Musician, Freak, Dayjobber, Etc.

****These blogs are the sole intellectual property of the author and MAY NOT BE COPIED, USED, OR APPROPRIATED for ANY USE, ANYWHERE, without the express permission of the author.****

Of (Dead) Mice and Trout
by Fish Breaks Water

This past weekend involved a moderately strenuous – don’t be fooled by the word “moderately” (famous last words!) – backpack undertaken by Krudler and yours truly to a hard-to-reach, seldom visited section of a local watershed. This particular stream is one I have avoided for years, mainly because it seems to draw a lot of attention from fly anglers in our area. It’s by no means an unknown fishery, yet it remains (apparently) pristine due to the difficult access (4.5 miles one way, 2,000’+ elevation loss/gain, about a 3 hour walk each way no matter how you slice it). Regardless, I was highly anticipating visiting this water for the first time, not-so-secretly hoping to achieve a personal goal – catching and releasing my first Southern California brown trout.

After an ungodly early departure (4:15AM), I had a leisurely, traffic-free drive during prime sunrise time, enjoying the ever-changing light as it illuminated the local mountains in shades of orange, amber and rust. The sweet morning scent of “scotch broom” (an invasive plant, mind you) perfumed the air, occasionally mixed with essence of pine; birds went about their business as they always do. A hearty breakfast at a local mountain coffee shop had me fueled-up and ready to begin the adventure, and soon Krudler and I made our rendezvous at the trailhead, both of us about fifteen minutes ahead of schedule – which meant an extra fifteen minutes of fishing (every moment counts)!

For this trip I was going fairly ultra-light (at least as ultra-light as my modest budget can afford); the weather was forecast as being hot, hot, hot, so, in lieu of a sleeping bag, I packed a small fleece blanket; I also left my canister gas stove at home, opting instead for a classic old school Esbit cooking set-up (solid fuel cubes). A swath of mosquito netting and a small plastic sheet would suffice for shelter. The combined weight of these items reduced my normal pack weight by about eight pounds, and I felt confident that I could endure the trip with a minimum of discomfort while retaining a few luxury items (ie. bourbon, CD player, swim trunks). I also packed, for the first time, my 6’6” 3WT Diamondglass rod; at two pieces, it’s a bit bulky, but I managed to secure it to my pack and was later delighted that I had brought it – it was the perfect rod for this tight little stream.

There’s not a lot to say about the hike down except that it’s long and non-stop, not much shade, overgrown in places, no water at all, with stunning views out over the flat-lands. Stupidly, I forgot to re-tighten my boot laces when setting out (a tip: if you’re about to embark on a long downhill hike, always tie your boots as tightly as possible to minimize your toes smashing into the boot tip), so my feet took a bit of a beating on the way down, although I wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary until later that evening. Krudler and I enjoyed the fresh morning air and the forever views, talking about trout strategy and anything else that came to mind, and soon enough – after one short rest break – we could hear the stream not too far below.

Upon reaching the stream (at about 9:00AM), we were greeted by an unusual sight: in the pool at the trail crossing I spooked what looked like a small rainbow trout swimming on its side. “That looks rather strange,” I thought, and for a moment I was confused until I realized that what I had seen was actually a brown trout with a dead ‘bow in its jaws – Duraflame(tm)! The sighting encouraged us to no end, and with renewed vigor we hiked the remaining half-mile to our planned base camp alongside a gorgeous little tributary. The site – shaded by oak, maple, alder and pine – had a small fire pit and a makeshift rock table complete with “chairs”. It was flat, close to the tributary, and had a great view of the surrounding canyon – a great place to spend a weekend.

It didn’t take long for us to get our day-packs together and rig up for our prime objective: fly fishing (what else?). We decided to spend this first day exploring upstream, the planned objective being an almost-impassable waterfall a mile or so up the canyon, one with a massive pool at its base. Starting at the Duraflame(tm) Pool, we began dealing with the task at hand, each of us experiencing that unique mindset that first accompanies hitting a stream: what should I tie on first? Are there risers? Where are the prime lies? What are these fish feeding on? Do I have everything?

