I admit to feeling a little antsy when trout season approaches. My behavior becomes erratic and at times irrational in late April. I sort through my fly box with a jeweler’s eye, tossing out any flies that fail to pass muster, the Zug Bugs and Hare’s Ears that fall short of the Platonic ideal. Every item in my angling arsenal undergoes a microscopic inspection, floatant and leader material, net and vest and wading staff. The opener can be a gamble — sure, I know that — but I still can’t help getting excited.
Robert Traver described the syndrome well in his classic Trout Magic, first published in 1960. He compares himself to a child at Christmas full of “awe and wonder” as he waits for the starting gun, yet the fishing often goes badly for him and leads to a “dreary recital of frustration, hangover, and rue.” Traver lived on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, and that was part of his problem. Spring there still acts like winter. “Snowshoed into Flopper’s Pond,” goes a typical entry in his journal. “Pond partly open [i.e., not entirely frozen]. No rises, no fish, two flat tires on way out.” Another goes, “To Ted Fulsher’s camp. Raw, cold. Northeast wind. Didn’t wet a line.”
California fly fishers rarely have it so tough. We’re spoiled, in fact, but I still sympathize with Traver. I’ve felt frustrated and rueful after an Opening Day excursion, although so far, I’ve avoided any hangovers. Setbacks seem to be inevitable so early in the season. For instance, I remember an opener I once fished at Hat Creek. If I’d kept a journal like Traver’s, it would read, “Long drive from SF, arrived after dark, too cold to camp. Stayed in bare-bones motel in Burney, no free coffee or donuts. Up at dawn, drizzly morning. Creek already jam-packed, you’d need a shoe horn to free up some space. Departed fishless 11 a.m.” That trip wasn’t an exception, either. I recall an opener on the North Fork of the Yuba that also gave me the blues. “Cloudy, no hatches,” my entry would go. “High water, difficult wading, almost took a dip. Hooked one good fish on a Pheasant Tail but broke off. Amateur! Other anglers doing well, must be my karma. Car making terrible noises, hope it’s just the muffler.”
To be fair, I’ve had some good luck, too. I once fished a blissful opener on the Feather River on a bright, clear morning when the other anglers were scarce, the caddisflies obliged, and every fourth cast resulted in a hookup.
Then there’s the memorable opener I fished with my old pal Paul Deeds. This was some years ago, before Deeds began clinging to his Alexander Valley rancho like a hermit crab. He’s always lived in his own little world, but it’s gotten much worse. Even a grocery run to Healdsburg unnerves him now. He objects to the “fancy-assed” city folks scarfing sushi and splurging on $50 bottles of cabernet. “Fifty bucks feeds me and the dog for a week,” he says, and that’s probably true. Dinty Moore Beef Stew, Deeds’s dinner of choice, isn’t exactly a top-shelf item.
But at the time I’m writing about, Deeds could still be talked into an adventure. I knew it would be hard sell, though. He’d resist and invent excuses. The pressing need for a haircut, a scheduled visit to the chiropractor — those were the social engagements he’d be loathe to cancel. You might wonder why I bother with such a cranky and difficult individual. I suspect it’s because when you find the right fishing partner, you’re stuck with him or her for life. Nobody else knows the drill or fits the bill, and it’s too late to start over.
I made my pitch to him on the phone. He despises crowds more than sushi, so all the blue-ribbon rivers were out. Instead, I settled on Deer Creek, a lesser-known stream I’d fished once. I figured it wouldn’t be as busy as, say, Hat Creek. The stream rises in the mountains near Lake Almanor in Lassen County, and it flows undammed for about seventy miles before emptying into the Sacramento. Deer Creek holds a population of native rainbows and also introduced browns and brookies. Spring-run Chinook salmon can be caught in its upper reaches, but we’d concentrate on the wild-trout section beyond Chico in Tehama County, a straight shot on I-5 to Highway 32.
Deeds listened to my pitch in silence. He was deliberating, I could tell, weighing the pros and cons. At last, he said, “ Who’ll mind the dog?” Fortunately, I knew the answer — the same kindly neighbor who dotes on Buster and always looks after him. She has a crush on Deeds, as well, although I’d never dare mention it for fear he’d pack his bags and light out for the territories.
And so with a maximum of fuss, we cut a deal. On the eve of the opener, we bunked at a Best Western in Chico and departed for Deer Creek a little before dawn. Deeds as usual acted grumpy, despite his vicious attack on the breakfast buffet. When I teased him about it, he pretended to be doing a public service. “If no one eats, all that bacon goes to waste,” he sniffed, turning his attention to the “traffic” on Highway 32. He quickly evolved a paranoid theory that every motorist had a fly rod in the trunk. “That guy’s going fishing,” he’d say darkly, pointing at a car. “And so is that guy.”
“Really, Paul,” I laughed. “Give it a rest.” “Poke fun if you like. I know what I
know. This trip was a big, big mistake.” But Deer Creek proved him wrong.
I did get a scare when we reached Red Bridge and saw a fair number of cars parked there, but most early birds were spin-and-bait anglers and had legged it to the put-and-take water by the campgrounds. As we started on the trail to the catch-and-release section, we passed only a few anglers, almost all casting flies. The creek was in ideal shape, not yet subject to the spring runoff, clear and fast flowing and dead easy to wade. If you lead Deeds to a decent trout stream, he’ll come alive. It was as if Doctor Feelgood had shot him full of vitamin B-12. The years fell away, and he hit the trail in a light-footed stride, practically at a trot. He left me twenty yards in the dust, ignoring the pocket water I stopped to fish, first with a fore-and-aft dry. The fly rode along prettily, but it found no takers, so I switched to a caddis nymph and soon picked up a ten-inch wild rainbow.
Some fly fishers tend to knock Deer Creek, complaining about the size of the trout. While it’s true those I caught were in the eight-to-twelve-inch class, I wouldn’t use that fact to measure the experience. Some streams I fish for the challenge, hoping for a trophy — the Fall River, for instance — but others I fish for the pure pleasure of a good day out. That’s what Deer Creek delivers. It offers lovely scenery, abundant wildlife, and lots of elbow room if you’re willing to hike away from the crowd. It’s also a great place for beginners to learn the basics. And Deeds put to rest the myth that there are no big fish. All morning, he skipped the pocket water to focus on the pools. He fished nymphs as I did and also a Muddler and some weighted streamers, working the flies down deep. It took a combination of patience and skill, but he finally hooked an eighteen-inch rainbow, and in the late afternoon, he added an even more impressive specimen, a two-pounder, I’d guess. I imagine he was hoping to hook a Chinook — a few are caught there — but he struck out that front. I was the one who hooked a Chinook, a five-inch smolt that looked as surprised as I was. We eyeballed each other for a few seconds before
I returned him to his watery home.
What better way to celebrate a successful opener than with a steak dinner in Chico? If the vegans get their way and ban red meat, it’ll be curtains for Deeds. He’s never met a hunk of beef he didn’t like. He was in such good spirits that he regaled me with tales of his youth, when he’d cut school to fish the Russian, catching his first steelhead at the age of eleven. It’s not often you’ll hear Deeds holding forth, so for a brief moment, I considered asking if we should make the opener a tradition, but I knew how he’d answer. “I’ll need to think about it,” he’d say.
