Labor Day Weekend 9/4 - 9/6

Labor Day weekend my fishing buddy, Scott, and I made a long put-off trip to a part of the Golden Trout Wilderness. Our goal was to check out some camp grounds, explore the viability of a backpack trip, and to explore a few nearby streams for Golden Trout.

We both took Friday off and crossed our fingers that the entirely first-come-first-serve campground wasn't full to capacity. Scott had a few alternate ideas in his back pocket should we find the grounds full, but it turned out we had the pick of spots, having arrived at 10:00 a.m. sharp.

At 10,000 feet, every movement resulted in amusing moments of breathlessness. First, we set up tents, and as surprisingly difficult as that was, it was good we did, because at noon a thunderstorm rolled in and dropped rain and hail on us for an hour or so. I took the opportunity to catch up up on some sleep.

After the rain stopped, Scott suggested we go try out a nearby meadow for some small-stream trout stalking. We drove over to the trailhead and made the short walk to the first stream we came across. Scott spotted fish almost immediately, so we strung up our rods. Scott had a 2 wt. and I have a short 3 wt. I'd been advised to bring a rod as small as a 00 wt., which I wasn't even able to find, at a reasonable price, online. Golden Trout, especially stream dwellers, are far to the small side of the wild trout scale. Palm-sized jewels of the trout world. Mostly golden, they tend to have round par marks down the side, a thick, reddish swath down the lateral line, and often have bright orange bellies.





Being in a meadow, with little in the way of cover, these goldens are pretty skittish. We spent a lot of time peering around rocks, over tufts of earth and grass, or on our knees in the soft meadow grass. Scott got a fish right off, using a (grass) hopper pattern. I'd tied on a similar dun-colored "stimulator", that drew some voracious hits, but I had a hard time sticking the tiny fishes.



Intermittant rain and hail followed us up and down the beautiful little stream. A piercing chirp dogged us as well. I swiveled my head looking for a bird that could be making the sound. Then I turned around to look into a field of gravelly earth and boulders, to see a marmot, poking its head over a granite boulder. Marmots are organized in their defense of home grounds. The "chirp" is known as a "chuck" and is a warning to other marmots, mainly family members.

It was pretty fun watching the little trout blasting out of their hiding spots, in the shade of a boulder or bush, and attack my little dry fly. Frustratingly, it rarely resulted in a hook-up, and most that did get hooked, quickly came off. I brought one to hand early in the day, but that's all I could manage. I believe Scott landed four.

The night ended with freeze-dried meals and beers by the camp fire. My Pad Thai was woefully undercooked. But I'm still hearing about how good Scott's chili mac was. Sleep was fitful at best, on the ground, our first night at altitude. I was happy when the sun came out so I could get off the ground.

Saturday was the main focus of the trip, a hike out to Cottonwood Lakes. The hike was about 5 miles each way, it began at 10,000 feet, and it was going to push the two of us to the limits of our "fitness," but it pretty much had to be done. The lakes are known to have a larger average size of goldens, and also to be in a beautiful area.

For the most part the hike is fairly level, meandering through a beautiful pine forest. I wish I'd taken the time to research the type of trees and birds we might encounter up there. It's too bad people don't treat strangers on the street as well as hikers treat each other on the trail. Nearly every group or individual we encountered stopped to chat about the weather, the trail, each other's destination, or just to get an idea of where they were in their day's hike. Valuble information, sometimes encouraging, sometimes not is gathered in these short conversations, and it shaped our day in both directions. The last mile of our hike accounted for about half of the 1,000 feet of elevation gain. Some of the stone steps were enough to stop us in our tracks, gasping for air. We ran into a younger couple who told us we were within yards of the top, and after a chat, we made it over the top.





After chatting with three gentlemen who were warming up for Whitney, we staggered to Lake 1. We found a place out of the persistant wind, and basically dropped our gear and collapsed onto our backs for a while. Getting back up was embarrassingly difficult. Like two big turtles, we stiffly struggled to right ourselves, grunting and chuckling. Then we strung up our lake rods (both 5 weights, I think). I had to hop from stone to stone to reach a large rock to use as a casting platform. Getting my feet wet would not have been acceptable with such a long hike back to camp. My first cast drifted near some grasses, and a trout about 8 to 10 inches bolted out of the shade and blasted my fly. It really only succeded in knocking it away, but it gave me the impression I was in for some good fishing. The wind was pretty gusty at times, but settled often enough to cast. I did get a few wind tangles, which required sitting on the rock I was casting on and concentrating on tiny 6x tippet when I really wanted to be casting.

The largest snafu of our trip was that we each thought the other would bring a map of the area we intended to hike. Not the biggest of deals, the trail is unmistakable, and well-travelled, but it limited our options once we arrived at the lake. We'd gotten word from other hikers that Lake 1 was surrounded by swampy grasses, and would be hard to cast to, but that Lake 3 was surrounded by rocks, and easier to reach from shore. We'd also heard that Lake 3 was about a half mile from Lake 1 (though this was from a woman who asked if she was near the campground, and was still a good 4 miles away).

