A Different Drummer: Fisherman’s Journal, Part One

OK, I finally went fishing, real focused fishing, not fishing from the car, or fishing on the fly, or fishing with others. Not fishing with a timer running.
This was open-ended go-it-alone fishing. I packed my camping gear into my dented pickup truck and drove off alone into the mountains. I left last Monday and said I’d be home by Thursday, depending on the fish.
Susan was cool with it. We follow the Tom Waits philosophy: “I don’t want to ask permission if I want to go out fishing.” It was part of our wedding vows 31 years ago.
After finding myself idle early on my full first day, I decided to keep a running journal.
Entry 1: I started fishing this Tuesday morning at 6:30 a.m. and by 7:30 a.m. I was done. I’d caught nine trout and kept five.
At this moment, it is 4:30 p.m. I’m sitting in an empty campground in a folding chair looking out at the towering pines and listening to the East Carson River roaring just beyond the ridge. I’ve been sitting here for three hours napping in the shade.
I fried up two trout with potatoes and onions for lunch as soon as I got off the river.
On Monday I drove from Benicia to Markleeville and fished a while without luck on my way to my campsite. Having never used lures in my life, I’d decided to give them a try.
I stocked up at Benicia Bait and Dick’s and got an assortment of Panther Martin rooster tails, cranks and critters, salmon eggs, nightcrawlers, Berkley Power Bait and Mouse Tails. I planned to try them all.
My pickup could hold a lot of luxury camping supplies If I so chose, but part of why I’m here is to test out my backcountry gear before our August Yosemite hike.
I brought a one-man tent, a Whisperlite, one pot and pan, and an ultra-light chair.
I came with little food. My intention was to catch trout or go hungry. I brought an onion, two potatoes, green beans, mushrooms, and a spice medley.
Entry 2: I made friends with Eric, another solo guy living in a Bounder pulling a Jeep. He and his black dog Domino were the only two other living souls in this remote quiet grove.
We sat and talked fishing, bears, dogs, camping techniques. He’d been here 14 days working on his Jeep. Got it running. Was leaving in the morning.
Entry 3: it’s midnight. I just discovered my Thermarest has a leak in it. I’m forced to sleep in the unpadded ground. Lucky it’s summer.
Entry 4: Tuesday morning and I awoke at 3:45 a.m. without prodding. I unzipped my tent and scooted my head out to look up at the stars. A light wind in the trees added movement to the view. At 4 a.m. I made a cup of Peet’s with my flawless stove and built a small three-log fire. Had oatmeal and drove off at 5:45 a.m. to be on the river at dawn.
I drove a half mile and parked where I saw a pool at the base of some rapids. At 6 a.m. I put a Berkely Mouse Tail on my #10 hook and cast. Strike. I pulled in a 12-inch rainbow. I released it and caught another. By 7 a.m. I had caught nine trout. I kept five and quit for the day again. I never switched out the Mouse Tail. My assorted lures would have to wait.
Entry 5: Back at camp in a chair at 3 p.m. I napped, then cooked. I sautéed all my veggies together on my single burner stove, then egg-panko fried two fat trout. The spines lifted out cleanly, and I ate the sweet river meat with my fingers. Flaky, moist, fresh, delicious.
Now I’m reclining with a frosty cold Nevada Icky. I’ll build a fire later and roast corn.
Entry 6: It is 6:45 p.m. I got new neighbors and made friends. A young family pulled up beside me, Dave and Trish and their very young children, Carson and Madeline. “Guess where Carson got his name?”
“This river?”
“Yep. This is our dog.” A sleek muscular red dog was sniffing out the area around their trailer, nose to the ground. “His name is a Brook Trout. Carson named him.”
I said, “I’m driving into Markleeville general store for olive oil. You need anything?”
“No. We’re fine. We are having burritos. I’ll make you one.”
“That would be great,” I said.
At the general store I picked up some trout fixins and a huge chew bone for Brook Trout. When I returned little Carson politely walked to my campsite and gave me a warm burrito. I thanked him and gave him the chew bone for his dog. He was overjoyed.