stir, although for my money, the very best fishing occurs during the evening rise.
That’s why I look forward to the start of summer. I love those long, slow evenings in June and July when the day’s heat dies down and you head to the river, any river, at twilight. The world appears more intriguing in half shadow, more subtle and contoured, not so sun-bleached or hard on the eyes. The songbirds offer up their trills and arpeggios, and the sound of the stream, gentle at a distance, increases in volume as you approach it, flowing over gravel and around rocks to form the pockets and smooth glides where the trout will be actively feeding. It’s impossible not to feel optimistic.
The first evening rise I ever fished was on the Stuart Fork of the Trinity River. I muddled into it, a rookie with a cheap rod, still unspoiled enough to be excited about hooking a hatchery rainbow. The cabin I rented for eight bucks a night came with an antique icebox — that’s right, an icebox — but I was young and thought fetching blocks of ice to keep the food cold was romantic. The old-timers got a kick out of my enthusiasm, and at the bar of the so-called resort, they regaled me with tales of the black bears who raided their kitchens and ate all the peanut butter. For the privilege of listening, I was expected to buy the beers.
I stayed at the cabin for three days. The first two I spent fishing nearby, but I ventured far afield on the third, driving on logging roads until I reached a spot I probably couldn’t find on a map now, although I remember it well. The river was shallow, broad, and fast flowing. The forest around it had been clear cut, so that made for easy casting. I recall the pebbly streambed, too, and how, in the absence of any tall pines or firs, I could see downstream for a good half mile. I was glad of that, because I was alone and wanted ample time to run away if I spotted one of those bears.
As for my expectations, they were small. The dream of landing a trophy trout hadn’t yet obsessed me. I was content to catch more planters, all rainbows that snapped up any attractor pattern, and I kept at it until the light began to fade. I took it as a signal to pack up, but that was a mistake. It was late in June, and the mountains soon blocked the last of the sun. I heard a loud splash in a nearby pool and watched a big trout inhale a caddisfly. Minutes later, every pool swarmed with feeding fish, yet the frenzy continued for only twenty minutes or so, ending abruptly at full dark.
I cursed my bad luck, which is to say my inexperience. I wasn’t ready when the action started. The rise took me by surprise, but what I observed convinced me of how rewarding fishing at twilight can be. The sliver of time between near and full dark offers us an unrivaled chance to tie into a trout worthy of an Instagram post. Not every rise is so short-lived, either. The feeding can go on for as long as ninety minutes. Researchers say the low light makes the fish feel safe from predators — anglers, herons, ospreys, and so on — and they enjoy a sense of freedom. It’s as if they’re out for an evening stroll.
On the Fall River, during the Hex hatch in June and July, the payoff comes at full dark. I’ve fished it twice, and both times, it happened like clockwork. The mayfly nymphs live in the river silt, and the hatch, when it comes, is truly astonishing. Just when you’ve given up hope, exactly when you’re ready to call it quits and drink a cold bottle of Fall River Hexagenia IPA, the insects put on their show. The hatch can be so dense that the wings of the mayflies brush up against each other, creating a buzz like an electrical power line. The wild browns and rainbows don’t hesitate to feed, but the current’s so slow and the water’s so clear, they’re very discerning. For all my casting, I caught only one of any size, a twenty-two-inch brown. One theory I’ve heard suggests that a really hot day leads to better fishing in the evening. I suspect that’s true, and Dave Hughes also subscribes to the idea. He’s written a good deal about the evening rise. He believes tiny flies might be your best bet, even if stoneflies or large caddisflies are in the mix. It’s conceivable that a tiny fly is the equivalent of a light supper to a well-fed trout. Hughes starts out with size 18s and uses 26s on occasion — virtually invisible in the dark, but he counts on his reflexes to know where his fly will be. He chooses his tippet with care, too. Trout can see the monofilament when it’s backlit against the sky at sundown, so Hughes goes with a 5X or 6X to limit detection.
The evening rise also plays a part in a little book called My Moby Dick, published some years ago by the novelist William Humphrey, who recounts how he spent a summer in the Berkshires trying to catch a giant one-eyed brown he spied in a roadside ditch. Humphrey became as crazed as Ahab in pursuit of the white whale, casting dries to the trout every day at twilight. The story hit home when I read it because I had a similar experience once while on vacation at Lake Almanor, where I rented a house from Gordy Soltau, a former wide receiver and place kicker for the 49ers. Soltau was a big guy, and all the furnishings were built to his specs. When I sat in Gordy’s armchair, I felt like a midget.
There’s some good fishing to be had in the lake, especially if you like to troll, but I had no boat. Instead, I fished the evening rise on the Feather River right in Chester, where the mouth of the North Fork joins Almanor. You can walk to it from town on East Fourth Street and grab a quick bite at the Kopper Kettle Café on your way. The river, fringed with marshes, ran smoothly without any pockets. Most evenings, both browns and rainbows were dimpling the surface. As ever, the browns were more wary and difficult to fool. I’m not sure why that should be, but I’ve read field studies done in Maine and on the Deschutes in Oregon that confirm it.
One brown in particular caught my eye. How could it not? I’d never seen such a bold trout, a five-or-six-pounder. It rose at its leisure to check out the hatch, unconcerned about being so exposed and daring me to make a play for it — which I did, of course, tying on one dry after another without success. If a fish can be said to turn up its nose and sniff, that’s what this brown did to me, and I became every bit as crazed as Ahab and Humphrey. For five evenings in a row, I repeated the ritual, but the trout — my Moby Dick — never gave me a break. Even when I waded to within three feet of it, it wouldn’t budge. Only when I reached out an arm to grab and possibly strangle it did it swim away.
For all I know, that brown may still be there, teasing anglers and enjoying every minute of it. And here’s the sad part. If I found myself in Chester for the evening rise and walked down East Fourth to the North Fork mouth, I’d probably be no wiser and forced to endure the same routine. Sometimes you bump into a trout who’s just plain smarter than you are.