The lake was in a very shallow basin, surrounded by marsh and meadow, then pines, and the whole area was rimmed by bright granite crags. The lake basin was shallow enough that in some locations it was difficult to even see the lake. I'd imagine the surface area of the lake changed dramatically with the seasons. Occasionally a marmot would bark at us, or a huge raven would wheel across the sky, but there wasn't much else in the way of wildlife. We were mercifully spared the annoyance of mosquitos or black flies the entire weekend. Occasionally, I'd look around and not see another soul, then moments later, a line of hikers might file past on one trail or another. The sky remained deep blue and cloudless the entire day.



We took a break from our current spot to try our hand at the outlet of the lake. The wind was blowing towards the outlet, and our hope was that moving water, and insects blown towards that end of the lake might afford more productive fishing. We never really were able to get close enough, due to the marshy ground, and our lack of a map required a decision to be made. Neither of us were willing to wander too far in search of the lakes, not wanting to waste energy we'd surely need on the way back. Being that we'd found fish where we were, we went back to our previous casting positions, agreeing that at 3 p.m. we'd begin the trek back to camp. I think Scott landed a few more fish, but as the day before, I had more missed strikes than ones that stuck. Even the few that stuck came off the hook pretty quickly. I ended up not landing any fish at the lake. But as is often said, sometimes it's about the fishing, not the catching, and the privilege of being in such amazing place, having so much fun, was more than good enough for me.

We'd decided to take an alternate route back down from the lake. The route we'd come up was short, and steep, rising around 500 feet in the space of a mile. Much of the uplhill journey was a step or two, then rest, struggling for air. The hikers who were prepping for a Mt Whitney hike told us the route they'd followed was a little longer, but a more gradual incline. That sounded much less knee-crushing than stepping down the granite steps on our route in.

Mirroring my experience hiking Mt. Whitney, as the day wore on, the preparedness, and expectations of the hikers we encountered had to be questioned. It seems as the afternoon wore on each successive group seemed... well, we became concerned when we met a European family, the mother whom, I'd guess was in her late 50s, was dressed in shorts, a tank top, and flip flops. She asked how far the lake was. I'd say they had a good 3 miles to go and no visible tent, sleeping bags, or anything to protect them from what I'd guess were nights in the mid to high 40s. And this was around 4 o'clock in the afternoon.

We pressed on, and after a short stop to filter some water, a couple hours hiking - including some out-of-body moments - walked into the campground at a few minutes before 6 p.m. Beers were opened, and butts were parked. I think we were both a little surprised at our accomplishment, and the fact that we weren't in need of any medical attention. Blistering was even kept to one each, I think. I was pretty wiped, and after dinner of curry rice, and some beers, I hit the sack. Again, sleep was difficult on the ground, but I got much more sleep than the previous 2 nights.

We got out of our tents, stiffly, a little after 6 a.m., and stood around trying to wake up. Scott's espresso maker was in a bear locker a couple feet from the entrance to someone's tent. When another camper went ahead and opened it, Scott took the opportunity to get the essentials of coffee making out. We decided just to get all of our stuff out, and began slowly breaking down camp while the water heated for morning shots. I became less and less stiff as I gathered gear and rolled up sleeping pads, stuffed my sleeping bag, and dismantled my tent. I actually felt pretty good for having slept 10 hours on the ground after a 12-mile hike. We took our time cleaning, packing and reorganizing gear, in no hurry to go anywhere.

After packing up the truck, we had one more stop to make. I got a tip from a friendly angler from a trout-fishing website, on a spot to try some stream fishing. The spot is a stream away from the regular area spots. We parked, lined up rods, grabbed tackle kits, and GPSs, and scrambled down to where we could hear rushing water. Almost immediately we split up, as access to the water was limited. I looked for a place to cross to the other side, fighting through dense brush, and finding the ground to be surprisingly marshy. Because we were so close to driving home, I stopped worrying about how wet my feet got.

I found a little pool, and made a few attampts to trick some little trout, to no avail. I decided I'd cross over, and fish from the other side, which was much more open. I was near a good place to cross, and jumped onto a large boulder. The next rock was down a steep side of the boulder. I shuffled down in order to get closer to jump, and began to slip down the boulder. I was about to make the leap when my ass touched the steep boulder, and I heard a click before jumping safely to the next rock. I quickly reached behind me to feel for my GPS and realized only the belt clip was still there. My GPS had unclipped against the boulder and fallen into the fast-moving water. I looked all over the area. Supposedly it's a waterproof GPS, but it's also gray and black, and I never saw it again. Initially I was pretty bummed. I use that GPS pretty regularly, and it did have all the data from our hike, and some fishing spots. Scott came through the brush in the same spot I had, and asked what was up. He'd found me on a rock in the middle of the stream, without my rod, peering into the water.

He asked what I wanted to do. I decided that the GPS was gone, nothing was going to change that, and I didn't want it to ruin a great trip. So he lead the way back upstream. The more open side was no less marshy. Scott pointed out good pools to fish. Eventually, we both got into some fish, and had a blast. Sight fishing timid little golden trout is a sublime way to fly fish. It may not be the typical idea of trophy fishing. But like the guy, Mark, who gifted us this spot says "Trout live in beautiful places."