I was extremely lucky in choosing a small (#14) olive bead-head woolly bugger as my first fly, as I caught and released three ‘bows and a small brown within the first half hour of fishing. As excited as I was with “my first Southern California brown”, the largest bow – about 11” or so – really stoked my fires. It was taken out of a nice frothy plunge pool and tried exceptionally hard to make me look bad by jumping and running directly at me. However, after a few tense – but highly enjoyable – moments, I brought this classic Sir Homey ‘bow into my waiting net:



Flush with this early success, little did I know it would be literally hours before I got into my next trout. The action seemingly stopped dead at around 11:00AM or so -- typical summer behavior for these hardy canyon survivors – so Krudler and I tag-teamed our way upstream, enjoying the day and spotting fish for one another. One long pool we approached had what looked like a dozen or more fat trout holding in the tail-out; a massive boulder created the bottom of the pool, making a perfect stealth position to target the pod. Krudler gave me first shot at the pool, but my casting skills – getting better but still rudimentary – were such that I was unable to make a viable presentation. Krudler took up position, made one perfect cast, and pulled out this nice brown, taken on a #16 red humpy if I’m not mistaken:



The rest of the afternoon was spent in this delightful fashion, each of us getting into fish slowly but consistently. As the afternoon wore on, we tended to switch to dry flies as browns were on the rise; many splashes were induced, some actually resulting in netted fish. As classic pool after classic pool were revealed, we took turns making presentations, spooking monsters, laughing at our foibles and grinning at our successes. Throughout the warm afternoon, thunder clouds threatened rain (it actually sprinkled for a few muggy moments), but the cloud cover made the heat tolerable, and the wet-wading kept us cool.

A typical scenario went like this: we’d spot the tail-out of a nice pool upstream, many of them protected by a head-high plunge one could easily hide behind. We’d sneak up to the tail-out then to the rocks, now eye-level with the upstream pool. If you were careful, you could poke your head above the rocks and see a trout feeding only a couple of feet away, unaware of your deceptive intentions. Looking behind you to see if there was casting room – there often wasn’t – you’d lob your dry fly over your head, gently landing it a few feet upstream of the fish you’d targeted. Then – my favorite part! – you’d watch the buoyant, brilliant fly drift towards you, right in line with the trout. If you were lucky, you’d witness the fish lazily rise to inhale the fly, quickly submerging before realizing it was hooked. After a nice reel-singing fight, you’d land something like this:



We eventually made it up to the near-impassable waterfall with its remarkable pool, and spent a good half-hour working the crystal clear deep-green waters. A more beautiful sight you’re not likely to see, but I have been warned with penalty of death should I post a photo of it here. Although the pool was clearly loaded with some very fine trout, only Krudler managed to land anything, a nice 9” range ‘bow with classic colors:



We soon headed back to base camp, relaxed for a while, set-up for the evening, then proceeded to enjoy a fantastically fun twilight hour catching small, exceptionally dark-colored trout from the sparkling Tolkein-esque pools of the tributary. I hit the first pool and nailed a ‘bow on my first cast; Krudler did the same on the second pool. Third pool, I repeated the process, and on the fourth pool, Krudler again nailed a ‘bow on the first cast. On the fifth pool the pressure was on, and I blew it by catching a fish on my third cast (gasp). It was just a ridiculously good time, “anti-fishing” for these small, aggressive, gorgeous trout, the polar opposites of the relative beasts in the main stream not far below.

My dinner was delayed by the exceptionally slow time the Esbit took to heat my water – a failed experiment, for sure. While cooking, I tended to my suddenly-sore toes, patiently waiting for dinner; eventually my meal was cooked, and we enjoyed a drowsy evening fireside, sharing a little bourbon and recalling the events of the day. We both hit the sack around 10:00PM, a canopy of sparkling stars twinkling overhead, a mild breeze cooling the canyon, the white-noise of the stream lulling us to sleep. We slept soundly until the ridiculous hour of 9:30AM the next morning – a luxury afforded by the shady campsite.

Awakening appropriately sore and tired, we consumed our respective breakfasts and eagerly gathered our day-packs and gear together for another day’s fishing. The plan was to let the heat of the day pass while we fished, tackling the long, steep hike out of the canyon at around 4:30PM or so, leaving the better part of the day free to explore downstream.

