Fishing report: good.
Just got back from a fabulous four-day fishing trip in the Sierras. Last week I shared my trepidation and uncertainty about still being able to fish after a healthy childhood of fishing followed by 40 years of dabbling. Could I reconnect with my fishing muse? Did I still have what it takes to reel them in?
For about 10 years, I fished once a year in the Yosemite backcountry at forgotten alpine lakes, but the trout there were so plentiful, you could put your hand in the water and pull it out with five trout sucking on your digits. Ability counted little. My 7-year-old caught a dozen browns using a stick, a knot of abandoned line and rusted hook we found in a tree, and a pinch of bread.
For the next 10 years, I fished once a year with a group of avid fishermen from Sacramento who have camped at the same sites for 66 years in a row. Ability counts for everything on these trips. However, for seven of those years, I fished with Gino, who doesn’t fish. Loyal friend that I am, we hung together and spent most of our time lounging in the campground and cooking. For the last two years, Gino stopped going altogether, and I fished with Bud Donaldson. Bud loves to fish, but mostly he loves to change bait and look for new holes. Twice in those ten years I caught two fish. Most years were barren.
Every year the real fishermen would roll into camp at sunset parading their stringers of fat trout around the campsites, taking photos, telling stories, competing in the $5-per-person pool for the biggest trout.
I’ve spent nine years looking hangdog and hanging the blame for my lousy fishing results on two of my best friends. This was the first year that I traveled to the gathering alone and fished alone. If I blew it, I’d have no more excuses. I would have to confess to my own suckatude.
Friday evening at camp left me feeling meek and mild. All the guys were hunkered around their fires stringing their poles with fresh line from massive, impressive, abundant tackle boxes. Men were talking shop about line test and bait selections, commiserating over shared experiences at other trout streams in the region. I sat quietly with my hands in my lap, storyless and lost in the jargon. Chad had already prepped my loaner pole from my little grandson. It was a five-foot lightweight pole with a small spinning reel. In my canvas creel I had a bag of hooks, sinkers, and some Berkley Mouse Tails.
As predicted it started snowing at 9 p.m. and snowed until Saturday sunrise. We woke to a blanket of white and a cold canyon breeze. Chad, my son-in-law, whose camper, truck, and equipment I was borrowing, whipped up bacon, sausage, eggs, and biscuits on the three-burner while guys geared up. Some climbed into waders up to their chest. Others pulled on hip boots. Most had multi-pocket vests bulging with tackle and weathered hats full of badges and pins. I had hiking boots, a wool cap, and a sack. In my jeans were a pocket knife and a red bandana.
Time to go fishing. Four of us climbed into Chad’s truck and drove to one of their favorite holes on the East Carson. Three of them were frequent fishing buddies and they all clustered together just below the truck. I walked alone up the road to find my own hole.
A few notions guided me. One is that I don’t care to fish near others because our lines tangle and some guys make noise and muddy the waters. I looked for a long cluster of reeds that blocked access to the river, and fished above it. Trout like reeds. They can hide among the shadowy roots and eat bugs that fall from the limbs as well as the critters that wash downstream.
Stocked trout are stupid about foraging for natural food for about a week. These got stocked 24 hours ago. We watched the truck dump them from the bridge upstream. They will be drawn to highly visible food, like jerking fluorescent Mouse Tails and shiny lures. Tiny bugs and grubs aren’t on their menu yet.
Fishing in reeds is treacherous because of all the snags. Reeds scare off a lot of fishermen. I suffered a good deal with Jack’s five-foot pole. After casting, I had to grab a limb behind me, hang out over the water, and stretch my fishing arm straight out to tease the downstream holes. When reeling in, I kept the lightly weighted bait well above the bottom.
My first trout struck early and my fingers went cold numb cracking its neck and removing the hook. Washing off the blood iced them further. Then the second trout hit on my next cast. “Damn.” I had to play in the cold water again. Then the third one hit, then the fourth and fifth and I had my limit at 11 a.m. without ever moving.
All five were a foot or longer, and they swung glistening from my stringer as I walked back down the road to find my friends. “Hey, can I catch a ride to camp? I’m done for the day.”
“Bite me,” said Chad. “It will be the only bite I’ve had all day.”
Out of 45 able fishermen, I was the only person in camp who caught his limit. Most caught nothing, or one. I missed winning the biggest-fish trophy by one-quarter inch.
As promised here last week, if I had a good trip, I’d make efforts to get back into fishing. On Tuesday I stopped in at Benicia Bait and Tackle and ordered a 7 ½ foot Shakespeare spinning rod and Shimano Spirex reel.
Hope to be on the river by the end of the month.

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