We scrambled back up the embankment to the truck. I took off my soaked shoes and socks, took a "Baja shower" with wet wipes, wiping mud and blood off my legs. Then we piled in the Explorer, and headed off to Lone Pine, and some oxygen-rich air.

Golden Trout Wilderness at EveryTrail

Map created by EveryTrail: GPS Trip Sharing with Google Maps

Mono County. Day 3 - 6/14/09

Sunday morning was slow and heavy. We definitely fit too many beers into too little time. Nobody was in too big a hurry to pack up and get out on the road. Scott came in with coffees and breakfast sandwiches as I sat in the huge easy chair, staring at nothing in particular. After everyone had taken care of their "morning reading" and showered, we packed up, cleaned the condo a little and headed out to the Explorer to organize for the morning's fishing.

Sunday was a beautiful, sunny day. Scott had hung all our wet waders on a fence, and put our boots in the sun to dry. This was partially because they're more comfortable to get into when they're dry, and partially to alleviate the funk that was taking over Drew's vehicle. Duffles, packs, rods, float tubes, and other gear were removed and reorganized for the drive home.

I'm not sure what time we pulled out of the parking space at the condo, but it was around 9 a.m. when we pulled up to a flat dirt lot not far below the dam that feeds from Lake Crowley into the Lower Owens. It was substantially warmer at the Owens than anywhere else we'd been. We slid out of the truck, and looked down at the river. Drew and Scott seemed pretty optimistic about how the water looked. Personally, I was a little confused. I thought the Lower Owens was this classic trout water, but we were in a huge dirt lot, and there were any obvious trail to the water. It was not at all what I had pictured. Still, we began assembling gear, and retying with lighter leaders and flies. The technique was pretty much the same as on the East Walker, but apparently the fish were going to be spookier, because we went down a weight in leaders and tippet, to 5X.

As usual, Drew was in the water far ahead of us. I'm not sure I was too motivated Sunday. It was getting hot, I was already dehydrated, hungry, and hadn't slept well. Regardless, I climbed down the steep dirt bank, hoping to get at least within shouting distance of Drew, since he was usually the man with the plan, but I ended up far downstream. This section of the Lower Owens was odd, I thought. The banks were very steep, the dirt loose, and there were few obvious spots to squeeze through the brush near the bank to get in the water. I was a little underwhelmed, having heard a lot about the Owens. Unfortunately, I ended up in a pretty swift section of the river.

Drew moved even further upstream, and Scott got on the water not too far above me, but quickly moved upriver. I guess my low energy, and honestly, total lack of experience, kept me from making the decision to fish more appropriate water. I stubbornly worked a section that, in hindsight, was all wrong. On top of it, I must have lost two or three complete 2-fly rigs in trees and to underwater snags. Tying those rigs is a bit of a drag, but it gets easier the more you do it. The conditions made it tough to keep retying; deep, swift water, and not many places to sit. My patience was running out quickly, and on top of that, the increasing hoots from upriver was beginning to get to me. It started to seem like every time I let myself look upriver, one or both of those guys had their rod arm in the air, fighting a brown trout.
I sat down in the dirt on the bank to tie another set of flies on, and kept hearing Scott shouting, "Marc, Marc, check it out!" and was thoroughly disgusted with everything. I found myself angry, hungry, and every time I heard a "woo!" upstream I got angrier. But since the trip had been so great up to then, I thought I'd sit there, breathe, tie on new flies, have a Cliff bar I had with me, then work my way upstream and horn in on whatever honey hole Scott had been working.

The Cliff bar made me feel a lot better, and I was relieved I'd been able to turn around my mood. I waded out in to the river, and on my second attempt to flip my flies into a slow, shady spot across the river, got them snagged in an overhanging tree. All this while I could see Scott and Drew with rods bent upstream. At one point I was so frustrated I was slapping my rod on the water. This time, I reeled in my line, waded back across the river, and clumsily scrambled up the bank and to the Explorer. I was hoping there would be shade, but it was about noon now, and there was no real shadow to speak of. I crouched in what little shade I could fit into, and took some deep breaths. I could hear Scott shouting my name from the river, wanting to give up his spot so I could get in on the action.

I decided to retie my flies again, and work my back down, but by the time I'd finished replacing everything, I saw Drew, then Scott, making way up the hill towards me. They'd just killed it on the river, over twenty fish each. They were beside themselves. I felt bad they were coming back because they didn't see me on the river, so I let slip I'd just finished retying. Drew offered to "guide" me down on the river, so I could get a few fish before we left. On the river Drew checked my rig, and put a little tungsten paste on my leader to get some weight on my rig, and showed me a few casts for tight quarters. It was obvious then that I'd been fishing in the wrong water. This spot was slow and deep, and pretty shady. We were fishing not 15 feet from where Scott had been scoring fish after fish, but I still didn't get so much as a tug. We probably made 20 drifts and finally on a missed strike, I flung my flies into a tree behind me. That pretty much did it for me, and I knew Drew had a schedule to keep, so we climbed back up to the car.