We basically fished alone for most of the day, each of us working various stretches of excellent looking water. I “discovered” an enchanting, tiny unnamed tributary, and hiked up it a short length when I stumbled upon this gorgeous waterfall and pool:



In the pool, clearly visible to my disbelieving eyes, was what had to have been a 16” rainbow trout. As I crouched behind a rock, voyeuristically, the monster trout chased two smaller trout away from the tail-out, then saw me and spooked under the falls. For the 1,001st time this trip, I found myself saying “Awww d-a-m-n!” as the fish took deep cover. This trout had the most pronounced red slash I have ever seen on a fish, incidentally; the thing was absolutely incredible. Undaunted, I repeatedly tossed my red humpy into the foamy water, in the general direction of where I saw the monster ‘bow dart, again and again. After about ten drifts, to my astonishment, I watched the big ‘bow break water and inhale my fly – and the fight of my life was on!

The monster took me on a personal guided tour of the pool, trying to saw me off under a sharp edge, jumping enthusiastically into the heart of the falls, stripping line from my reel when she decided to take me deep, etc. etc. ad infinitum. However, this was not to be my day; during a crucial moment, my knot failed and I found myself, fishless and fly-challenged, standing under blue skies, alone with my defeat. Opportunity lost!

Leaving the tributary, I found this dead mouse on a rocky ledge, hence the title of my report:



Nearby was a jawbone I was unable to identify, obviously unrelated to the dead mouse:



Later that morning, back on the main stream, I again lost a fish due to knot failure, this time on a #12 black bead-head woolly bugger. I had lost my magnifying glasses the day before and, apparently, I can’t tie a clinch knot without ‘em to save my life. However, I managed to tie on a #16 stonefly nymph and enjoyed a few mind-clearing moments of drifting the thing around and around the pool, when I was suddenly hit by a severe strike – fish on! After an absolutely hellacious battle, I managed to net my “fish of the trip”, a classic “strawberries and cream” ‘bow that was easily 14”. As I revived the fish and reached for my camera, she made a last-ditch effort for freedom and managed to turn my net sideways with her weight and slip free. Heartbroken and ecstatic at the same time, I watched her torpedo back into the safety of the pool, happy for the chance to have connected with such a gorgeous specimen.

As the afternoon slipped away, I found myself looking at my watch – well, cell phone, actually – keeping track of the time. Having only a few moments to spare, I carefully worked my way up to a nice pool and began my presentation, this time a #18 black ant with an orange parachute, the first ant pattern I tried on this trip. Immediately upon hitting the water, the ant was inhaled by a nice-sized brown trout that made a habit of diving deep into the rocks; many times, I thought my tippet had hung up, only to be carefully worked free. The persistence of the brown was admirable, and, eventually, I brought this fish to my net:





I moved on to another pool and repeated the process; once again, the ant was instantly inhaled, and another, nicer brown trout took me into the rocks time and again; after an immensely enjoyable battle, I landed my largest brown of the trip:



With that, I headed back to camp and arrived mere moments before Krudler, who’d had himself a fine day as well. We broke camp, ate lunch, filtered water, and said our goodbyes to our weekend retreat, intent on tackling the long, steep hike out. We took our time walking, with me taking very slow, deliberate steps, making the ascent one step at a time. Sure, it’s a long, steep haul, but if approached with the right mindset, it’s not that bad. After one short rest break, we made it to the once-distant crest and were back at our cars by 7:00PM, in plenty of time to get home at a decent hour. Chalk up another successful Black Diamond adventure – thanks, Daniel, for being such a cool fly fishing/backpacking partner!

For me, this trip was a milestone in a few ways. As mentioned above, I’ve been itching to catch my first Southern California brown trout, which I did (I ended up with a total of five brown trout netted this trip). I also broke the “hundredth fish caught this year” mark (for some reason, I am keeping track of every fish I net during this, my first full year of fly fishing), so that was kind of cool. If I incur a 10% fish mortality rate, then this year I’ve most likely killed ten trout (after the fact) and released ninety to live another day. I can live with that, I think. I also downsized my backpacking gear considerably and survived, comfortably, with the exception of the relative failure of the Esbit stove. Lastly, I’ve been excited to fish this stream for some time now, and it wildly exceeded my expectations, hands down.

