It starts with a slight twitching maybe your shoulder shrugs involuntarily. Your brows raise automatically like a primate feeling challenged by a 350 lb tourist wearing a "monkey see monkey do" hat at your local zoo. You sleep in short restless intervals waking at three in the morning to double check that you have heavy enough tippet for your upcoming excursion. Ceaselessly you're ransacking the house looking for your leather NASCAR jacket, the one with the Budweiser frogs on the back. Your wife looks annoyed and probably even a little worried.
You hit all the junkyards, landfills and crime labs within a 25 mile radius of the house, hunting down materials for the perfect bass fly. You need scrap metal, roof tiles, hypodermic needles, hooks large enough to throw not just the feathers but the entire duck into the lake. You call your buddy whose a welder for advice on how certain medals shine in muddy pond water. He asks if you're feeling alright while you rummage yet again through the radioactive junk heap you've amassed on the side of the house.
By May you can no longer speak clearly. You babble about trolling motors and country music. You consult the singing bass (Billy) mounted to the wall in your garage listening to the songs over and over hoping each time to learn something new, some inside information regarding Bubba and his feeding habits. Finally the day comes where your wife just walks up takes you by the shoulders and shakes you repeatedly yelling, "just go fishing already." She walks back into the house and locks the door, your gear is already in the truck and has been since February. With glazed eyes and unbridled fury you bomb down the road headed toward the cause of your mania. Sound familiar? Then you've definitely got Largemouth Fever.
For those of you who have followed the saga of Incline lake over the past few years you’ll know that this will soon become one of the most pristine wilderness parks for local Reno/Tahoe area residents. For a few of us, Incline lake has become a sour note on what would have been a potential prime fishery.
Approved by voters in the 2002 election, money from a special tax fund was allocated to acquire new lands for the creation of more parks and recreation. These funds were subsequently used to strike a deal with the Incline Lake Management Group. A company dedicated to keeping the lake and surrounding property extremely private and off limits to the public. To date, the land at just 750 acres and a $46million price tag, the purchase has been one of the most expensive land deals NV has ever made.
For anglers, stories of monster rainbows and less than modest sized brook trout have long surrounded the mystique behind the ~70 acre lake. Maclean Financial Group used to hold a tournament annually. For a hefty fee this one day event was about the publics’ only shot at rainbows that were known to peak at 27”. A small hatchery located on the southwestern shore catered to anglers of NV’s most elite that were fortunate enough to have vacation homes along the shore.
So there it sat, for nearly a year. In limbo, while the deal went through. Not fishable, yet still arrest able for trying. Finally in early summer of 2008, a gate went across the dirt road leading down to the lake. While the Forest Service went about the necessary work to prepare the area for public use, an astronomical fine of $10,000 would be imposed to anyone trying to gain access. Demolition crews went about tearing down cabins, and every building along the shoreline, but I noticed a more sinister situation arising. Driving between Incline Village at Lake Tahoe and Reno, I watched in horror as the once full lake began dropping - quickly. Day by day, the water level visible between the trees was falling fast. A sign on the gate across the road stated that the crews would be done by Nov. 30th. This date could not come quick enough as I especially wanted to be one of the first to cast a line on the seldom fished water.
Autumns in Northern NV are quite seasonable and it was looking as though there may be water left by the time the deadline approached. More importantly it may be ice free. Alas, no such luck. The lake was pumped dry long before the public opening time, and leaving me with a sour taste in my mouth for government beauracracy. Shouldn’t the NV State Parks have assumed control? Why was the U.S. Forest Service involved? Was the lake drainage part of the federal mandate to return most lakes to natural and “pristine” conditions before humans intervened? Phone calls went unanswered, internet searches ended with dead ends, and the few anglers that have heard rumors of the fish were left quite unhappy.