As frustrating as it was, I didn't really let it ruin the trip for me. It was hard to be bummed, as pumped as Scott and Drew were. They'd "mowed the lawn", as Scott says, and finished the trip off with style. All that was left was to get out of our gear, and climb in for the long drive home. A delicious sandwich, cookies and big bottle of water from Schat's Bakkerÿ in Bishop made the trip home more comfortable. I think I was already thinking of going back up to the Eastern Sierra before we left Bishop.

Mono County. Day 2 - 6/13/09

Saturday I woke up a little later than Scott and Drew, but they had gone for coffees. They'd also visited a fly shop or two, and had decided we'd drive to Bridgeport to fish the East Walker river. We drank coffee and they sort of outlined the plan; wading, nymphing, tailwater, brown trout. Sounded great to me. Not to mention no hiking in, or float tubes to deal with.

We drove up to Bridgeport, and stopped in a local fly shop for paraphernalia and information. Interesting, if spendy, little tackle/gun shop, and I grabbed supplies; flies, strike indicators, split shot, and a few leaders. I was astounded at the price of the palm-full of odds and ends I'd purchased. We drove out past the reservoir and actually passed briefly into Nevada and back, looking for a spot Drew liked.

White, fluffy clouds gave way, periodically, to a thick, dark front and some big, substantial rain drops. The temperature wasn't bad at all, until the sun went down.

As we sorted out our gear, we watched a couple anglers catch an occasional trout in the river below us. It couldn't have been later than 9:45 - 10:00 a.m. when I first waded into the river. Drew, like Friday, was already in the water, and had caught fish, and Scott, like Friday, was still gearing up by the time I'd staked out some water to fish.

I've done some nymphing in the past, on the San Juan, in Navajo Dam, New Mexico. I've always found the two-fly rig, with indicator, and split shot to be more trouble than anything. The difference Saturday was the flies were reasonably-sized (the San Juan's flies are barely visible with the naked eye), and Scott and Drew introduced me to a new indicator, called a "Thingamabobber," which was easier to attach, to adjust, and wasn't as wind-resistant as yarn indicators. Also, in my past trips to the San Juan, I always got into trouble trying to cast my flies. Though I was warned/instructed repeatedly to swing or flip my line back up stream, my recent casting lessons kept me wanting to let loose with a cast, which always resulted in a horrible tangle. So, Saturday there would be no casting. Maintaining a drag-free drift, and keeping clean flies was paramount.
The East Walker is a tailwater, a river emanating from a reservoir's dam. Often a tailwater fishery draws water from a large, deep body of water, maintaining a constant-temp, cold-water fishery. The Bridgeport Reservoir is too shallow to maintain a year-round temperature, in fact, it can get so warm trout die-offs have occurred in the past. The San Juan, for example, is in the low 40s whether the air temperature is 20 degrees or 95, at least in the "quality water." Drew mentioned a variety of species that escape the reservoir into the river, and one of the fishing-regulation signs, near where we got in to the river initially, mentioned bow-and-arrow fishing for carp was allowed only during trout season. The terrain is high, high desert, I think the GPS said around 6500 feet. Foliage was pretty dense, but nothing very tall grew far from the water, and it was largely very pale gray/green sage-like plants.

After some coaching from Drew, and some persistence I managed to hook, and land my first river brown trout. Actually, it was my first brown ever. He was small but feisty, and it was my first fish of the trip. The skunk was off. Drew seemed to be hooking up pretty regularly, and I lost sight of Scott for a while, but his morning didn't go as well. I think it was around 12:30 p.m., when another light rain turned quickly into a fairly heavy rain, and when Scott and I saw Drew scrambling up the bank towards the car, we took it as a sign to "cut bait" and we slogged quickly across the river ourselves. Turns out Drew was just getting his jacket, but since we were all out of the river we decided lunch was in order. Of course, by the time we got to the car it had stopped raining.
Scott and Drew mentioned a San Diego transplant in Bridgeport served some good Mexican food, but I call shenanigans on that. It wasn't any different than any "Mexican" food I've ever had in Nor-Cal. It had lettuce and cheddar, harumph!I went with the guac bacon cheese burger. Vacations are for indulging. Being that getting in and out of waders is like preparing for a moon walk, we kept ours on, and ate lunch in them - another vacation-only decision.
Back on the water I pretty much began exactly where I'd left off before the rain drove us to lunch. Drew disappeared pretty quickly upstream, and Scott was just a little downstream from me. The little browns were now coming to hand regularly enough to make it fun. This was quickly becoming my best day of chasing trout on fly gear. Pretty soon, I reached a bend in the river I couldn't wade through, so I climbed up the bank and started walking, meandering through the scrub brush. I stopped to take a picture of an iris on the riverbank, and noticed Scott joined me. Fishing alone is fine for the most part, but when you're hundreds of miles from home, in such a beautiful place, and the fishing is turning on, it's much better to have one of your fishing buddies to share the fun with.
We fished a pretty good stretch of river with regular-enough success. Eventually Drew came walking downstream, and he and I headed back up to what's known as "The Miracle Mile," the supposed home of the bigger fish in the vicinity. Drew scoped out some favorite spots, to find anglers already occupying most of them. We came to a thickly tangled stand of brush, with a "tunnel" leading to the riverbank. We wove our way through, stepping over a downed barbed-wire fence, and carefully keeping our rods out the branches. We found the bank empty, and Drew gave me a little pep talk, and put me on a spot he knew to hold some lunkers. The initial toss to get the flies where they need to be continually got me caught up on some moss-covered rocks and submerged sticks, but they pulled free without breaking off. Finally, after a few adjustments, I hooked into my first fish at the new spot. It was another smallish brown, but a tricky battle in the swift water. I was more than a little surprised to see Scott arrive at the spot we were fishing, given the rabbit hole we came in through, then he mentioned he'd fished there a few times before. I had no idea...

