Back for Seconds

It was with great anticipation that I sped up the mountains, returning to the location where just a couple weeks prior, rugged terrain and ambitious plans left me feeling like I'd fallen down a flight of stairs. (No stairs involved, but the falling was certainly a common occurrence) Being solo, I planned a much less adventurous route, hoping to keep the bushwhacking to an absolute minimum.

The high canopy leaves ample room for casting.

Amidst the chirping of birds in the cool morning air, I quickly strung up my double-ought and pulled on my waist-high waders. As I reached for the tippet spools to extend my furled leader, I recognized my dilemma: a full Camelbak, some snacks, waders, maps, GPS beacon (SPOT II)... everything except the waist pack which contains flyboxes, forceps, tippet, floatant... A ten second mistake that cost me 2 hours of time from the start of the day... making this short Saturday on the water include a lot of time in the driver's seat.

Impressive flows for fall, especially considering this is Southern California.

I arrived, the second time, took a couple deep breaths and allowed the frustration to fade away, as I scrambled down to the fern-laden canyon.

Trout are far more beautiful than they need be. I've pondered before the hazards of fly fishing in Southern California, snakes, poison oak, and stinging nettle being the common concerns - but this canyon feels different, in my mind, if nothing else. I’ve seen neither nettles nor urushiol-bearing shrubs - rattlers are likely present, but compared to other creeks, this one just seems less "snakey". Still, I find myself on constant lookout... it feels like a place where Cougars(not the surgically enhanced 40-somethings) could sneak and pounce, and that keeps me always looking over my shoulder, not that I could hope to see one if it were trying to stay out of view.

Fishing solo is a mixed bag. The paranoia surrounding the streamside perils skyrockets, but there is no greater joy than the solitude and serenity of a remote trout stream tucked away in a rugged canyon. 

Browns are the only trout with red spots on their adipose fins. The big girl was holding in the shallowest of water, out of view here only because of the small patch of reflection. This deep canyon stream is a creek fisherman's paradise. The cool(icy cold actually), clear water flows from pool to pool, cascading over miniature waterfalls and moss covered granite. Fishing finds browns in all the likely spots, and hooking one is almost sure to spook all residents of the affected pool. Sneak is of the utmost importance, and I wear waders as much for the padded knees as any water resistance provided care of the 2oz of Aquaseal that holds them together.

The stream holds more than its fair share of 7-10" browns, but I had known from the reconnaissance mission two weeks earlier that a few 12"+ fish called this creek home. As I fished up to a large (given the surroundings), shallow pool, I knew that it must hold more than a single fish, and choosing the right spot for the 1st cast would make the difference between catching an average fish, and catching one of the Lane Bryant models ...

I have a knack for taking pictures that make big fish look small. I approached the pool with all the stealth I could muster, and began scanning, a couple smaller fish were holding in the faster run on the right hand side, and there was a promising looking deep, dark, shaded spot, just on the left side of the head of the pool. As I continued my approach, I began to look over the broad, shallow, flat area of the pool at the tail. In just 6 or 7 inches of water, plain as day, sat the largest fish I'd seen all day; that was the fish that would get my first and ever-important cast.

What can I say - I have a thing for that special fin. Taking a moment to study the area behind me revealed a back-casting lane, from which to launch my assault against this nuclear submarine. With a minimum of fuss the fly landed perfectly, just two feet in front of her nose, and the fish did not react in any way. As the fly drift slowly back towards the strike zone, I could see neither a look of concern nor interest. Fearing defeat, I watched and the fly drifted directly overhead, and only then, as the fly began passing by, the fish rose for inspection, and while drifting back in the current with the fly, slowly and without fuss ate it. No slash, no aggression, no emotion, just the classic Brown Trout rise and take.

Mustering every ounce of my own patience I counted down the hours split second for the fish to return to the resting position (The New Zealand "God Save the Queen" ritual comes to mind) before lifting my rod and bringing the line taut. A battle ensued and I wound up the victor, holding in my hands one of the finest trout I've seen in Southern California, and easily the nicest fish I'd found in waters this small. A few quick pictures and a release, and I stood there alone, in awe of the preceding moments. A quick bow and thanks to the stream and it’s Creator, and I resumed fishing, though I never regained the focus and determination... I was satisfied, and the rest of the afternoon was just gravy on top.

Printed on dot-matrix?A few more pools (and the same number of trout) left me feeling that I had already gained enough from this one stream, the urge to explore sent me hiking back to the car, to take off in search of another couple blue lines that I'd been eying up.

The first creek turned out to be oft-feared seasonal creek - bone dry in this case - and certainly without trout. On a map it looked to hold promise, but the reality just wasn’t there. The second creek was a slightly better picture, as a tiny trickle of water slipped through the dense brush and crossed a dirt road - locked away from public vehicular travel, but no signage indicated anything other than forest service land was involved, I continued from the gate on foot.

