Klamath River Club

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Talk about a weekend getaway! Dax, Marlee and I had the opportunity to spend some time with dear friends and clients Anthony and Tom on the middle-lower Klamath river. Situated on a side road off the State of Jefferson highway, it boasts river front property with epic home water for swinging flies.

While the river was high and turbid, we still went for a leisure float and checked out some new water. After all, we had just towed their new raft down from Medford. “Betty” as Anthony christened her, needed to take her maiden voyage. After being baptized with a Sierra Nevada beer (of course!), we pushed off.

One thing is for sure, with all the high water, there are quite a few more braids and side channels! It was a short float, and aside from crazy hydraulics and reversals, there wasn’t much in the way of technical water. However, for all of you who are thinking of floating somewhere, be careful! We did see some big rapids in certain sections of the river while driving. Most of the West coast rivers have a lot of run off at the moment and can be very dangerous! Proceed with caution.

The rest of the weekend was spent; cooking amazing cuisine in the commercial outdoor kitchen (which is set under a sweeping pavilion), reveling in great company, and delighting in a bonfire for our last evening.

While Tom describes his property as a work in progress, I quite frankly see it as the perfect weekend retreat. A great place to bring friends and family for some quality time outdoors. From the amazing kitchen and bathrooms (see photos), to the fully appointed wall tents with porches and string lighting, KRC truly is camping with an upscale comfort and polish that is rare to find.  Thank you again Tom and Anthony for hosting us at your amazing camp! Can’t wait to make it back there soon.

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A room with a view

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Chief Anthony hard at work!

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River view shower? Yes please.

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Steel plate window coverings, perfect for the zombie apocalypse….

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Reclaimed wood, modern fixtures and historic photography adorning the walls give the washrooms a rustic feel

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Extremely thick steel doors stand sentinel to the kitchen when not in use.

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Cheers to next time!

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Half full or half empty?

This past week I took a trip to the Lost Coast to fish some of my favorite coastal water. There’s something magical about those rivers. Their color-modulating blue-green waters, old growth trees covered in moss, perfect swing runs and spell binding ocean sunsets make me long for endless days of winter. Not to mention, a dime bright winter steelhead caught mere miles from the sea is a reward all in itself.

 

One of infinite perfect coastal sunsets

One of infinite perfect coastal sunsets

 

 

Sadly, this trip was cut very short. As I lay dreaming of mist lingering above beryl waters and fish yet to be caught, my rig was being burglarized. Discovering that every bit of steelhead gear I owned,  hip pack, dry bag, waders and all, had been plundered away in the night was heart rending. It was less about the possessions, than the sentimental value many of them held for me. Items handed down from my dad over the years, my first spey rod that Bill Lowe taught me how to cast with, all the hand-tied flies I’d spent hours carefully crafting; the sense of violation was staggering. Not to mention, as a guide, some were also tools of my livelihood.

 

I’ve rarely used Facebook as a platform to vent, but seeing red, I took to social media and proclaimed my fury. It had been enough for me to simply rant to the great unknown of the interweb that I was furious. Frankly, I was taken aback by the number of comments my post generated. So many friends and acquaintances in the fly fishing community reached out to me, offering to help in any way they could. Mike, the proprietor of the Eureka Fly Shop, upon hearing what happened, even helped me get a few of my items back when a nefarious character came into the shop trying to peddle a couple of my stolen reels.

 

What I had witnessed was a community of fly fishers rallying to a comrade in distress. On one hand, the violation of having my property stolen shook my faith in the good nature of people. However, the kind gestures of so many in our small, but tight knit community restored it.  I still choose to see the glass half full and keep on smiling. I would like to thank everyone who has ever lent a hand to a fellow fisher in need. Your goodwill and generous spirit help make the sport of fly fishing truly remarkable and cathartic.

 

When life gives you lemons, drink a beer ;) Thanks again for reading and being awesome!

When life gives you lemons, drink a beer 😉 Thanks again for reading and being extraordinary!

Updates: Part Deux

 

 

With my first camping trip of the spring/summer season, it occurred to me that steelhead season is officially over. Aside from swinging streamers from time to time, I’ve pretty  much hung up the two-handed rod until steelhead season is here again. My first season wielding a spey rod was a huge success and I will be anxiously waiting to whip it out again. While the weather was fickle and didn’t always cooperate, I still got a huge amount of satisfaction being out on the water and learning how to cast a two-handed rig.

