This past week, I landed my first trout on a nymph — a feisty little brown — and I learned much about high-stick nymphing. The weather was cold at night and warm in the day, with windy afternoons. We fished mostly small tumbling freestone streams, but also visited a wonderful spring creek that snakes through a mountain meadow like a vision from a postcard. Our best days were had when friends took us to their favorite spots or we followed tips from the locals.

Today was the best. Last night, as we dropped off the boat after a fruitless day on the Sacramento River prospecting for stripers, we got a hot tip from Big Dan on a creek up in the canyon where the trout were supposedly biting. When we got to the parking lot this morning, we saw a couple other trucks already parked, but one was owned by a couple of rock climbers who warned us of snakes, and the other was the property of two lady flyfishers, who we bypassed on our upstream hike.

I wanted to hike up a ways to get away from the road. The hiking was rough — very rough, and Joyce and Keith were troopers as usual. To reach the best fishing, we waded the icy roaring creek up to our waists, climbed wet slippery cliffs, and inched along narrow ledges overhung with (you guessed it) poison oak. It was dangerous and scary, and we have bruises to prove it, but it was worth every cracked shin.

As we worked upstream, I discovered that sunken nymphs were working better than the small spinners being used by my companions. Slowly, I improved my technique for short-line, high-stick nymphing in the swift runs and deep pockets.

Eventually we came to the Mother Lode. Here, where a small waterfall gushed into a long, cliff-lined chute that tailed out into a gravelly flat, the spawners had gathered. We could see the big, dark fish lying in the swift shallows. The spawn was over, and they were hungry. We landed four beautiful wild rainbows, by staying low and being persistent, and then left them alone. My biggest one, a dark 16” male, entangled himself on a submerged stick for a time and I was sure he would snap the tippet, but I went in deep and got him off the snag.

As we sit around the bottle of tequila with our guitars, celebrating Cinco de Mayo by trading songs and telling stories, the full moon shimmers on the lake, and I feel tired and satisfied.