I let the fish go in the middle of the road. Hopefully he does not get hit by a car. Well fed and healthy for the smallest of streams. Figuring the road itself was as good a place as any to start, I quickly spotted an 8" Trout (later determined to be a nice healthy Brown), holding just upstream of the road. Though somewhat interested, the fish was quick to refuse my Spongebob caddis that had seen such great success just a few miles down the road, but a parachute ant was attacked with vigor.

I spent some time working the water up through the brush. Most holes lacked space enough to even bow and arrow cast, so it was more dapping and dangling than any real form of fly fishing , but the creek surprised me - the quality of fish was far better than one would expect from such tiny water. The Browns seemed to be the predominant species, but a few rainbows were mixed in as well, making for some always interesting variety.

Calling this a small stream would be pretty generous. Confirming the population I suspected did exist, I made the decision to head out early and stop by a few more creeks on the way home to get an idea if there was year-round water - of the two checked, both had some water, but only one looked to have any chance of holding fish or being fishable. Some exploration lower in the drainage will hopefully yield another new secret spot sometime in the future.

Surprise Rainbow!

Keeping it close to Home

The sun has not yet crested over the walls of this steep canyon. Seeking out adventure close to home is never easy. The temptation is always there to take the known quantities, to visit the old friends, and chase the big ones that got away last time. But sometimes that's not enough; sometimes the rewards are off the beaten path - not in terms of numbers of fish, glorious pools, or big trout so gullible you catch them twice in the same day. We all know the creeks near home that hold the largest fish, or the highest numbers of fish, or the particular species we're after - but so does everyone else.

Sometimes, there is great reward in fishing places the other fishermen never hike far enough to see, the places oft-passed by en route to the known quantities, the creek we drive over, or even through - these places hold a special charm, because sometimes, I want to fish somewhere that even my buddies don't know exists. And that's exactly what I've dedicated my last several outings to.

This story starts on an airplane, coming home from Seattle (a business trip). It was an Alaska Airlines flight, and owing to the copious amounts of travel I was doing at the time, it was a free first class upgrade. Not one to let a first class ticket go to waste, I imbibed in some fine Alaskan Amber, along with a few other cocktails. One thing led to another and I ended up scribbling out a list, on the inside back cover of Robert Behnke's "Native Trout of Western North America" (A scholarly text from the early 90s). And on that list I wrote out a list of creek names. Creeks, all within about an hour drive from my doorstep, which I had ogled on a map at one time or another, and suspected of holding fish. The list totaled over 15 creeks, and the 4 of which I’ve yet had an opportunity to study, all have panned out with wild and willing trout – well, the truth is I’ve only caught fish from 3 of the 4. A rattlesnake encounter cut short one of the excursions, as my brother in law screamed while running as fast as he could in flip flops.

Majestic when standing, arduous when fallen - the diameter of some of these trunks was approaching five feet - the wilderness of Southern California continues to impress me.

Trails are nowhere to be found, just dig the side of your boots into the slope and hope for the best. Falling is best done while keeping head pointed uphill. Tom Chandler would call this bluelining. And I could label myself a blueliner and stop there, but that would be giving myself far too much credit as an explorer, and far too little credit as an over-obsessed map nerd. The simple fact is, there is about a million blue lines on a topo map of any mountain range. Picking one and tying on the hiking boots is one way to go at it, but our feast-famine cycle of rainfall means a great majority of blue lines on a map are blue lines, only a few weeks of the year.

For a creek to support trout, of course, it needs to be a creek all year long - a creek under about 70 degrees all year long at that - and this is where the map geekery comes in. Now, while there are no hard and fast rules to this, there are some general guidelines. A shaded topo map is the perfect tool, Google Terrain is as good as any I've found, and I use it to visually trace the outlines of drainages. Generally, I'm, looking for creeks which have large high elevation drainages.

Any tributary drainage that empties into a larger, known fishery is a good bet, even if the confluence is nowhere to be found. I know of at least one tributary stream, which has a population of fish, yet completely vanishes underground before ever connecting to the more major drainage. To an extent, a steeper gradient is also a benefit on these small tributary streams - flatter basins are more prone to fanning out and percolating into the water table. Similarly, steeper canyon walls seem to indicate more favorable conditions - shade to keep the water from overheating on our scorching summer days, though the steep walls often make an upstream or downstream hike the only way in, rather than dropping in from the sides.

Some would suggest its a lot of work for a few small trout. So that covers finding water, but what about fish? As long as there is water, just let mother human nature take care of the rest. Chances are, if there is water, someone, at some point put fish in it. And if that water persisted year after year, the chances are good that the fish persisted as well - and multiplied. Its interesting to note that a great number of these remote, rugged drainages hold brown trout, so we know for a fact someone put them here a long time ago (if only we knew who to address the thank you card to). 

The devil is in the details.

The latest of these adventures started with great promise and hopes of glory... and by the time we retired, the sights had been lowered considerably: Survive, preferably without any major injuries. And so it was, and if you ask me where we went, well, we went upstream.

Adipose Fin Shot.