After the first few winter storms dumped snow in the Sierras, my fiancé and I took a snowshoe trip out to the lake. Standing in the middle of what should have been a frozen over high mountain lake, the resulting aquatic community and fish loss continued to irritate me. Would NDOW now assume control once the lake refilled and turn it into a sub prime fishery of 9-11” stockers? Or would the lake just remain fishless - a pretty spot in the Sierra’s with an unremarkable hike on a dirt road to get to it? Only time would tell.
The following spring of 2009 came, winter snowmelt gave way to high country meadows of wildflowers, full flowing creeks, and refilled reservoirs, but something was amiss. The level of Incline lake never rose. Following a hike to nearby Mt. Rose, my hiking partner and I went down to the lake to check things out. A walk along the dam revealed wide open gates and a trickle of the creek flowing through it. Did our ever so wise state lawyers purchase the lake with taxpayers dollars yet sell the water rights? Given state legislators everywhere, not just NV - one has to wonder.
Some of the latest news is that the dam may falter during an earthquake, thus the lake got drained so repairs can be made. However as of this writing, late Sept. 09 there window to do work is all but gone. Maybe the current economy has put a damper on the situation, but somehow each day a Forest Service truck seems to be down there “doing work” with nothing ever being accomplished.
My latest trip to the lake took me along the dam and just below it where equipment to monitor c.f.s. was stationed. Just downstream of the equipment finned a half dozen brookies, their white tipped fins clearly visible in water that barely covered their backs. A lone crawfish made its way among them, all survivors of a fishery that could have been. Their size? 12-16”. I wonder if they’ll survive the winter.
So to anyone reading this who’s faced with a similar situation. Take advantage of the in limbo time. Fish it at ice out - catch trophy fish, take pictures, and if you get arrested, when people ask you “what you in for?” Just try to act tough when you say fly fishing.
Join me in welcoming Brett Coffman to the Sierra Fly Swatter team. Brett’s grown up in the area and fished it since the age of twelve…that’s what like over 40 years (kidding) more like twenty (I think). Brett’s knack for hooking big fish on the Truckee and at Pyramid is a testament to his broad experience with fly fishing as a whole. As a tier he’s constantly creating new patterns that have helped all of us who fish with him catch more and bigger fish. He’s currently working on a degree in biology and I think his scientific expertise (yawn…just joking) will bode well for the blog and just might help keep me a little more honest (I said might). As a team we intend to provide informative and entertaining content for our readers and please feel free to contact us anytime with suggestions, hate mail, etc.
Be sure to read his first article regarding the tragedy of incline lake. Mismanaged public resources leave us all with a sour taste, here's a classic instance of bureaucracy run a muck.
The Birds Nest pictured above and the Sparkle Pupa below are two extremely effective nymphs on the Truckee. They tie quickly and easily so you'll spend more time on the water than at the vise this season.
BIRDS NEST
THE RECIPE
HOOK: STANDARD NYMPH
SIZES: 10-16
1/8’’ BEAD HEAD
THREAD: MATCH BODY COLOR
TAIL: WOOD DUCK
RIB: GOLD WIRE OR FLASHY MATERIAL
ABDOMEN: OPOSSUM OR PREFERRED DUBBING
LEGS: WOOD DUCK
THORAX: SHOULD MATCH ABDOMEN
HOW TO SERVE:
THIS FLY IMITATES SO MANY FOOD ITEMS IT CAN BE FISHED WITH MANY METHODS. YOU’LL JUST HAVE TO TRY DIFFERENT PRESENTATIONS AND FIND THE ONE THAT FITS YOUR IMMEDIATE SITUATION.
