For the first time in almost forty years as a fly fisher, I failed to wet a line this past season and have been kicking myself in the butt ever since. There were excuses, of course, but when I examined mine rationally, I could see that they were of the “dog ate my homework” variety. What it boiled down to in the end was simple laziness. While in California over the summer, I had plenty of chances to head for the mountains and a few days on a stream, but I was put off by the traffic, the crowds, and the cost of a trip, all concerns that would’ve vanished the instant I laid out a cast.
I couldn’t help remembering my father, who lived alone in old age in the house where I grew up. As a young man, he was a devoted angler, but as the demands of his job stole more of his time and energy, he went near a rod only on his two-week vacation. After he retired, he was still healthy enough for an outing, but he disliked traveling and made excuses (as I’d done) about why he couldn’t or shouldn’t undertake a trip. In his 80s, he often told a story about a trout bum he’d once met in Minnesota who spent six months of the year in a camper with his dog and fished to his heart’s content.
“That fellow had a great life,” my father would say. That’s a sweeping statement to be sure. For all I know, the guy was a slip-and-fall artist who financed his wandering with the proceeds of a bogus personal-injury claim, but I got the point. Carpe diem, as the saying goes. Seize the day, and also the trout.
In spite of my passion for fly fishing, I don’t think I’d want to spend half the year in a camper with a dog, though. I don’t have a dog or a camper, for starters, plus I love my wife, and I’d miss her like crazy. That leads me to wonder if the trout bum had a wife and if he was on the run from her. Stranger things have happened in the wilds of northern Minnesota. But what’s undeniably true is that the traps and distractions keeping us from pursuing our pleasure grow trickier as we age, and it requires a steely resolve to avoid them and follow your bliss, as Joseph Campbell advised, although to be honest, I have sometimes followed my bliss right off a cliff and into the slough of despond.
Just to be certain I get in some stream time in 2017, I’ve started prepping for the new season and my next visit to California. I won’t be seduced by San Francisco’s first-rate wining-and-dining scene again, with frequent stops at Swan Oyster Depot to sample the raw bar. Instead, I’ll try to see the city as its detractors do, as a place overrun with interlopers from the tech sector who’ve never looked a trout in the eye except on a plate when it was wearing a garnish of almonds and parsley. Resisting temptation is never easy, but in this case, I’ve got it beat. In fact, I’ve already begun compiling a list of rivers I want to fish. Some may come as a surprise, because they aren’t necessarily blue-ribbon spots offering a chance to hook a trophy. But I enjoy being on lesser-known streams, too, where there are fewer anglers and less pressure.
There’s a creek near Tahoe at the top of my list. I never tire of this little gem and have fished it countless times, but I won’t name it. I’d hate to see it get too much pressure. Suffice it to say that any intrepid explorer will locate it easily enough. The brookies and rainbows are small, but I’ve taken a few 14-to-16-inch browns by drifting nymphs beneath the undercut banks. They’re exceptions, but the smaller fish compensate for their lack of size by their eagerness to rise to dries. You don’t have to walk more than 15 yards from the road to find some excellent fishing in the early season. Caddis and hoppers are both very effective.
The landscape adds to the joy, particularly when the wildflowers are in bloom. They peak between mid-June and early July. On one trip, I fell in with a student from UC Berkeley who was collecting water samples. He was a wildflower expert and pointed out 14 different species as we walked the creek trail, not only such common ones as mule ears and snowplant, but also the delicate crimson columbine and bright yellow clumps of arrowleaf balsamroot. The trail starts in a forest of firs, cedars, and lodgepole and Jeffrey pines, then leads to a meadow where purple penstemon flourishes.
Another favorite is the Little Truckee, and I might pitch a tent there and fish through the evening. In the wild-trout section, the pools offer up some big fish before the hot summer and low water slows them down. If I’m fortunate, my visit might coincide with the Little Yellow Stonefly hatch. In the morning, I’ll continue along Highway 89 to Sierraville and no doubt be tempted by the clothing-optional hot springs, but my guess is that I’ll chicken out and instead buy a beer to drink on the way to Downieville, another choice spot, even though the town’s gentrified now and the geezers who sold gold flakes and nuggets in tiny glass vials have all fled to higher ground.
I’ve usually done well on the North Fork of the Yuba, but I like to warm up on Pauley and Lavezzola Creeks. (I used to fish the Downie River, as well, but I’m told it’s in poor shape these days because of the mining going on.) The fishing’s often very good early in season. You may encounter a cold front and some rain, but the trout aren’t yet wary or picky. Here, too, there can be fine hatches of Little Yellow Stones. On these streams, your casting ability is less important than the need to be stealthy. It’s imperative not to cause a fuss and spook the trout with too many false casts or some sloppy wading. A single shadow on a pool can put down the fish for hours.
Years ago, I used to stay at The Lure overlooking the North Fork. That was before the place was renovated. It bills itself as a resort now and charges as much as $290 a night for the largest cabins in the summer. I don’t think I paid more than $40 for a cabin, and they were barely worth that much. The wind blew right through the cheap bedroom windows, and dawn light seeped through the chinks in the walls. Mice sometimes showed up to share the evening meal. I’ve rarely seen a smaller bathroom or one as basic, but the river was just outside the front door, and the sound of its soothing flow made for lovely sleeping, even on those lumpy mattresses.
And it was always a treat to wake up, grab yesterday’s clothes off the floor, and be on the stream in minutes. The North Yuba runs roughly parallel to the highway in town, but the fishing was still awfully good. You could pick up lots of feisty rainbows in the riffles and lunker browns in the deep pools. I once met an elderly pharmacist from Roseville who wore suspenders with his khakis and chewed on a Hav-A-Tampa cigar while he regaled me with the tale of a six-pounder he’d once caught there. In that distant era before selfies, he proved it by producing a faded Polaroid from his wallet and showing it off like a snapshot of his favorite grandchild.
If and when I tire of Downieville, I’ll have several other options before I call it a day — the Middle Fork of the Feather, say, and its wild section, although the river lies at the bottom of a canyon. The descent is quite steep and left me with sore thighs and calves the only time I tried it. Or I might shoot over to Yellow Creek in Humbug Valley. The valley’s a beauty, but the fishing is tough and demands light tackle and an equally light touch. I hear that otters have been ransacking the trout lately, adding to the degree of difficulty. Yet I suppose it’s such challenges that keep us coming back for more.
The truth is, I could probably fish for weeks on end in the Sierra Nevada without a camper, a dog, and a wife I wanted to escape. That’s the glory of those mountains, a terrain I miss more the longer I’ve been away. The changes in little towns such as Downieville make me grumble at times and wax nostalgic for the old days, but that’s another facet of aging to be resisted. “Be here now,” as another New Age guru put it. This season, I intend to seize the day. To the trout, I issue a fair warning. Never again will I miss an opportunity to wet a line.
