Who doesn’t love fly fishing in the autumn?? The answer is nobody, nobody that fly fishes that is. So in what has become for me and my no...
Who doesn’t love fly fishing in the autumn?? The answer is nobody, nobody that fly fishes
that is. So in what has become for me
and my non-fly fishing girlfriend an annual event, a two week long autumn road
trip, balances have to be struck between fly fishing and other activities. It might sound like a hardship for the avid
fly angler but actually it has become an anticipated event full of wide ranging
experiences, sights, and memories. Not
that my sweetheart, Sharron, would be opposed to me just fly fishing every day
all day, far from it, she loves the riverside, soaking up rays, exploring, rock
hounding, or just reading a book, and this year she had the added companionship
of Georgia, her 6 month old Basset Hound who is non-stop entertainment all on her
own.
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| Georgia ready to roll |
I have two other articles written about our 2015 Michigan
road trip, (we actually flew and then rented a Jeep.) And our 2016 road trip which included
Northeastern Oregon, Idaho, Yellowstone and Utah. I will get those out and publish them as
well. But this year’s trip is fresh in
my memory.
Like all our road trips we do very minimal planning, a first
night destination and then kind of just go from there. We had ambitious plans this year, the Texas
Coast for redfish. Which we knew would
take A LOT of driving. As it turns out
we never made it out of California. Road
tripping this way, you need to prepare for low moments, (and not just the
unexpected passing of Tom Petty), wrong turns, false tips, and maybe even a
letdown or two, (bumper to bumper traffic on a Sunday in Yosemite.) But you also get the feeling of really
exploring of not knowing what lies ahead and stumbling on unexpected gems along
the way. It is a freeing way to go, but it’s
not for everybody, and there are moments, during those low times, that I
question this process. But now that I’m
home I cannot wait til the next one.
Our journey started heading south from our The Dalles,
Oregon home through the Cascades(how many times can you take I-5?) down to a
pre-arranged dinner in Eugene. After
dinner our first night was planned for camping at Susan Creek on the North Umpqua
River, in the fly only section. The regs
allow for no weight, or weighted flies, or sinking tips because I guess they
thought catching Steelhead was too easy.
But in the end this water was made for Scandi lines and summer type flies
anyway. The river, and the campground
are both inspiringly beautiful, and these two days was uncrowded, which allowed
one to get lost in the mental space that borders on zen, just you, a river, and
your fly rod.
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| North Umpqua |
The river was intoxicating.
We ended up staying an extra night, and all my fishing efforts resulted
in exactly one strike, swinging my go to Green Butt Skunk, through some clear flat water, with just enough current to
swing the fly, and shallow enough that fishing this stretch with the sun on it,
the next morning moved proved fruitless.
Despite the lack of activity from the fishing point of view, this would
prove to be the one spot I really felt lost in that feeling of timelessness I
can get when left alone to do nothing but cast a fly rod. Reminding me of the reason I fell in love
with fly fishing in the ‘70’s wearing cut-offs and tennis shoes. These days, casting my beloved Belauh Onyx 5wt, 12’4 spey rod, a rod of such character that it seems to know what to do all
on its own, and I’m just along for the ride.
Not to mention warm and cozy in $500 Redington Sonic Pro HDZ waders, and
Korkers Dark Horse boots. While my 15
year old self would probably scoff at my need for comfort and gear, I think he
would be pleased I was still out getting a line wet.
We followed the Umpqua with a day trip up to the stunningly beautiful
Crater Lake, a place I had never been before, despite living all my years in
Oregon. Very uncrowded by National Parks
standards, the snow on the ground in late September was a surprise bonus and
only added to the majesty of this storied and sacred place. One
last look turned into a couple of hours watching the lowering sun change hues
and perspective.
After checking in late to a motel for quick sleep it was on
to the Rogue River. The section of the
Rogue River upstream from White City, unlike the pristine Umpqua, is a series
of unfortunate developments right on the banks, leaving access, unless
floating, fairly limited. Fortunately
there is a County campground that offers decent fishing. After talking at length to a very friendly
guide, he explained I should put away my spey rod and focus on trout, as there
had been a quick day or two of decent steelie fishing they were now waiting for
the next push of fish he estimated to be 3-4 weeks out. He also stated the Umpqua was ‘tough, very
tough’. So I switched to my 5 wt. MysticReaper and some golden stones. There
were salmon spawning all over the river, and he suggests a pink egg tied on
after the golden stone. Immediately
catching a few nice fat trout, bespeckled in their autumn beauty, he told me a
spot to try before I left, which I did a couple of hours before sunset. I was quickly rewarded with my efforts
hooking into an incidental steelie, that took me for a run. After falling down three times trying to keep
up with this beast, and having had more than a couple of good looks at the
bright fish, still full of life, I knew when I was licked, and let him break me
off, to go swim, fight, and spawn another day.
