Fly Like a G6

As obnoxious as it is, you have to listen to this song while reading this post.  Trust me.  Context.

After a brief family trip to the Bay Area, the trip home gave me an excuse to stop in Mountain Hardware and Sports in Truckee, CA.  After some tinkering around the internets this shop seems to be the only place you can get some flies I have been trying to acquire...namely some Skipper Stones and a little fella called the G6.  Would be nice if someone picked them up for distribution in town.  Both of these are crafted by the Truckee's finest guide, Mr. Matt "Gilligan" Koles

One iPhone function I have been using lately is dropping a rendezvous pin on the map and sending it to a fishing buddy.  This saves lots of obscure descriptions, like "the seventh dead-looking tree on the right" or "after the tire pile, before the abandoned shanty".  After joining up with a friend, I jumped in downstream and tried out my new flies.

After a slow start, something big and heavy took off downstream towards the casinos.  He didn't slow down at all with a little thumb drag, but in the instant it took me to look down to adjust my footing, he was gone.  After 30+ casts through the same run, I tipped my hat and blessed his children's children.  Losing a big one brings out all of my worst personality traits.   It feels like loose ends.  I hate loose ends.

After moving upstream, the wind kicked up and my dropper rig was quickly becoming more trouble than strategic.  I trimmed the G6 off, and threw the skipper alone across some fast, deep water.  Almost immediately, a nice rainbow greeted the fly at the surface, and then thrashed around a bit before spitting the hook.  After 30+ casts through the same run, he returned for a second look.  Pretty uncommon.  The moment when you see a dark shape rise from the blurry stones below the surface and follow your fly for a few yards is priceless.  I think that's where "the tug is my drug" comes from. 

After realizing I was happier to see him than he was me, I got him re-oxygenated and he took off as fast as he hit my fly the first time.  19" is my streak these days.  I may have to return to this stretch to break the streak and tie up some loose ends.

I Can't See Anything...Pack It in

Summer time means fishing early or late...so for me, that means late. I've caught great fish at dusk, but I have a habit of hiking out too far and not turning back when it would be smart. Then I'm in the middle of the river in darkness.  One more cast, right?

 Coming...

 ...and going.

Set It Free

I've been starting to revisit some of my favorite holes in the Truckee since making the switch to a fly rod.  It feels like starting over in many ways, but the rewards have appeared occasionally.  Last week I returned to some deep water I was fond of. 

Two casts in, something angry ripped my beer-head baetis off the line with 2 big shakes.  I used to be able to tell the size of a fish plus or minus 2 inches from the moment I hooked up.  Not so anymore.  Learning what fish feel like on the fly rod has been one of the biggest challenges, but having recently landed a few 20"ers, I am pretty confident this guy was much bigger than that.

Then a few casts later, something lighter took me for a ride.  After a nice surfacing and plenty of swim-bys, he broke me off.

Fast forward a week.

Determined to finish our exchange, I popped back to the same run yesterday.  Despite the silty water, I managed to hook up with a fish before heading into the office.  I'm 90% sure this is the same 19" fella.  My need for closure satisfied, I left with a grin on my face.  Long live the baetis.

Frenchman's FTW

Frenchman's was insanely windy and insanely productive. We caught around 50 trout between the three of us over four hours. None of them were huge, but it was one of those days when you hardly had enough time to let your thoughts wander because there was so much action. Most of them took a blood midge or zebra midge below an indicator. Good times.

 

 

Finally.

30 casts.
15 bites.
10 hook-ups.
6 fish.
1 new personal best.

Heavenly.

After losing one over 20" moments before hooking this guy, I resolved to not just muscle the next one in. This new plan backfired. I ended up covering almost 250 yards in the stream (yes it was that far), after he refused to be steered or directed towards quieter water for netting.

Once I finally closed the distance, I realized that my friend had unclipped my net from my vest to assist me 20 minutes earlier. Translation:  I didn't have my net on me.  I looked over my shoulder to see him sprinting towards me up the bank, giggling with my net in hand.

21" of beautiful color.

Got skunked 3 times after this trip out, so rest assured that the Truckee keeps score.