 

 

I had the immense pleasure of learning casting techniques from Bill Lowe, Travis Johnson, and Simon Gawesworth. While no where near perfect, my casting has improved by leaps and bounds since that first time I struggled to assemble that awkwardly long, 13 foot rod. I even caught that first, addictive fish on the swing.

 

 

As some of you may know, the legendary Bill Lowe recently passed away. Bill was my first spey casting instructor. That first lesson with Bill was what inspired me to keep practicing and improving. With a laid back attitude and epic sense of humor, Bill taught me more than just casting; he emphasized the joys of simply being out on the water, fishing. A lesson I will never cease to forget. Thank you Bill for being such an inspiration, you are honored in each Snap T and swing of the fly.

 

 

A trip up to Oregon to fish the Sandy with my Dad and take a class from world-record spey caster Travis Johnson was another highlight of this season. What a beautiful river! A deep emerald green and full of perfect swing runs. We didn’t catch any fish, but spending the time with my Dad and passing on my spey addiction was an experience of a lifetime. Travis was a great teacher and had may useful insights into steelhead fishing and life. I’m hoping that this will become an annual trip I can enjoy with my Dad.

 

 

 

Finally this spring, I closed out the spey season with Spey Day on the American river. This was an afternoon filled with testing out different Sage and Redington model spey and switch rods, demoing a wide range of RIO’s Scandi and Skagit lines, and epic tutorials by Simon Gawesworth, Bill Lowe and Mike McCune. With all this info, my brain was forming new neural paths at an alarming rate and laughter was always on the tip of my tongue. I was in some pretty legendary company, and I am grateful to be invited. I learned so much in a single day, met heroes and made new friends. The perfect way to close out the spey season. The only question I have left is, “Is it winter yet?”

Updates: Part 1

Well it’s been a while, and I must say that I haven’t done nearly enough fishing in the past few months. Firstly, let me apologize for the absence; just because my fishing time has been lacking doesn’t mean I can’t entertain with written prose on all topics fly fishing. Rest assured, I am back with nose to the grindstone and I’ll be adding new content on a regular basis again. To get the ball rolling, here’s a bit of an update on what I’ve been up to.

 

Talk about a hike with a view!

 

At the beginning of the new year, my wanderlust got the best of me (again) and I decided move to the North Coast near Redwood Creek so I could be minutes away from fishing where fresh, hot, chromey steelhead are the reward. Just as I began to settle into the rustic cabin a few miles away from the coast, the Department of Fish and Wildlife made the right choice and closed many of the coastal streams due to low water levels.

I hear salmon as I fall asleep running up the creek in my backyard

While I was ecstatic that the fish wouldn’t have to deal with the stress angling can inflict with such low flows, a tiny fissure in my heart started to form. I was desperately missing the pre-dawn bustle of waders, coffee and the promise of another day on the river. I immersed myself in my other passions; surfing, hiking, yoga and running but still the fissure in my heart refused to mend. I spent many days wandering around the lush green redwoods, abandoned sea shores and steep waves immersed and awed by the breathtaking beauty, but it couldn’t replace the days spent with a rod in my hand and Marlee in tow on the river.

 

Hefty sets coming through as I peep over the cliffs

 

One morning, running along the beach it hit me. I could try my hand at surf fishing. The only downside to awesome winter surfing conditions are the big waves, epic, exhilarating and terrifying for riding; not so ideal for fishing in the surf. I was under equipped with the wrong line and half the time my fly was washed to shore with the beach break. Still, it felt amazing to be out amidst the crashing waves casting a fly rod again. Oh how I had missed the flex and load of the rod; the zing of the line speed.

 

As with all types of fishing, the weather doesn’t always cooperate. I often have to stop myself from wading out into waves far too big for fishing, but ocean fly fishing is still a viable escape into a world that soothes my soul and quiets my mind. With the winter swells slowly dying down for the spring, I look forward to conquering the surf not only on my board, but also with my fly rod.

Gotta love a North Coast winter sunset

Gotta love a North Coast winter sunset

 

 

Stay tuned for part two of the update; my adventures as I delve deeper into the grasps of two handed fly fishing. 