SIMPLE SPARKLE PUPA
THE RECIPE
HOOK: CADDIS OR SCUD
HOOK SIZES: 10-16
1/8’’ BEAD HEAD
THREAD: BROWN
RIB: POLAR FLASH OR GOLD WIRE
ABDOMEN: OLIVE DUBBING
WING: BRUSHED ANTRON YARN
HEAD: PEACOCK HERL
LEGS: BROWN HEN HACKLE
HOW TO SERVE:
FISH DEAD DRIFT OR WITH ACTION. BE ESPECIALLY READY WHEN THIS FLY SWINGS AT THE END OF YOUR DRIFT
My favorite method for getting a big brown angry-the Happy Hopper (add buckteeth for the rare but occasional peaceable ones).
Call him a brownie.
Insult his mother. Start with these: Your momma's so stupid she got outsmarted by a cutthroat and Your momma's so ugly she couldn't get a crayfish to breed with her.
During spawning season yell something like “call that a hookjaw? My goldfish has a bigger beak than that.”
Accuse him of being a vegetarian.
Toss a happy hopper his way like the one pictured above, just make sure the smiles big enough to insult his machismo.
BUBBBBBBBBBAAAAAAAA! Check out this article. I didn’t even know Japan had Bass fishing. Ninja status. Anyone else jealous?
PS. Don't miss the weigh in video. You'd have to know some Karate anyways to prevent losing a limb to this beast but I must say the metric scale just doesn't seem right for measuring the official fish of NASCAR.
Two days into my Wyoming trip and I’m wrought with self-pity that I don’t live here even worse that it’s my first visit. Taking 8 years to complete a bachelor’s degree, finding out you’ve knocked up a chick and taking more than your share of semesters off trying to "get it together" a.k.a. working or hopefully fishing your butt off carries those kind of consequences. At least the chick was cool and by graduation you’re balding, broke and helplessly in love. Your bride even got you a $150 tying vise for Christmas (what romance) seemingly raking the money from thin air, the same way she did for gas money to take this trip.
As fishing luck has it, my wife’s best friend Sara happens to live within reasonable distance of Jackson Hole in one of the small towns on the fringe of the Wind River Range (another strategic location). The 12 hour drive to her place consisted of 15 potty breaks for our 3 year old and the drive in actuality spanned upwards of 14 hours. The night of our arrival I meet up with Sara’s ex to discuss fishing plans, a socially dubious venture in which I quickly establish myself as a neutral party. His name’s Jerry: a Michigan native driven west by employment opportunities and a quest for new surroundings as well as past due child support and the long arm of the law. During his and Sara’s stay with us over the holidays a year ago, we quickly became drinking pals and plotted against trout all across the western United States. And here we were, on our way to carry out our first mission.
“It’s about a three beer spot” Jerry says as we turn onto a dirt road headed for my first well known river. We quickly crack our twelve ouncers, and begin to trace the road along the river. A beer deep and we stop so he can show me the site where a lost snowmobiler was found in the spring, still half frozen, the body was well preserved he says “what with the cold weather.”
“You don’t %$*# around out here in the winter.” “I stick to the groomed paths or at least really close, if you get lost out here in the snow, you’re a done deal.” It’s late September and I can already feel the chill in the evenings. I glance at the trucks built in GPS, we’re approaching 7,000 feet elevation. The first snow would fall a week later but I’d already be long gone.
The spot ends up being 3 and a half beers, which is just fine with us. “Try hopper/droppers and don’t worry a whole lot about your leader, they’re not very shy in this section.” The river is slow, smooth and somehow archetype western, just like the magazine pictures of my childhood, I’m mesmerized by the entire thing before I remember my one liter canister of pepper spray and the fact that I should keep an eye peeled for Grizzlies. Jerry wades with a .44 and l liken this to a kind of Wyatt Earp flyfisherman as he offers me a pinch of Copenhagen.
For good measure I spit a black gob of tobacco on my size 6 Dave’s hopper. “Cast along the weedbeds, they’re usually just sittin’ in there.” Just as I’m hearing this he’s already into a nice brown. I cast up ahead and miss an aggressive slash. A few minutes later I fall into a rhythm and hook a small brown that reminds me of my son’s flailing legs during a tantrum at a gas station two days prior in Park City. The defiance ends in much the same way, his with the realization of a car seat buckle, and the fish with the finality of a net. Not that I usually net smaller fish but I wasn’t about to take any chances on my first Wyoming trout.