Not long after Scott set up on a drift a few yard downstream of me, I hooked into a decent fish. Not a lunker, but my biggest so far. The water was pretty swift and the fish used it to put up a good fight. Scott was positioning himself to help with the net, and take some pics, when my fish charged up stream. Just as it passed in front of me, another trout, a little bigger than mine, jumped clear of the water next to mine. I would have thought it was mine, as Scott did, except I could still see mine charging upstream. After a little back and forth, in and out of the fast current, I swung him upriver of me, into the slower water by the bank, and let the current carry him into my net. That little trout was photographed more than a drunken starlet accidentally exposing herself.
After that I gave up my spot to Scott, and only fished intermittently the last hour or two. The clouds had rolled in and it was getting cold, and I was just wiped out. I did try swinging a woolly bugger through a calm eddy behind a boulder, and ended up landing another brownie - to everyone's surprise, especially mine. But that was the end for me, I was worked. I think it was after 8:30 by the time we walked all the way back to the Drew's Explorer.

The chatter in the truck on the drive back was of fish landed or missed, and of past success or failure on the East Walker. We drove into Mammoth, ordered the meatiest pizza I've ever seen, and split a pitcher while we waited. Mammoth Brewing makes some very tasty beer, drink if you can find it. We grabbed another 12 beers at Vons and took the pizza and beer back to the condo to celebrate the great day. We probably fit more celebrating into a short time than was wise. Sunday morning was a little rough, and very slow.

Mono County. Day 1 - 6/12/09

I set my alarm only as a backup, I never really expected to be able to sleep. I did sleep a little, though I don't know for how long. I'd gotten off of work at 11 p.m., and had already packed for the most part. I had to be at Drew's place in La Mesa at 2:45 a.m. to meet him and Scott.

I was a little anxious about the trip, both excited, and nervous. I'd never fished the Eastern Sierra, I'd never met Drew, and I didn't really know what to expect of either. Scott and Drew were veteran Sierra trout fisherman, I was a rank beginner.

Scott and I got to Drew's about the same time, and we quickly got everything stowed in Drew's Explorer. As is seemingly traditional, it looked like there was about three times as much stuff as we ever used, especially in my case. I just didn't know what to expect, so I brought as much as I could. Ironically, I always seemed to bring too little once we hit whatever water we were fishing.

We got on the road, and I tried to get a little sleep in, but the fishing talk, and the little shuteye I got at home kept me awake. Working our way up the 15, 215 and 395 while the sun rose is a great way to start a quick trip of the mind-scrubbing variety, leaving work's messes behind. Stopping for food, gas, and urinating still put us in Bishop at 8:30 am. The flat, grey clouds obscured the time of day, and it felt like 4 in the afternoon. A very odd sensation.

I'd pretty much come home from work, threw the last of my clothes into a big duffle and laid on the couch in my work clothes, which I still had on when we arrived at the trailhead to Secret Lake around 10:30 a.m. My mistake that morning was leaving on the fairly tattered socks I wore to work, instead of changing into liners and wool socks I'd normally wear hiking, or tubing. The hike into Secret Lake was about two and three quarters of a mile, with about 500 feet of altitude gain. Not really a problem in a normal hiking situation. A few things we had against us were; the trailhead was about 7700 feet higher than where we live, and we had to put our float tubes, waders, boots, fins, and food, clothes and water, as well as, our fishing tackle on our backs to make this climb. The hike itself was as gorgeous as one could hope for on maybe 2 hours of sleep, under load, gasping for air, and waiting for our hearts to explode.

When I saw Drew standing in a clearing, with the unmistakable turquoise of the lake behind him I was pretty relieved, thinking the lake had to be much further. Drew mentioned the climb was about 1000 feet, and my GPS was showing we were far from that. It wasn't until we got back to the car we figured it was half that. When I approached the spot where Drew was pulling on his waders, and the full impact of the enormous, snow-patched rock faces framing the opposite end of the lake, with the pines and aspens surrounding the mirror-still water, I quickly forgot about the hike, work, and pretty much everything else. "Gobsmacked" is the only thing that describes the feeling of taking in the incredible sight.

Drew was zipping across the lake by the time I drug my tube to the water and waded in deep enough to collapse into the seat and float. Scott was still suiting up. The still water at the outlet end of the lake where we staged our gear was tap-water clear, and ice-water cold, giving way to a deep, dark aquamarine as one reached the deeper inlet end.