All in all, I couldn’t have asked for a better time. Thanks for reading.

F.B.W.

****These blogs are the sole intellectual property of the author and MAY NOT BE COPIED, USED, OR APPROPRIATED for ANY USE, ANYWHERE, without the express permission of the author.****

Quick Update!

I haven't posted anything (other than fly fishing reports) in ages -- not that there hasn't been anything going on, I just haven't felt like writing about it. So, in a few short paragraphs, let me attempt to update you, dearest reader.

First off, my unabashed pOp band, Ultra Suede (www.myspace.com/theultrasuede ), after playing a laughably under-attended gig the other month at the Key Club, is pretty much on indefinite hold for awhile. Things started off promisingly enough, but everything seems to have ground to a smoking halt, what with all of us involved in other projects. The album -- as yet unreleased -- continues to kick my ass, but I'd be surprised if anyone ever hears the thing.

Second, my swing-punk-soul band The Abe Lincoln Story (www.myspace.com/abelincolnstory) continues to hone, tweak, and otherwise refine our forthcoming album. No gigs are in the pipeline at this point as we finish the record. I've been doing some guitar overdubs at home and will be transferring a bunch of stuff to main man Steve Moramarco later this week. Steve asked me for a shredding solo for one of the tunes, so I went kind of crazy and tried to "Keneally-ize" something for him. Here's hoping he digs it...

Third, my dream gig -- so far, anyway -- with Ryo Okumoto (www.myspace.com/ryookumotoscodered) continues to roll along, in spite of losing Ryo to ASIA -- yes, the prog-pop band -- along the way. Ryo continues to blow me away with all of his insane projects (I heard some of the new Spock's Beard tracks the other day and was astounded), but the band is more than happy to stick around and keep tight while he's off playing stadiums around the planet. Good, no, GREAT times. I love playing with this twisted genius! Check us out on June 20th, 2006 at 7:00PM sharp for our debut gig at BB Kings in Universal City (I'm playing bass and singing lead on one tune).

Fourth...well, this is kind of weird. I've always been kind of outspoken about tribute bands -- being a lefty bassist/guitarist, I'm always being told "Why don't you join a Beatle tribute band? You could make some decent cash being a Paul." The fact is, I've never been one of those "I know 2,000 songs" kind of musician. Since day one, I've only wanted to write my own stuff, and I pretty much only do that to this day. No disrespect to the amazing musician/friends I have who do this type of thing; it's a discipline all its own, and I have a huge amount of respect for these people; it's just not my thing. Or so I thought. A couple of months ago, I was asked to audition for the Greg Lake role in an Emerson, Lake and Palmer tribute band -- and subsequently nailed the gig, much to my astonishment. We're calling ourselves Endless Enigma at this point (myspace page forthcoming), and dutifully rehearsing each week. Last week we really started coming together, and I'm finding the challenge of learning and executing this insanely cool material to be invigorating and refreshing. This will be a PAYING gig on top of it all! We're hoping to be ready to gig later this summer. This band features Phillip Wolfe (www.myspace.com/glasswolfe) on keys and my Ryo bandmate Jerry Beller on drums. Someone, get me a ladder! (Is anyone tired of me using that quote endlessly?)

Fifth, after my good friend and roommate Don Mogill moved out the other month (he's getting married, congratulations dude!), I've decided that I'd like to have the house to myself again, so I've set up a budget and am trying, desperately, to adhere to it. I don't mind having a cool roomie, but I much prefer having the house all to myself, so, if you see me out and I'm flat broke, you know the reason why. I'm getting used to having the place all to myself, and I love it. I'm even getting back into cooking again, hardcore!

Sixth, I bought a new car from the aforementioned ex-roommate, a 93 Mercury Sable...got a killer deal and the car pretty much rocks, especially compared to my beloved shit-heap, the 86 Chrysler LeBaron. It needs a little work here and there, but I think I've got a good car on my hands now.