“Oooh #!7t” I hear from downstream. You should’ve seen that fish.” Jerry’s eyes are climbing out of his skull. “Hook one like that and you’ll be in the local paper” he says in half jest. I’ve seen copies of the local paper and with a population of about 400, about as conservative as it gets, it’s more like a passionate editorial forum where any willing member of town can rant about just why the country’s going straight to shit. Not exactly my cup of Beam but still I keep a lid on my politics in the state where Dick Cheney on a moment’s notice can have the secret service block off popular parts of the Snake River whenever he feels like fishing, sounds like executive privilege gone haywire to me.
More fish come to net and I keep looking for bears. A group of Antelope wearily tread the shore on the other side of the river. “I’m going after an elk next weekend” Jerry mentions, “I’ve never hunted one before but a couple guys I work with know a good spot. Too bad you’re leaving on Friday.”
“Yeah.” I manage not wanting to think about going back to work on Saturday.
Two day’s later and I’m Yellowstone bound. Sara drives with hell bent fury and we pass pods of antelope that are within 20 feet of the highway. My wife’s all nerves, having totaled a Cadillac in high school when a deer jumped into the road. I try to imagine what a 4-Runner would look like after hitting one of these hoofed roadblocks, at least the vintage Cadillac’s have a 300 foot long hood. My son has stayed back with Sara’s family, making the venture a much needed getaway especially for my wife. With nothing better to do I pry into the cooler and crack my first beer. Sara whose lived in Wyoming for longer then she’d like to admit begins bitching about the out-of-staters whose influx has begun to affect Californialike laws and regulations, not so different from my home state, where smoking has seemingly become the country’s greatest menace.
As we roll through Jackson, Sara points out various locales of party days past. We hit the grocery store for some last minute things and seeing a sushi bar and gourmet coffee stand, I’m instantly anxious to get back to the Wyoming countryside. We enter the park by 4pm having stopped to watch a moose in the Tetons. From here on we stop every few minutes to see the sites and so I can empty my bladder. I even pretend to see a buffalo in a tree riddled spot that looks perfect for hiding my great white hope from the tourists. I’ve put an impressive dent in the cooler by the time we arrive at old faithful.
We hit a pub in West Yellowstone that night for food before finding our motel. The beer has enlivened my quest to fish the Madison the next day. I ponder hangover potentials before I slam two tall bottles of water and fall into an anesthesia like coma until morning.
Morning arrives and here we are at the fabled Madison. Fish casually slurp mayflies off the surface as the sun bends just right onto the water, invigorating the day as the mornings chill begins to dissipate along with the condensation that rises picturesquely off the water before vanishing into the blue skies of the fabled American west. I’m rigged up with the perfect fly and delicately place the dry 3 feet above an 18 inch rainbow. Right? Yeah, the first part about the flies and the sun. My first cast on the Madison could have qualified for the NBA’s slam dunk contest. I not only put down the 18incher, but all the other fish within a 12 foot radius. And what about the fly? Two sizes too big.
Eventually I came around and just as I was landing my first fish, the hatch of course died out and it was time to switch over to subsurface tactics. No problem. I decided to let a size 14 modified hare’s ear do the dirty work. I took my share of 12-14 inch rainbows. My wife who was fishing just downstream, started yelling about a “nice-ass fish” that refused her Prince at the last minute. I had to have a look, my wife needs me I thought to myself, after all, how could I ignore the necessities of matrimonial duty? When I saw the fish in question, I guessed about 20 inches. Not the biggest fish in the river but undeniably nice and a more inviting prospect than a 14 incher.