I knew my waders probably had a pin hole of two in them, but there's nothing like tubing in ice-cold water to help you accept it. About the time I reached the halfway point of my kick to the other end of the lake, large, widely-spaced rain drops splashed on the lake's surface, adding to the wild beauty of the surroundings. My mind was still grappling with that just 12 hours prior I was sitting in front of my computer at work.

By the time Scott joined Drew and I at the far end of the lake, thunder crashed not far away, and we all adjusted our positions so we could make for the shore, should lightning appear. Fishing was deep; large streamers on weighted lines. The idea was to make a cast, shake out pretty much your whole fly line, let it sink a while, then strip the fly back as fast as you could. I kind of like that type of fishing, it's similar to fishing the local bays, except the bay water we fish is a little shallower generally.

It grew windy and cold, and there were few sure bites to keep the adrenaline going. I assumed I had a substantial leak in my waders as numb as my toes had become, and soon enough everything; lack of sleep, the drive, the hike, the cold, and the lack of fish, caught up with me. I kicked back across the lake, stripped out of my boots and waders, hoping to dry my socks and warm my feet before we hiked out. I was pretty surprised to find my socks were barely damp. It hadn't been leaks so much as cold that numbed my toes. My nasty work socks didn't help much.

I changed back into hiking clothes, hung my wet gear, and set up my tube as a large inflatable chair and watched Scott and Drew fish, and took in the incredible vista. The hike out was next to nothing, and we made it back to the Condo in Mammoth for burgers and beers. Sleep was instant and heavy.

Lake Barrett 5/2/09

Saturday Scott and I got a chance to fish the Barrett opener for the second year. The weather reports were all doom and gloom even up until 3 a.m. when I had to get up to be at Scott's house. All my usual Internet weather sites, and widgets, predicted rain and fairly high winds. It was going to be a down to the minute decision whether it was on or not. But not only did it not rain, at all, the wind was only bad for a short time, and eventually it was a pretty nice, hot day.

I'll skip the drama leading up to our arrival at the lake, barely in time to be the last vehicle in the first "train" in. But given the drama before we fished, the rest of the trip seemed all the more relaxed. We, literally, had all day to fish, and we weren't catching a ride on Mick's boat, so there was no rush to suit up and run to the dock. We parked on Pigs Point, with a bunch of other tubers, and kayakers, and began the process that goes along with an all-day tubing trip - waders, boots, rod assembly, inflating and stocking the tubes...

Barrett is known for it's large catch counts, so beside the regular pressure not to get skunked, there's the added pressure of making respectable numbers. Being fly fishermen, we really can't compete with the gear guys on numbers, nor do I care to, but it is possible to catch a much larger amount of fish than on most other local lakes.

I think Scott was the last person from the first train to get on the water, but neither of us were too anxious about the day. We kicked out, picked rods, and stripped off line. We hadn't even discussed a plan really. We just kicked out and started casting around in a pretty unfocused manner.


Eventually I suggested we make a pretty long kick over to a point at which we some success on our last trip. This area is point, cove, point, cove for hundreds of yards with plenty of great structure, like dead trees, boulders, reeds, weeds, and ledges. It's as though it was designed to hold fish. It didn't take long for the first fishes of the morning to come aboard. My second fish was my first ever crappie, he kind of gave up the fight pretty quick, but nice fish. Scott picked up a bass or two, maybe three, right off, and not too long after a big crappie.


My intention was to target bass on this trip, but first priority is getting the skunk off, and getting some fish on board. I was throwing toward a dead branch sticking out of the water, and kept feeling ticks on the retrieve. Since I was fishing a "meat whistle" with a good sized hook, I figured some aggressive bluegill were attacking my big fly. I switched to my bluegill setup and a #10 white woolly bugger. For about 25 - 30 minutes it was nearly a bluegill a cast. Scott came over and joined in. I decided I'd fish to 20 bluegill and spend the rest of the day hunting bass. It didn't take but a few more minutes to reach that goal.

I switched back to my bass rod, and the "crawdad meat whistle" and worked around a couple points, and coves to no result. I'd lost track of Scott. I thought he'd leap-frogged me and was a cove ahead of me, so I hurried around a point to try to catch sight of him. It turned out he'd gone back the way we came. I didn't get close enough to chat again until I met him at the truck for lunch.

I worked a little island with a frankenfly I had in my box. I'd lost the meat whistle I had on, and felt like experimenting. The fly had a cone head, a black bugger body, and a purple silicone curly tail. A real mutt. But I cast it toward the weedy island, and it got hit pretty hard off the end of a tiny point. I immediately kicked away from the structure to keep the fight in open water. The fish flipped out of the water and I could see I was dealing with a decent fish. I lead it back and forth, trying to wear it out, and it put up a dogged fight. I had too much line in my lap to try to wind in and get the fish on the reel, so I just had to give and take line with my hands. Eventually, I was able to lead the bass, an easy 3-pounder, to the side of my tube. It sat there, mouth agape, while I probably did the same thing. Before I could reach my thumb into its mouth, though, it gave a last head shake and threw my fly. It even stayed where it was, mouth open, and if I'd been quicker I might have been able to lip it, but just then it turned and swam out of sight. That would have been a day-maker if I'd been able to photograph it. Of course I worked that island for all I was worth, but only ended up with a couple bluegill for my efforts.