Seventh, this weekend finds me in town, having had to cancel a planned backpack trip in the San Gabriels with some fly fishing brothers due to a last-minute rehearsal. I'm bummed about missing the backpacking trip -- the canyon my friends are heading to is remote and holds some spectacular wild trout -- but instead, I've got a Mike Keneally (www.myspace.com/mikekeneally) gig to attend on Friday, then not one but TWO parties to hit Saturday. Sunday MAY -- emphasis on "may" -- find me on a blind date, if the woman agrees to it. Could be fun -- she's interested in fly fishing! Just my kind of lady. Did I mention I hate dating? Just kidding.

Eighth, this wraps things up. Hope you feel caught up; I certainly do. I offer you wild trout, peace, Oreo cookies, and a glass of bourbon for your troubles...thanks for reading.

****These blogs are the sole intellectual property of the author and MAY NOT BE COPIED, USED, OR APPROPRIATED for ANY USE, ANYWHERE, without the express permission of the author.****

With Respect to Jacaranda
By Fish Breaks Water


The month of June – in Los Angeles, anyway – refuses to be categorized or labeled in any way, shape or form. It’s a nebulous month, weather-wise; blazing hot days can be followed by weeks of “June gloom” (I’ve always thought that phrase would make a good punk rock name for a girl). The weather can visibly change over a distance of only a few miles over the course of a day, leaving, say, Van Nuys sweltering in one hundred degree heat, and Santa Monica hazy and cool under a coastal cloud layer, a sultry sixty-eight degrees with a slight breeze out of the west. From my home in the San Fernando Valley, as evening approaches, I look southward, towards the Santa Monica mountains, and see a wall of clouds fulminating along the crest; meanwhile, I’m drenched in palm-olive sunlight (I’m soaking in it).

Many of our local wild plant communities exist solely because of the seasonal moisture these coastal cloud blankets provide, a poor substitution for rain but moisture nonetheless. In fact, it’s said that, outside of Southern California, these types of conditions and plant communities exist only in pockets along coastal Spain and Chile. Think about that the next time you’re disentangling your tippet and fly from a streamside lemonade-berry bush.

Low-elevation native -- as well as exotic -- plants love Southern California in June. The mild, damp mornings, followed by warm sunny afternoons, make for ideal growing conditions. Insects, too, thrive in this sunny-cloud soup, as many a flower will readily attest. The traditional wildflower season may start as early as February in some years, but June is when the domestics really step up to the microphone and start belting out colorful melodies. In my neighborhood, as I type this, roses are exploding on corners and along driveways of every other house, dinner plate-sized magnolia blossoms litter street gutters, and, above all, floats the jacaranda.

There’s something about June and jacarandas that seems to go together naturally, like Southern Comfort and backpacking, or pretzels and beer. Here in Los Angeles in June, the hillsides and flats literally burst forth with the jacaranda’s vivid shades of purple and lavender, dotting hillsides like fanciful clouds, tossing blankets of sticky blossoms fit for royalty over curbside cars, leaving entire districts transformed into purple wonderlands worthy of Prince, seemingly overnight. Their sudden arrival, amidst the milky June stew, is an annual event on my inner calendar. Certain years – like 2004, for example – were absolutely unprecedented, the jacaranda in full bloom everywhere, nearly blinding in their brilliance, dazzling the ears with their silence. Other years, the display can be spotty, here-and-there, limited to a few grand old neighborhoods or oddly isolated climate zone (Los Angeles is full of micro-climate environments, as many a local fly fisherman knows all too well). This year has been merely a decent one for the jacaranda; their colors are sharp and defined, full-bodied like vintage Kool Aid, but are generally lacking only in sheer numbers.

I love looking out my office window and seeing the normally chaparral-green hills slashed with color here and there, as if dotted with discarded electric-mauve parachutes, a sort of naturalistic bizarre Art Project orchestrated by Christo or someone of his ilk. I love driving through purple tunnels masquerading as city streets, breathing in the perfume of uncounted thousands of flowers through my open windows, laughing at life. Most of all, I love the seasonality of it; the Jacaranda Event is as much a part of Los Angeles as autumn colors are to New England.