I watched 10 or so drifts with the Prince before she regressed. “Alright, go ahead.” I decided to ignore the reluctant nuances in her voice. “Are you sure? I mean—” “Just do it.” Ladies and gentlemen, the cast, the drift, the flash in the riverbed, the hookset. I’ll admit I felt kind of bad, it was really her fish. But marriage requires teamwork and self-sacrifice right? From this day forward you’re no longer two human beings but instead one. These sentiments were quickly put on hold as my reel began to cry out in a spinning anguish. The fish was a screamer. 19 inches? 17 and a half. Famous water will do that to a anyone and that’s why I brought a scale. You can’t be too careful about these things.
When the girls mentioned food, I noticed I was pretty hungry too. We headed for the cafeteria at Old Faithful. The stop including the gift shop put a serious dent in my wallet as my wife seemingly picked up enough trinkets labeled either Yellowstone or Old Faithful to start our own little Yellowstone themed flea market stand. I guess revenge really can get served on ice. She let me get a fly fishing magazine though, only to realize a mile down the road that this rather famous publication had dropped the dime on another one of my favorite lesser known rivers. Hurray for Karma.
We pulled up to the parks south entrance with an hour of fishable daylight. I rigged up and ventured out alone to fish the illustrious Snake. It fished well too. Two drifts in and fish on. Over the course of 45 minutes I caught about 25 fish. Yeah that’s why I’ve been reading about these rivers all my life. Walking back to the ride, I kept an eye out for bears as I pondered calling my boss and saying I’d been attacked by a deranged moose and under the tragic circumstances, couldn’t be back to town for at least two months. The jingle of my shiny new Yellowstone nail clippers (the one my wife convinced me to replace my ceramic nippers for) quickly reminded me that as good as the fishing was here, a relatively impoverished family of three cannot roam homeless through a Wyoming winter. Credit card bills were calling. So be it.
The drive home was filled with anguish and reluctance. I felt weepy, my buddy who gauges all of his friend’s emotional states by what he reads on tampon packaging would have said I was having a heavy day and told me to get over it. Determined to carry on and hopeful since my wife told me we could come back next year, I pushed on the accelerator over the long flat highway that headed for home, saddened but all filled up too having experienced some fine Wyoming fishing. I figured I might even be able to fish my now not-so-secret spot after work the following night.
Determined to be a "flyrodder" this little guy likes to practice flailing in the backyard and sometimes to my wife's dismay in the living room.
Watch out Orvis here comes the converted Superman Push-button, which includes a 3 foot piece of weight forward 5wt attached directly to the top eyelet of the less than conventional 2 1/2 Foot one piece Shakespeare swatting stick. This setup is known for its effectiveness in scaring birds, cats and hooking pricey wall hangings and when taken outdoors, every tree and shrub will cower like a stocker planted in brown trout territory on the Truckee. The durability and toughness of this rod (it can be stepped on, jammed straight into walls and thrown 5 feet in fits of 4 year old style rage and frustration) is a testament to the quality and general wherewithal encompassed by the general spirit of precision and quest for quality in Chinese factories throughout. Who needs a blankee when you have one of these? Did I mention it sometimes doubles as a monster bashing sword? They just don't make em' like this anymore or do they...
Find a smallmouth find a fight. These fish possess an incredible knack for never giving up. Check out Danielle's Double Hookup: The Damsel/Midge combo (both bugs tied and suggested by our friend Brett Coffman and his accomplice Angela soon to be a Coffman) under an indicator fit the bill this time but we also like buggers, crawdad patterns, deer hair streamers and sometimes just nymphs on both sinking and floating lines with a stout tippet.
Welcome to the Sierra Fly Swatter fishing blog. Our intention is to provide compelling and informative content regarding the world and culture of fly fishing. Based out of Reno, Nevada our home waters include of course the Truckee River and Pyramid Lake as well as the Sierra Nevada Range as a whole and far beyond. We hope to hear from you. Please send us your comments, suggestions,hate mail and recommendations.
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