I lost the frankenfly, and Scott, so I tied on another meat whistle, and worked my way back towards where we'd launched. Surprisingly, the bass started to respond to my meat whistle, and I was able to make a steady pick of about 7 bass on the way back to the truck. This was a most satisfying development, as my intention this year is to work on my bass "game."


Lunch was a Trader Joe's sandwich, water, Linton Kwesi Johnson, and straight back into the water. We'd kind of missed our window to catch the 2 p.m. train out, so it was going to be the 4 p.m. train. I worked a cove near where we launched with all the gusto I had left, and nearly accidentally caught 3 more bass. But soon it was obvious I was out of gas. I kept losing flies in the reeds, and it wasn't long before my last meat whistle was gone. I grew tired of retying every few casts, and even though we had a good hour before the 4 p.m. train was to escort us out, I called it a day. At least we'd be able to break down and pack at a leisurely pace. Fish numbers ended relatively respectably - though later Scott told me his cousin and his fishing partner boated something like 186 bass - we were able to go home and collapse satisfied we'd had a good day. My GPS recorded 8 hours, 59 minutes, and 45 seconds of fishing time. From the time I left my house, to my exhausted return was bit over 14 hours.

Breakthrough at Upper Otay 3/29

Last week I got a wild hair and decided to grab a fly rod and a chest pack and go walk the shore at Upper Otay to see if the fish were willing to cooperate. To keep it short; I hooked two bluegill, lost them both. But, while I was working one spot, 3 of my fishing buddies floated by in their float tubes. They reported solid numbers on bluegills. I decided it was time to break out the float tube for my return.

Once parked at the small, dirt parking area along Otay Lakes Road, I pulled all my gear out the trunk of my little Civic. I pumped up my float tube, struggled into my filthy waders, and loaded tackle into the tube's compartments. The road to Upper Otay's parking lot is still closed, so I clipped the backpack straps on, hoisted my tube onto my back, grabbed my rod and kick fins, and began the long trudge up and over the hill to the lake.

It was a beautiful, Spring day. A little warmer at the lakes than near Downtown San Diego, the mid-70s I'd guess. The sky was blue, and the flowers on the hills were all in bloom, but it was a bit windier than I like. By any account it was a near perfect day.

After paying the iron ranger, I launched, and immediately noticed the wind was going to be more of an issue in the tube. (I geeked out a little today and brought my GPS to track my meanderings around the lake. 1.2 miles in 4 hours, 27 minutes at a heart-pumping .3 miles per hour). I probably should have kicked straight over to the eastern shore so I'd have the wind to my back (in a tube you travel backwards, with the wind at your back you can maintain position by slowly kicking your feet), but there were two or three gear anglers working that side, and the western shore was deserted. I can be impatient, and indecisive, so the deserted shore meant I could tootle around at my every whim. Also, the density of the reeds and proximity of a hillside cuts down a lot on the wind once you get in tight to the shore. On top of that, the afternoon sun casts comforting shadows in which fish like to hide.

I worked my way up the western shore, moving north, with only one half-hearted strike. It was still early, so I wasn't getting the panic yet. About halfway up (I can give you exact coordinates) I got a text message from Scott, saying he was going to park and walk in from the north side to fish from shore. I worked the shoreline pretty intently, dropping a variety of flies as near the reeds as I could. I let the weighted ones sink slowly into the feeding zone, and slowly twitched them back to me. The floating poppers I cast as near the reeds as possible, left to sit, then twitched enticingly. When conditions are right, and that's what bass or bluegill are keying on, it can induce explosive surface strikes; it's like crack to a fisherman.

I rounded a little point, near a place informally referred to as "the drop off," which is where the 3 fellas from last week had reported some success. I could see an occasional flash off Scott's fly rod over the reeds now. I made a cast into the shallow water above the drop off, began a slow, intermittent retrieve, and glanced up to see if I could see what Scott was up to. Fish seem to know when I'm not paying attention. Maybe my laser concentration transfers down to the fly, I don't know, but as soon as I directed attention from the fly line to Scott I got a heavy strike. I set the hook and kicked away from shore a little. Bluegill have a distinctive fight, especially smaller ones, that's kind of wiggly. Meaning they don't make fast, straight runs, or leap out of the water, but they seem to wiggle, and race back and forth. This was a heavy, old, strong gill. I had stripped in my line to the leader and I still couldn't lift this fish to where I could see him. Scott had taken notice of the the fight, possibly because I was shouting "Dude! Dude! Monster gill!"


Upper Otay is known amongst local fly fishers to have a quality class of bluegill. The average size of these gillies is above the norm, there are a lot of them, and they aren't super easy to entice. It makes for a challenging fishery that can be rewarding but frustrating. In fact, all last year I found it frustrating. I was able to get a couple here or there, but I think 4 was my best day, and even that was a lot work.

