Flies are often tied more for the fisherman than the fish. We can't help ourselves, colorfully decorated hooks are appealing. When I look into my flybox the flashy ones draw my attention and I convince myself that they will do the same with trout. Little midges continually fight for my recognition yet they they deliver time and again. None more than the WD-40. It is little more than thread, dubbing, and wood duck feather and it needn’t be anything else. Trout love this fly.
Los Padres Trout
There was once water in California. I have seen the evidence. Black and white photos commemorate the steelhead that frequented the rivers in the southern part of the state. Some still do, although they are few. It is the same old song, sad and redundant, humans came and nature left. Long since dried up creek beds offer bleak reminders of the life that once flowed through their veins. Yes, trout were here but they left with the water. Years of drought and diverting rivers for agriculture and growing populations has taken its toll. Fire is now more familiar than rain. Yet there is still hope in the hills. Faded green chaparral hides trickles if life.
Sespe Creek, hidden among the dusty hills of the Los Padres National Forest, offers a glimpse into what trout fishing in southern California might have looked like 100 years ago. The water still flows, but it is dominated by algal lined pools baking under the sun. Surprisingly, the water is much cooler than it appears. In fact it seems it could support trout. In fact it does.
A distinct shadow moves along the sandstone bottom. It is not living, but the one swimming above, responsible for the dark shape is alive. A precious seven inch rainbow trout moves slowly in the deep pool. The water seems stagnant, but its current is revealed in the bits of foam moving across the surface. There is movement, although it is not much, not enough for the trout to sit stationary so it moves, tracing the outline of the pool.
A single fly cast into the middle of the pool breaks the surface tension and slowly descends through the water column. It is a gold bead prince nymph. There is no indicator attached to the line because the water is clear and the sun reflects off the gold bead, shimmering as it sinks. The fish changes course ever so slightly, it does not speed up or slow down until the fly is directly in front. Then it pauses, watching the fly for a few seconds, deciding. The mouth comes open, sucking in water, as the fish ever so slightly lurches forward. It is amazing how carefully the trout approaches this action. A motion it has done thousands of times before. But there is good reason for hesitation and perhaps the trout should have hesitated longer, but it doesn’t and the hook brings the fish to the angler’s hand. A small silver spotted glimmer of hope remains in the hills of southern California.
Spring Creek Summer
It was noon on a humid June day when I arrived at the spring creek. Dense vegetation lining the banks shrouded the slow moving water, blocking out the sunlight and hiding its presence from the surrounding world. One could pass within ten feet of this stream completely unaware of its existence.
I sought shelter beneath the trees as a brief thunderstorm passed through, sheltered from the rain by the layers of leaves above me. Except for the few large drops collected in pools and dripping off leaves, I remained dry. After the storm, the air grew thick and humid with steam rising off the water. The sun returned and the few rays penetrating the canopy glimmered off the wet leaves. Slowly, a few mayflies began to emerge and the sound of rising trout perked my ears (it is difficult to explain the subtle difference in sound between a droplet of water landing in a pool and a trout rising). Searching in the direction of the sound, I watched as an invisible insect was picked off the surface by a hungry fish. I tied on a small mayfly, hoping it would be an acceptable offering. Slow moving, crystal clear water required a stealth approach into casting position. My first cast came from lying on my stomach in wet grass on the slightly elevated stream bank. The fish, positioned just below the end of a low hanging branch, refused to move two feet for my fly. Several attempts later, the fly landed six inches in front of the trout and the small trout took the fly. Unfortunately, lying on my stomach was not ideal for fighting fish and my first trout quickly unhooked itself and swam away to safety.
Moving upstream, I saw another rise just in front of a submerged log. The theme of low hanging branches remained true, but this time I was able to position myself downstream of my target. Kneeling on the gravel bottom in six inches of water, I threw a backhand cast, careful not to catch the foliage overhead. I watched the fly set on the water only seconds before it disappeared in a swirl. Hopping to my feet, I worked the fish downstream into my net.
Yellow Drakes began to hatch in small numbers, immediately drawing the attention of fish and birds alike. Any mayfly that hovered too long in the air was picked off by a bird and any lingering too long on the water was a meal for a trout. A violent splash upstream and nearly out of sight drew me to the next pool. The fish was rising in a small pocket between downed trees. Impossible to cast at from any other angle but directly overhead, I crept parallel to the fish, concealing myself in the brush. Using the length of the rod, I held the fly in my fingers, flexing the rod to sling-shot a cast towards the two feet of unobstructed water surface. I watched the trout come into view and eat the fly. With logs and branches on either side, the only option was to pressure the fish skyward and hope the hook would not pull out. Careful not to snap my 6x tippet, I brought the fish to the surface for just enough time to swoop my net under and land my biggest fish of the day. As light faded and the hatch slowed, I made my way back to the car and reflected on the events transpired; reliving each cast and hook set in my mind.
