Condensed Winter/Spring American River Chronicles

So much to say, so little time to say it...

Much to reflect on of my many days wading the waters and kicking up cobbles in my riparian temple of sanity...

and insanity...

Here's our boy RHook tussling with a bug-eater... The fishing was decent that day and the 'emergers' were finally starting to show in numbers which would soon undermine the deeper meaning of the quest for mighty, winter steelhead...



Eventually, the time came to explore new, old haunts and rediscover lost connections with the river and the landscape...

I encountered another angler who actually depended on procuring fish for its survival.



Sometimes, I feel like a great blue heron... ever wading, ever watching, ever stalking, often desperate to bring a fish to hand or foot, sometimes just blending in and waiting stealthily and hopeful that my perseverance will be rewarded. Puffing up my feathers and making a ruckus when an intruder approaches the water I've chosen to canvass...



With February comes the emergence of catkins on the alder trees signaling the silent but sure approach of spring. The heron and I have different agendas... I seek quiet water and solitude. The heron, dressed in colorful head plumes and neck feathers and sporting a new, yellow bill, seeks to be noticed by his future nest mate where together they will join the throng of other nesting, noisy birds in their tree-top rookery.

Numbers of large, winter steelhead give way to a greater populace of smaller fish. I can't recall where I caught this little guy...


but he had remarkable teeth!



The quest continued and I was only too happy to have traded this...



for THIS!





to be continued...

One morning, I set out not far from home with only the sissy stick and a vest full of flies. The water was big and brown (something it hadn't been for at least a year...) and so I opted to ditch the egg and nymph patterns and use the biggest bugs in my boxes... wooly buggers, coneheads, streamers. I got to the river and before crossing out to the island, I strapped on the black/grey spey fly Bill Lowe had left me with a week before. It made sense to swing something with profile and darker colors in the stained water. Of course my confidence level was about that of a Charlie Brown inviting Lucy to a swinger's club pardon the pun...

I launched the thing toward the edge of a tailout and let it drift down the glide and repeated the motion. On the second swing, my fly stopped before the point it logically should have. Ah shit, F-ing SNAG! POP, POP, WHOAHHHHHHHH it's MOV-ing!! My rod tip danced above the weight of the fish which answered my klutsy hookset with a few hefty head-shakes the last of which sent me back to sit in a corner with my shortened, fly-less tippet.

DAMN! those things DO work...

I had high hopes with a respectable adult on and off in only the first few minutes of my outing... but after a several hours, a few hundred casts, four river crossings and many traded fly patterns, I had only an education, one other lost steelie and a sucker (ate wolly buggers) to show for my fly fishing session. I attributed the first fish to a Karmic experience and had thoughts about how my 'luck' might have changed had I brought some bait or hardware... No worries though, I needed the practice and the change of pace.

On my way out, I was reminded that simplicity and resourcefulness is often superior to abundance and preparedness. You can't always have all things exactly as you would like them but you CAN always make the best of what ya' got right now...

Case in point...



or perhaps I should say, "Casa on Point"