Impressed I was with the abilities of my 5 wt Mystic, and the brand new
not even on the market yet Cortland Flouro tippet, it is a real game
changer. Back to camp I bounded, happy as
a kid on Christmas morning, still not able to get that fish out of my mind by bedtime,
although I am sure Sharron had an earful by then. We were put to sleep by a couple of folk
musicians camping across from us playing guitar and mandolin singing in
enviable perfect pitch. One of those
unexpected gems.
We then headed towards the coast, efforts to re-connect with
the Rogue thru the coastal mountains proved futile, one of those time perhaps a
detailed county map might have been useful.
Meandering southwest, we eventually ended up in the Redwoods in
California, towering trees that exist nowhere else, as far as I know, and then
later walked on the coast. The angler in
me was perhaps feeling a bit dejected as we were not stumbling upon any coastal
steelie rivers, and then we headed east across the state.
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| Carson River |
On our sixth day we stumbled on the Carson River, and a
little private campground. After a
quick trip to the Markleevile Market to buy flies(love visiting local fly shops.) I was ready again for some fishing. The Carson River is not large, not even
kayakable size, but we found great fishing success, using a peacock Pat’s Rubber Legs, the largest of these eager trout pushing twenty inches. I enacted a strategy of catching a fish then
letting the hole rest. I fished pretty
much one spot, right in the campground, yet was constantly pressured by other
anglers who undoubtedly were well familiar with the hole that by luck would
have it was where our campground was.
From Markleevile we followed the Walker River, famous for
large trout, unfortunately this was Sunday and every turnout had a vehicle or
two already in it. I did manage to wet a
line quickly but no avail, any water that was easily accessible did not leave
one overly enthusiastic about its prospects.
Some gorgeous fall scenery, and lovely little towns, led us
to the east entrance of Yosemite, not visiting this park on a Sunday is our
recommendation. The temperature must
have dropped easily 30 degrees from our little campground on the Carson, and we
began meandering our way to the Yosemite Valley, the area that began the US
National Parks, stopping for vistas along the way, and to allow folks that
apparently like to sight see at twenty miles over the speed limit, go by. Finally making our way to the magisterial El
Capitan, and Half Dome, still holding court, was glad we had both been there
before, and hope one day to return when we can saunter through this well-loved
location, and perhaps wet a line.
A few more days of non-fishing, we visited Sequoia and Kings
Canyon seeing the largest and oldest trees in the world, and yet again
wondering about all the natural beauty that has been bestowed upon
California. It was about now we realized
or verbalized, Texas was clearly out of the question, it would have required us
having a different mindset probably deciding on staying the second night at the
Umpqua doomed that goal.
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| Joshua Tree |
So to Joshua Tree we headed, for us, a queen of the hidden
gems, the best audible we have ever made.
Joshua Tree consists of NO WATER, so fly fishing was not even a
temptation. Yet it is a landscape to
behold, with unique austerity, dominated by Joshua Trees, of course, and rock
formations that look primordial, without any soup. It shuts down the brain and lifts up the
soul, and then night falls, the coyotes wail, the stars come out, and they make
you feel small and joyful and timeless.
A drive to a vista where to Colorado Desert and the Mojave Desert
border, showed us Palm Springs, and it’s, count them over 100 golf
courses.
Reluctantly our drive now turns north, as we head back to
Oregon. Through Death Valley, home of
the lowest golf course and five start resort, and some 93 degrees and six in the
evening, up to Lone Pine, where they claim more movies have been made than
anywhere else. It does look oddly familiar
to those that watched old westerns; we stayed in the John Wayne room at the
Best Western.
A quick stop at an outdoor bazaar, bought some fly fishing
art, and then a visit to a fly shop, where I received some misunderstood directions
to the Owens River, spent most of the afternoon looking for it, when it was
basically 10 minutes outside of Bishop.
By the time we found it, an agitated mood had settled, as it was discovered
our bag of shoes at fallen out of the Jeep, even a return drive over the gravel
road that I was sure had forced them out proved fruitless. Time
had to pass, maybe an ice cold beer.
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| Owens River |
The first thing I notice about our little stretch of fly
only water on the Owens, was an empty worm container. The second thing was a nice strike on the
first cast, staying with my proven Pat’s Rubber Legs, and feeling a little too
anxious to take the time to rig up something else. Besides I had no reason too. The fish was decent enough to swim where it
wanted, which was to wrap around some sunken monofilament, about 50 feet of it,
probably left in the water by the discarder of the worm container.
The fish long gone, it took quite a while to sort this mess
out. And we left with this being the one
hook up of the day, a sense of remorse set in, as we passed the mostly vacant campground,
but we had a long way to go and a short time to get there. Our other life was beginning to beckon.
36 hours later we woke up in Lakeview OR, in the south
central part of Oregon to 24 degrees and clouds, thinking of the days of uninterrupted blue
sky, the sweating afternoon on the Owens behind us, and thought maybe it really
never does rain in southern California.
