The Sierra Nevada is inarguably good country: clean white granite, big pines, wild animals, beautiful trout, lots of sun. It is where my fly fishing passion was born from embryonic backpacking fishing, and for that reason alone it is a very special place for me. Back in the day, I hiked many a mile in those fine hills, catching little non-native but wild brookies and bows and either frying them or toasting them over pine coals to add to my meager protein rations. One day it dawned on me that fly casting was giving me significantly more bliss than hucking out spinners, and an addiction was born . . . or did a fisher start coming of age? Since then I have largely come down to earth and spent far more time on canyon rivers than highland lakes. These thoughts remind me that I am very much what my English friend Matthew would call a "prat," a reader and a quoter of Wordsworth:
I cannot paintBut yes, coming further down to earth prose, this blog entry is meant to describe a trip to the East Sierras. In order, I went to: the Bridgeport Area, the Truckee Area, Feather River Country, and Glenn County. There are fish and/or boating experiences connected with all of these way stations, and hot springs connected with most of them. My trip was an experience in Good Country Bliss, and I'll try to give some illustrating details below. I surely do, and always have, agreed with Hemingway when he says that "it's easier to keep well in good country."
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love,
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest
Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompence.
The area around Bridgeport is my gold standard of what the East Sierras should be. Mammoth and Truckee are too polluted by skiing and condo crowds. Lone Pine and Independence, too close to Los Angeles. But Bridgeport is fine pinyon pine country with a great hot spring, a blue-ribbon trout stream, and plenty of BLM space where you can camp out and nobody can a) try to run you off or b) charge you fourteen dollars for a crappy campground toilet that you really don't need unless you have brought a girlfriend who needs it. A girlfriend who camps is a good thing, but a camp like this one is abundant recompense:
That lovely spot is a five minute drive from the upper East Walker, where I caught a few small browns on nymphs and dries and enjoyed doing so to a completely unreasonable degree. The next day I paddled a half dozen miles on Bridgeport reservoir with my eyes fixed on that view of the escarpment, which, incidentally, is also the view from the hot springs that I visited twice. You'd think you'd died and gone to heaven, and if you share my kind of beliefs, you basically did!
Next stop was the East Carson, which I have been wanting to float for quite a while. I was right to think that it would be beautiful. Even without the hot springs it would be a joyous class II run through the lovely country that transitions from high sierra to high desert. But imagine pulling up to this spot and having it all to yourself, all through a starry night and crisp gorgeous morning:
I soaked in there until I was almost too stoned to walk the 25 yards back to my tent. Nice! The trout were all small, and looked like planters. Did I particularly care? Hell no.
Next stop was a social call at the Tahoe home of my friend's new excellent in-laws. They are great people who throw a great party, and I felt lucky to go from perfect solitude to perfect company so suddenly. On the way there, I stopped quickly at the Truckee and ticked off a small rainbow there, just so I could say I did (just as I am now doing). At the house on Donner Lake, my friend's 9 year old son was fishing from the dock when I arrived -- a sadly barren water, I'm afraid -- and kept fishing it uncomplainingly for three or four hours straight without catching a thing! This is rare among kids. He deserves to go catch something next time, and I'll do my utmost in the future to put him on some stripers or shad or some real fish that actually bites.
After hot springing a bit more at Sierraville, I moved on to the North Fork of the Feather to fish two very different sections of this new water: the very upper canyon near Almanor Lake, and then further down along the 70. In the upper water, I did an afternoon slog down through blackberries and poison oak that made even the worst part of Pit 4 look like a cakewalk . . . and then I must confess that I was a little disappointed to find this little Sierra-ish stream full of Sierra-ish six inchers:
Later that night, I camped further down the canyon and had some far more delightful fishing for little bows on dries. My camp was a sweet flat spot surrounded by giant oaks, and I slept way into the morning by the sweet sound of the river. The next day, I figured I would only stop on the lower river if I saw some water that was just too tasty to pass up; and lo! there was just such a stretch of water down the 70, a bit of green run-and-pool hydrology that I couldn't resist experimenting with. Here is the most successful of a half dozen or so samples:
That is one fish who appears to be in NO danger of starving to death.
After six nights out, I was starting to run out of steam and think of home, so I almost "wussed out" on a plan to meet my fishing friend Mike and his brother at Rd. 48. My shoulder was aching a little; I was tired; I've caught probably 1000 shad already this sabbatical season, and so on, wuss, wuss, wuss . . . oh boy am I glad I decided to stay and fish after all. We took his boat up to the secret spot and hit 'em solidly, even while the waders on the lower gravel bar were saying that the run was nearly finished. Fishing with Mike is always good fun, and his brother is cut from the same mold -- he really enjoys catching fish and is quite free from any of the pretensions and bad attitudes that stick to some fly fishers. Plus, I must add, I hooked and landed the biggest shad I have ever caught in my life. When Mike and Greg get back from the Shasta country, I hope he will send me the pictures. We actually put it on a boga grip to see how heavy it was, but it dropped out almost immediately, and in the subsequent melee (Mike is understandably unfond of getting much shad slime on his boat) we forgot to check the numbers. I think it may have been a six or seven pounder. Ah, but it most certainly was a beautiful fish to end the season with . . . .
Those two guys continued with the boat on up to the Fall River to see about the hexagenia mayfly hatch. I tell you, it took all my energy to prevent myself from tagging along. Maybe I should have gone. But I didn't, and my shoulder has recovered, and I am quite busy herding all my expensive equipment into a state of readiness for five weeks in Alaska, coming up June 26. This may be the last fishing blog before then, but I certainly hope there will be some tales to tell in the aftermath. But indeed, part of my yearning for the East Sierras was to get out to sunny, simple, Good Country for a while before committing myself to five weeks of paddling and fishing in what really is the Best Country -- but is also a Rainy Country, a Cold Country, a Never-Quite-Completely-Relax-Because-Grizzlies-Are-Everywhere-Country. Nonetheless, I love that Good Country as well as the Sierras or the Shasta area or the fine sliver of country around the gravel bar at Rd. 48. I hope I sound grateful about all being alive to experience all this Good Country, because I most definitely Am.
