We’ve been promised that the mother of all El Niños is lurking off the coast and could bring the end of our drought. But maybe not. If this El Niño is anything like the others I’ve lived through in the last 40 years in the northern Sierra, the mountains will get a decent amount of snow, then the “Pineapple Express” will arrive and deliver its river of warm and sodden air to California. Snow levels will rapidly climb to well above 8,000 feet, and the dreaded “rain on snow” event will occur. The ski resorts will cheerfully report powder and packed powder conditions, when in reality, the existing slop will be stained brown and gouged with runnels of mud. Ski reports, like fishing reports, are to be believed only by the truly naive or by Simon and Garfunkel’s “man who hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.” Lie-la-Lie.
Anyway, if past experience holds true, we may well encounter flooded, muddy waters during the dead of winter. Here’s what happens to a trout stream when warm rain thaws a snowpack.
The rapidly rising river loosens junk that hasn’t been transported during seasons of slow and low flows. At the start of the spate, buoyant debris such as leaves, sticks, pinecones, plastic bottles, and burger wrappers drift downstream in a kaleidoscope of terrestrial wrack. Streambank runoff scours grains of sand and dirt, and as the river continues to build, it becomes dark with suspended sediments. Pretty soon, the streambed itself starts to move. As river velocity increases, a basic tenet of hydrology is demonstrated: the higher the velocity of water, the greater is its propensity to carry stuff. First leaves, then sand, then cobbles, and finally boulders are carried. In its hunger for ever more stuff to transport, the river carves new channels, undercuts the banks, and topples stands of cottonwood.
In this seemingly chaotic and ruinous chain of events, however, the river is grooming itself. When the flow recedes, the stream will be cleansed, reborn, refreshed, and ready to rock once again.
In the meanwhile, we want to fish. The largest and second-largest trout I’ve ever seen on the Truckee (electroshocking, netting, and scuba diving included) were being hauled by the gills and drug up the bank from under the Highway 89 bridge in downtown Truckee during a torrential rainstorm while there were still feet of snow on the ground. This was long before it was legal to fish the river in winter, but that is beside the point. It was surreal to see a pair of salmon-sized trout come out of the river, midtown, midwinter, and when the water was the color of cardboard. I asked the angler how he did it, and with an innocent, beaming smile he simply said, “Worms.” My anger and self-righteousness were immediately melted by his happiness and obviously complete ignorance of the law. Smiling, I shook my head, gave him a thumbs up and slid back into the truck and out of the pounding rain. I’m pretty sure he needed to feed his family more than I needed to catch these fish for sport the following summer. I was also inspired to learn that the biggest trout in the system would eat during intense runoff conditions.
At the start of a winter flood, trout seem confused, or at least alarmed enough to not want to eat. This should not be confused with the summer thunderstorm spate that can instantly send fish into a feeding frenzy. Trout will hug the riverbed or take refuge in deep eddies and tend to not want to eat when the rain on snow event begins. But when the streambed itself starts to move, trout will retreat to the shallows. The lower Yuba River is an extreme case in point. The Yuba’s riverbed is a reincarnation of an ancient river system that was excavated by hydraulic mining during the rush for gold. While most rivers are rounding rocks and cobbles from angular chunks of stone, the Yuba is polishing cobbles already rounded in another era. With the slightest increase in flow velocity, the cobbles tumble and roll like cannonballs toward the San Francisco Bay. In the process, aquatic insects and salmon eggs are ground into pulp, and wading anglers frequently become part of the drift. Virtually all of the Yuba’s trout will push tight to the river’s edges and seek refuge where flow velocity and cobble transport are slowed to a minimum. In the canyon section above the Highway 20 bridge, where river velocities are highest, trout will be seen threading through the trunks of flooded willows and in water so shallow their dorsal fins are exposed. Many trout will temporarily push downstream of the Highway 20 bridge to seek refuge in the calmer, slower water of the floodplain.
With the drop in water temperature in winter, trout metabolism slows, as does their need for food. Many people believe trout in cold water hardly eat at all, which is untrue. Some of the finest fishing of the year on the East Walker (which gets really cold, compared with most of California’s rivers) is during the midge hatches of January and February. The surface comes alive with eagerly feeding fish, frequently large ones, who will dodge drifting chunks of ice to snatch a size 22 fly.
In murky runoff, your fly needs to stand out from all the other junk drifting downstream. Visibility is nil. When snorkeling in runoff, I can’t see my hand two inches in front of my mask. Trout have polarized vision to help reduce light scatter, but even then, they bump into rocks — I’ve seen them do it. To be noticed, your fly needs to be big, contrast well against the background, or have movement that suggests it is not simply another something drifting with the flood.
I like orange/black, chartreuse/black, or white/black Goblins, which are nothing more than black Woolly Buggers with a strip of rabbit hair lashed over the back, Zonker style. A shiny bead head can help it get noticed. You can dead drift your Goblin under an indicator, but a slow swing will cover more real estate, will announce that it isn’t just another piece of junk in the drift, and just as importantly will set its own hook. Cold-water grabs are famously lackluster and difficult to detect if your bug is drifting with the flow. An actively striped retrieve can catch flood-water fish, but they usually won’t travel far to chase down a streamer. A slow swing makes it easier for them to test the offering without committing to the current or expending undue energy. Think steelhead.
During runoff, fish will often find refuge in and immediately downstream of flooded vegetation. Not only does the vegetation break the power of the current, which lessens the sediment-carrying capacity of the water, it also physically strains some of the debris from the drift. During times of low water, if you look immediately downstream of willow patches, there often will be a sandbar that tells of sediment dropped during high water. These patches of sand are exactly where the fish were hiding during the flood.
There is a special patch of willows on a favorite stretch of river that dependably serves up trout and steelhead during high flows. Though my education and experience suggest that these are probably different fish every year, I always pretend that they are my friends, whom I have met there several seasons in a row. For some reason, it feels especially good to play these bright fish quickly, then watch them dash into the depths unharmed. Sail on, silver girl.