 

 

And then there was Spey

In October, I moved up to Douglas City, into a place right on the river. My goal: to discover the hidden secrets of the Trinity River. I devoted many of my first days to driving along the water and discovering spots I hadn’t fished before. Just me, my rods and my dog Marlee. We hiked up and down along the river; trudging through thick brush, steep ravines and bear poop; nymphing and swinging flies.

We wait patiently for fish

We wait patiently for fish

I must admit that getting back into the rythym of steelhead fishing was a bit of an adjustment. The summer offered up such an abundance of beautiful fish; but now it was time to switch gears. Steelhead are elusive, and there will be days, even weeks were you may not catch anything. Dues well worth paying; the tug of a steelhead is the most addictive drug of all.

Fall on the Trinity

Fall on the Trinity

October drew to a close; and I must admit that towards the end of the month I was spending more time working, than on the river. Fly fishing is not a cheap habit to support.

While flashes of chrome flashed through my dreams, none had yet come to fruition at the end of my line. Already the beginning of November, I finally had an entire day off; I was ready to hit the water hard. With no rain to encourage an abundance of fresh fish up the river and no boat, my best chance to catch a steelhead was by covering lots of water and being the first out and the last in.

After making sure I was set for an early morning, I was in the mood for a beer. I decided to head down and check out the local bar a few miles down the road. The Diggins is a divey mountain bar. It was like walking into my favorite bar in Boulder Creek along the San Lorenzo River.

As I sipped a cold one, I noticed a couple of guys who had to be fly fishermen. The attire is usually a dead giveaway. Never one to miss an opportunity to talk fish, I decided to ask them how the river was fishing.

“Hey, you’re that gal gone fishin’ chick from Truckee, right?” Whoa. That’s never happened before. The fly fishing industry is such a small little world. Turns out, I ran into the Kennedy brothers; both kick-ass local guides who grew up in the Mammoth area; both experts on many northern California rivers, not to mention Alaska and parts of Russia. Not only did they clue me in on some awesome spots to check out, but they also had lots of fishing stories to tell.

With an early morning start on the river beckoning me, I thanked Kris and Greg for the fishing tips and colorful stories, then headed home. Little did I know, the next day would be one I will remember for the rest of my life.

A pre-dawn alarm, lots of warm layers of clothing and a coffee later, I waded out into the cold, rushing water. I spent the morning swinging flies on a mid-section of the river.

The result was a few little taps and four smolt, but nothing substantial. Throughout the day, as I moved from spot to spot, I intermittently switched from swinging flies on my two-handed rod and nymphing with my single-hand rod, depending on the run.

Lots of these little guys!

Lots of these little guys!

Driving to the last spot I would fish for the day, I reflected on how lucky I was to spend the whole day on the water. The towering peaks of the Trinity Alps in the distance and the warm autumn colors of the trees embraced me. I was in my element, reveling in the primitive solitude I’ve come to crave.

After a daring wade across some fast water, I reached the final stop on my day of fishing. It’s a beautiful run that just begs to be fished on the swing. I checked the fly at the end of my line, and launched a double spey cast to the other side of the river.

I luxuriated in the steady tug of my fly swinging across the current. A few steps downstream, and I made another cast, then another. My next cast, just short enough to miss being caught in some low overhanging branches, swung a few feet out into the current and then I felt it. Not the small tap of a curious smolt, but an electrifying grab, promising something bigger.

Resisting the urge to lift my rod tip and set the hook, I waited. Two seconds later, my reel exploded into action; its high-pitched scream sent a jolt of adrenaline though my body and goosebumps rose on my arms. Reality seemed to shift into slow motion. Each turn, jump and run that fish made is forever engrained in my mind.

Fumbling for the net

Fumbling for the net

By the end of the fight, I could hardly believe that I had done it. Swimming in my net was the first adult steelhead I had caught on the swing. Chasing that fish downstream there had been moments I was sure I would lose her. My legs were shaking from the excitement and I couldn’t stop the wild cry of victory that escaped my lips.

Never in my life has anything made me feel the way catching that fish did. It was nothing short of a life-altering experience. Better than sex, booze, riding my first wave, chocolate or any drug I’ve ever experienced.

I’d always heard the elitist hype about swinging for steelhead, but I suppose it takes catching your first fish using this method to understand the euphoria. Not to say that I’ll give up my single-handed rod and nymphing; some water is fished better that way. All I know is that there is no going back; I can never forget this feeling.  I will be chasing steelhead on the swing for the entirety of my life.