This bluegill stormed back and forth, refusing to get nearer the surface. I was using a short, 4-weight fly rod I like because it makes the relatively small bluegill more sporting. It also makes horsing in a fish a little more difficult. Scott chuckled as I struggled to land the fish. Finally, after multiple attempts to bring the 'gill to the surface the fish wore out to a point where I could lift him to my hand. This was without a doubt my personal-best bluegill, easily covering my hand. I snapped a few pictures, slid him back into the green lake water to watch him bolt into the murk.


About this time Scott was hooked up to his first bluegill in the shallow water near shore. The afternoon was already a success, and it wasn't long before I had another large bluegill to hand. The Drop off was paying off, as long as I got my flies up near the reeds and kept the retrieve slow. Scott landed a small bass, and not long after, my third, then fourth meaty bluegill came aboard. I moved a little north and picked up a small, 10-inch large mouth bass.

Scott and I split up as he went to look for another spot on the shoreline, and the sun was getting close to the hilltops, so I needed to work back towards the launch area. I picked up a couple more fish while chatting with a bass fisherman. For once the bass guys were impressed with the frequency and size of the fish I was bringing in. It often seems they look with amusement at us fly fishers. I don't blame them.

The sun had set, and the temperature dropped significantly. I decided to skip a good portion of shoreline, and kick across the middle of the lake. I saw Scott wading an area ripe with fish-holding structure, and he was doing pretty well. A cool thing about a serene lake is you can have a conversation with someone hundreds of yards away without even having to yell. As I kicked by, dragging my fly behind me (BTW, all fish were caught on a size 14 black woolly bugger), I got a strike and landed a haggard, skinny, sickly-looking large mouth about 16 inches. This put me at 6 bluegills, 2 bass. My best day on Upper Otay. I don't think any of my previous bluegill on this lake were as big as all but one I caught today.

Not wanting to stop fishing a hot bite (the bladder only holds out for so long) I worked the area around the launch for 2 more bluegill, and a few missed strikes. That was more than enough to make my day, and I was getting pretty chilly. I thought my crusty waders had been leaking all day, but it was just the cold water against my waders. I got and relieved the pressure, loaded up and hiked over the hill to my car. I got some bassin' tips from the other tubers when they all got back to the parking area, shared my pics, and talked with a guy I'd run into a few times on the lake. Finally, a breakthrough on my favorite lake.

Prep

For some reason during the work week, it takes me a good hour to transition from getting out of bed to coherent wakefulness. But on a Sunday, when that alarm goes off at 5 am, even if I've only slept fitfully, I snap to like a soldier at reveille. I do know that, for me, there is a big difference between motivating myself to go fishing alone, and knowing that in 30 minutes someone will be in my driveway, waiting, or at a launch ramp preparing their boat to take me fishing.

In those cases, I'm highly motivated and organized to get dressed, get out of the house with as much of the correct gear as possible. Most of the previous afternoon is spent with gear bags, rod tubes, my reel case, fly boxes, and appropriate chest packs or tackle bags strewn across my living room. Lunch is prepared (and car keys are put in the refrigerator, in with the lunch, so I don't leave it), the coffee maker is set up, or an open coffee shop is identified.

Depending on the situation; be it wading the surf, tubing, or boat fishing, clothes are put out to be yanked on first thing. Shirts are last so I can get as much 50 SPF sunscreen on my bald head, neck and arms as is appropriate. Not so easy when it's 60 degrees inside my place, dark outside, and the sunscreen is cold and thick. But if it isn't now, it's likely to be never, and that's not a good thing for a bald Scots/German like myself.

Finding something I can chew and swallow at 5 am is not easy. I'm not really a breakfast person, and at what amounts to the middle of the night, it's even harder. An old-fashioned from the coffee shop is usually about all I can stomach until I've been fishing for a while. Coffee is black, and either small enough to finish before the boat launches, or large enough to leave in the car and resume after the fishing is over. It's pretty nasty most of the time, but, I usually still finish it on the drive home.

Lunch usually consists of stuff you can eat by the handful, or something that will fit in a convenient pocket, so I can stuff some in my mouth while I'm waiting for my line to sink to the desired depth. Cliff or Lara bars are great fishing food, trail mixes, and my favorite; a baggie of cubed cheese and hard salami. If it's going to be a kelp-fishing epic, I'll pack a proper sandwich and chips, plus snacks because those trips can go 11 hours from launch to landing. Conversely, a surf fishing trip will be over before I'd normally eat breakfast, so I just grab a burrito on the way home.

Hauling gear can be anything from grabbing a rod and reel combo, a chest pack and bolting out the door, to pre-loading the car with my float tube, fins and pump, stacking gear by the door, and almost filling my car with tubing paraphernalia, wading gear, tackle, clothes, food, and water. It's broken down to ritual now, and if someone's waiting in the driveway it's a one-load rubbermaid overflowing with the day's needs. Either way, reducing prep time is the goal, and I've even considered driving the 20-odd miles to Barrett, in full waders, but haven't gotten to that point yet. Yet.

Once in the car, gear stowed, I can enjoy the pre-fishing conversation, or the long, lone drive to the lake or ramp, coffee and doughnut, perhaps some Wilco, or Tom Waits and anticipate the coming catch.