It’s home.


(Photo courtesy of Wikipedia)

Kinda weird -- writing about flowers when I should be fly fishing. Oh, wait – fly fishing and flowers are somehow entwined in my twisted mind. I almost forgot.

Have a great weekend, all.

F.B.W.

****These blogs are the sole intellectual property of the author and MAY NOT BE COPIED, USED, OR APPROPRIATED for ANY USE, ANYWHERE, without the express permission of the author.****

Stoner Creek (aka Golfing About Trout)
Written by Fish Breaks Water

I’ve been feeling a fair measure of competitiveness lately with regard to fly fishing – whether real or imagined, I’m not sure. It’s the occasional comment about the size and quantity of trout caught, or the dreaded “beginner’s luck” comments -- you know what I’m talking about, right? This misplaced sense of competition doesn’t sit right with me – frankly, it makes me feel a little less like laughing -- so I decided to really work on abolishing those feelings, and get back to what got me into this crazy pursuit in the first place: stalking wild trout utterly without expectations, and enjoying my stream time.

To that end, my buddy Krudler proposed a modest Black Diamond weekend trek to a couple of small, classic streams located a scant few hours drive from Los Angeles, where, he assured me, we’d likely find ourselves alone with a creek full of spooky trout. The streams were known to harbor rainbow-golden trout hybrids, the area sounded spectacular (in an understated sense), and the local weather was predicted to be blazing hot, so I decided to take Krudler up on his generous offer and hit the high country.

After a beautiful, fun drive up-country, we arrived at our destination around 10:00AM, a sweet, modest drainage cloaked in conifers and bathed in pine-scented sunlight. Our goal was to backpack to the point where we could go no further; both of us, after looking at the topo maps, had imagined the stream dropping down a series of cascades to the river below, and believed that juncture might make a good stopping point. We imagined deep granite pools loaded with fat, wild trout, with views that stretched into infinity over dome-studded mountains and deep valleys, the sound of water rushing over granite, a nice flat place to set up camp and watch the moon rise.

With this goal in mind, we set off cross-country, following alongside the stream and seeing many fine, small trout along the way. The upper section of the stream was positively charming, small enough to step across, gently winding through meadow and forest cover, with the occasional deep bend or small granite gorge thrown in for variety. As much as I wanted to fish this stretch of the stream, we both decided to stick to the plan, and continued our bush-whacking adventure down the ever-narrowing canyon.

After a lengthy period of scrambling, we reached an impasse; at this point, the stream was literally enclosed in willows. Deep, fast runs in the brushy stream most certainly held formidable trout, yet it appeared all-but-impossible to make a presentation under these conditions. Coupled with the fact that the sun was blaring down on us, and that the morning was quickly giving way to afternoon, we glanced at the maps and determined we were further down-canyon than we’d thought; it became apparent that our vision of the stream dropping off over a sheer granite ledge was just that: a vision.

Rather, the stream wound its way down-canyon via a series of steep gorges, and it was obvious that the brush and steep terrain would make passage difficult. Cooling off in the shade of an ancient streamside juniper, we made a joint decision to return to the more open country we had earlier passed upstream. It was, in my humble daisy, a wise decision.

Returning upstream, we soon found a great campsite and began rigging up for some fly fishing action; here’s a typical section of the stream in this area:



Krudler, gentleman that he is, gave me first crack at the water. I decided to challenge myself by avoiding the obvious prime lies we had seen earlier, and, instead, focus my efforts on the stream directly below camp. I rigged up with a #16 black gnat, crawled through the wonderfully damp streamside grasses to some cover behind a willow, and tossed my fly over the grassy bank, sight unseen. Krudler stood behind me a few yards, snapping photos and capturing some digital video images, encouraging me all the while. On my second or third drift, I had a fish on, a sweet little brown trout that put up a wonderful fight considering its size:



With that, the game was on! Krudler and I took turns fishing each small bend or pool, leisurely working our way along the creek, taking our time and enjoying every moment. The trout, while definitely rising, appeared somewhat selective, making things a little more challenging than we had expected. We both experimented with various dry flies before settling into some consistent patterns (a #16 red or yellow humpy seemed to be the most trout-worthy). We spent the better part of the afternoon trading-off spots, with both of us catching many wonderfully-colored browns and rainbow-golden hybrids. Here’s a shot of a typical golden/bow:



Here’s a shot of Krudler working his trout magic, the stream barely visible behind him:



Later that afternoon, we returned to a whimsical rock formation we’d seen earlier and climbed to the top, enjoying a snack and a beer, basking in the 360-degree view. Here’s a shot of Krudler shooting some footage from the summit:



After hanging out on the rock until early dusk, we both went our separate ways, intent on catching a few more fish before dark. I returned to a small gorge and proceeded to entice a handful of strikes from a remarkable pool. The stream dropped over a ten-foot cliff in a gorgeous cascade which was all but hidden behind a massive boulder than had lodged in the gorge. Under the boulder was a fantastic, cave-like pool, one with, apparently, many fish holding. The boulder was at such an angle that it stuck outward near the top; every time I tried to make a presentation deep under the overhang, my fly would hit the rock and drop at my feet. Eventually, I made a few clumsy bow-and-arrow casts and landed a couple of cave-trout.

Heading back to camp, I found another remarkable pool which held a couple of nice-sized fish. I could clearly see the ghost-gray outlines of two bigger fish down near the bottom of the granite cup, and decided to try my hand at them. After enticing a rise to a humpy, the fish seemed put-down, so, even though this was clearly dry fly water, I decided to tie on a small nymph. It was a new experience for me to witness trout in crystal-clear water go crazy for a tiny nymph – what a blast! Even though I failed to land any trout on the nymph, I managed a couple of takes and felt wiser for the experience.

Way too quickly, darkness descended upon our sylvan valley -- we hadn’t seen another soul all day. We both fished until we couldn’t see anymore; I have a wonderful memory of crouching down in the grass, in near-dark conditions, watching a nice fish jump for a natural, breaking the silver-blue surface of the water and everything silvery in the growing moonlight. Stunning.

After dinner, we hung out by a modest campfire and, not long after, hit the sack, exhausted. I had rigged my plastic tarp shelter but instead decided to sleep under the stars. The temps were mild, the sky clear, and my last memory of the day is of watching Big Dipper fade behind my slowly-closing eyelids.

The next morning found us up at the crack of 7:30AM, ready to go. We decided to each fish different sections of the stream, so, as Krudler took off, I fixed a quick breakfast, broke camp (among other things), rigged up, and started fishing. I spent a nice quiet hour enticing fish to rise to my humpy, and, in a last-minute spontaneous decision, fished a weird spot and nailed my biggest fish from the stream, a ten-inch range brownie:



This spunky-monk actually managed to make my reel sing!

Not long after, Krudler and I hooked up, then packed out, bidding a fond farewell to Stoner Creek, with her beguiling wild trout and unusual rock formations. We then headed for another similar stream, which was almost identical to Stoner Creek, only slightly larger. Immediately upon arrival, I salivated at the sight of a twenty-foot long pool, amber in color, quite obviously deep, with a foam line to die for. Krudler headed off downstream while I worked the big pool. On my second drift, I was the beneficiary of a very solid strike, and actually thought I was caught up on something for a moment. I arose from my crouching position and saw that a fish had taken my line deep under the embankment. I inverted my rod – the tip placed below the water line – and miraculously managed to pull the trout free from its lair. At that point, the fish took off downstream, pulling line from my reel and catching me off-guard with its strength and power. After a short battle, I scooped this eleven-inch range brown into my net:



Completely stoked, I spent the next hour or so fumbling around, suddenly having an exceptionally difficult time managing my line and keeping my flies out of the trees. I ended up tying on new tippet not once but twice within the hour, such was my misfortune. I managed to angle another nice little hybrid out of a grassy bend:



Looking back, I’d have to say this was one of the more satisfying trips I’ve experienced this year. Krudler is a fine, stealthy fly fisherman, an agreeable and light-hearted trail companion, and an experienced outdoorsman. Thanks, my friend, for a great, stress-free, happy-with-what-you-have-to-be-happy-with trip.