Rapidancer
There is an air of exclusivity surrounding dirt roads. The best kind of exclusivity. They are the road less traveled and lead places few visit, at least to the extent where paving the way would be a waste of time and money. I am drawn to their rugged authenticity. Even if the destination is known, the road is unpredictable. Downed trees and eroded banks are wary reminders. But if the journey is made, and the road is travelled, the reward can be immense. If you are lucky, you will find untamed wilderness and if you are very lucky, you might even find a river.
Within 100 miles of DC, at least 2600ft above sea level, and next to an excellent trout stream, President Hoover established the Rapidan Camp. That was his criteria (exactly as I listed it); proximity, elevation (mosquito related), and trout. The Rapidan River met the requirements.
From presidential retreat to boy scout summer camp to national historic landmark, much has changed for the Rapidan Camp. Fortunately, the fishing has remained the same. The same river that captivated Hoover is still entertaining anglers today.
This story begins on a dirt road.
A recent storm left the already pothole riddled road muddy and slick. I would say that it is only navigable by a four wheel drive vehicle, but a baby blue Honda Civic hybrid would have made me a liar. Still, a sedan on this road cannot be recommended and I’m sure the driver of that Civic bottomed out on a few rocks along the way.
Miles of road paralleling miles of trout filled river leave no wrong spot to start fishing. Wracked with options my friend, Charlie, and I picked a dirt pull-off at random and began our day. I tied on a #16 Royal Wulff as I often do when targeting small water brook trout. In addition to being a great fly for imitating a number of hatches, there is a classic appeal to the pattern, which in my opinion is one of the most beautiful trout flies. Catching trout for nearly 100 years is another good reason to trust this fly.
With trout willing to rise on the Royal Wulff, I found little motivation to alter my rig. The routine was repetitive and anything but mundane. I cast at a pool until the fish stopped rising then rock-hopped my way to the next pool. Soon I began targeting the most isolated seams between rocks or rapids. It continued to surprise me when a trout would swipe at the fly in the most obscure holding water: hanging pools between waterfalls, tiny back eddies, pockets no more than a square foot in size, etc. There are trout everywhere in this river and you needn’t look far to find them.
The air and water is still cool in the mountains and the fish are slowly waking up to spring. For the moment they are sipping dry flies in the most aggressive sense of the word, a subtlety for brook trout. Soon warmth will infiltrate the river and one can expect full aerial displays of trout leaping after flies. Until then, keep on fishing.
Photo: Charlie Church
Photo: Charlie Church
Look at the bend in the rod! It is almost as if the fly is caught in a tree behind me. Wink. Photo: Charlie Church
Endless pools like this, one after the other. Photo: Charlie Church
Trying to set the hook without launching the fish. Photo: Charlie Church
More pockets than a pair of cargo pants. Photo: Charlie Church
Photo: Charlie Church
Photo: Charlie Church
Spring Dreaming
Snow can turn the most dreary of landscapes into spectacles of wonder. A perfect blanket of white neatly layered over hills and buildings, emanating peaceful beauty. Beyond the visual appeal, what resonates most is the silence. Layers of snow, damping vibrations and absorbing sounds, create moments of calm reflection and a most welcome refuge in an otherwise noisy world.
The day after a snowfall, we can glimpse into a world often unseen, where tracks from critters are literal storylines; tiny prints stamped on a blank canvas. The scenery is different, but nature moves unphased, subtly documented upon the layers of frozen moisture. Days like this it is a privilege to be along a river.
One last winter hurrah we tell ourselves. Half a foot of snow dumped on the city and even more just to the north. Heading away from the salt ridden and slushy roads of the Capitol, the snow remained undisturbed along the spring creek banks. Arriving at midday, it was a welcome surprise to lay the first tracks in pursuit of trout.
With a snow covered horizon, the polarized lense is your greatest ally. Clear skies and unwavered sun beams refracting off snow will quickly burn eyes and alter vision, an unnecessary obstacle that is easily avoidable. Still, it was difficult finding fish. Traditional runs proved fruitless and a lack of cloud cover made a stealthy approach not easy.
After many casts in vain, combing seams and changing flies, success was eventually found in deep slow runs. Nymphing a hare’s ear and worm pattern proved the winning recipe, although a brief wisp of clouds passing over brought several fish to the surface on a #18 BWO.
After a long winter and mostly frozen February, this was an excellent introduction to spring fishing and the adventures that lie ahead.
*All photos provided by Charlie Church