The backup plan

I spent much of the late summer and early fall daydreaming about and acquiring gear for a fishing trip. I had designs on road-tripping to Sacramento - my home base from 1998 to 2003 - to see friends, hang out in my old haunts, and most importantly, to fly fish for the so-called half-pound steelhead in the Lower American River. I'd planned to pass through Flagstaff on either the way out or back so I could try for northern pike at Upper Lake Mary.

I was unfortunately overtaken by events and just couldn't pull off the NorCal trip. I pivoted and instead, threw together a short excursion just to Flagstaff. I kept the 9-weight cannon I'd already planned to bring, but the 10-foot, 5-weight half-pounder rig was swapped for a delicate, 7.5-foot, 3-weight, small-stream outfit.

The first full day involved a couple of hours of double-hauling big streamers and bunny leeches on a wire tippet. There were a couple of duck hunters around, but I think I was the only angler on the water. I stripped and twitched my flies repeatedly through what looked (to me) like some fishy water, but couldn't get a grab. Oh, and my never-before-worn waders leaked water right out of the gate. Despite the cold (I crunched through a veneer of ice in the shallows when I waded in), the utter skunking, and one wet foot, I had a wonderful time. Even the wind - my climatic nemesis as both an angler and a bicyclist - was kind enough to kick up only after I'd waded back to shore.

I drove down to Oak Creek on day two. The fall colors were just staring to hit, and check out that twisty highway leading into the canyon.

The reach I fished was mostly pocket water. Given the boulders piled about and my general lack of surefootedness, I spooked many trout from their feeding stations before I could get off a cast.

There was a single, large pool in the reach, and it was full of rainbows. There were two or three size classes of hatchery clones, and I ended up taking three on nymphs drifted under either a foam hopper or an indicator. The first one seemed to be the largest of the group, and it put a decent bend in the little 3-weight. After the second fish, I considered moving on to something more challenging (such as one of the wild brown trout Oak Creek is known to hold), but I decided to keep casting to this pod a while longer.

I should have obeyed my instincts because a few moments of inattention allowed the third fish to take the fly so deeply that I mortally injured him trying (and failing) to disgorge the fly. This troubled me deeply. I gave up on bait fishing many years ago, as gut-hooking was frustrating my catch-and-release ethos. Yeah, sure, this is a put-and-take fishery, and these trout are more or less bred for the frying pan, but it was still a major eff-up on my part. I took a little bit of consolation in the fact that some raccoon or skunk was going to dine on trout later that day.

I must also have angered the Fish Gods because, after moving on from the pool, I couldn't manage another take. I saw a cloud of Trico spinners, but the fish wouldn't even look at the CDC dry I drifted past them. I also lost a baggie of Thingamabobber indicators - my entire cache of the things - after having left a vest pocket unzipped. Later, while looking for them, I slipped on a muddy bank, banged my knee on a cobble, and fell hands-first into a blackberry bush. It was time to call it a day. I wiped off the mud, pulled the thorns out of my palms, and left El Cañon con Truchas for the Old Pueblo.

Despite the setbacks and missteps, I was gratifying to finally get out there and catch some fish on a fly. I intend to have more adventures (and fewer misadventures) in the months and years to come.

Perfect conditions, almost...

The conditions were almost perfect this morning. The air was humid and low clouds shrouded the mountaintops. Water rushed over the riffles and slid across long glides. Recently-hatched insects swarmed in the heavy air. This all occurred not on some cold-water stream, however, but right here in Tucson. The atmospheric conditions were left over from yesterday's intense, Monsoon-driven thunderstorms; the Santa Cruz River's flows will inevitably percolate into the sandy bed and thence,the badly-depleted aquifer beneath. The hatch was composed primarily of mosquitoes, with a few swarms of flying termites in the mix. And it was already almost unbearably hot, even at 6:00 am.

I remain simultaneously obsessed with fly fishing for trout and inextricably stuck in a place with none of them. But I really shouldn't say that I'm stuck. I recently had a real opportunity to get transferred (and also promoted), by my employer, back to Sacramento, California. I could have been spiked out in an apartment in time for the American River's fall run Chinook and the half-pounder steelhead that pick off the former's stray eggs during the spawn. But my wife and I are desert rats, and, despite some trying experiences, we're pretty much permanently settled in to the Old Pueblo, or at least the Southwest. We also remember the societal factors that defeated us and drove us out of Northern California in the first place: high cost of living; long, dark, and dreary winters; and a bad case of burnout in the very job to which I considered returning.

But at least it got me thinking. If all I really want from NorCal is its better fishing opportunities, then why not just take a vacation over there? And so I've decided to block out a couple of weeks this autumn and head over for a somewhat open-ended road trip. I need to do some research to ensure that my quarry (fall steelhead) are in from the ocean, but that I also don't arrive when lengthy river reaches (and many of the best walk-in access areas) are closed to protect salmon and their redds from undue angling pressure. 

I have a ton to do beforehand, including getting my older (but more economical) pickup truck fixed up. It's OK for around town, but needs some serious engine work before I'll drive it a coupla' thousand miles in one shot. The tailgate is stuck shut, its latch broken; and the struts that hold the shell's door open are sacked. I need to repair these things, because I'll be damned if I have to put on my waders standing up, hopping around on one foot, and I fear that door will fall and snap off one (or more) of my fly rods during set-up.

I should have all of the gear I need, though I need to invest in some bulk spools of backing for the new (to me) reels I've sourced from eBay over the past year or so. I'll be bringing everything from my modern-in-every-way, fast-action graphite rods with their large-arbor reels to my vintage Fenglass with the sweet click-drag reels. I might also want to practice my fly casting. I don't have grass, so I haven't been able to lawn-cast any of my new sticks. I've assembled some reels to some rods and waved them around in my backyard but didn't string them up, so I can't even say I've gravel-casted. Oh, and I'm grateful that a 10-day, non-resident California fishing license. is available. I'd have needed to take out a second mortgage to get a full-year, non-resident tag. There's that cost-of-living thing again.

More later.