American Fly Fishing

Baptism River and Tettegouche State Park, MN

A Waterfalls Wonderland
By Carl Haensel, with Jade Thomason

Baptism River and Tettegouche State Park, MN

Palisade Head towers hundreds of feet above Lake Superior just a mile south of the mouth of the Baptism River. The promontory offers sprawling views of Minnesota’s North Shore and is one of many fantastic features of Tettegouche State Park. Photos by Carl Haensel and Jade Thomason

The roar of the rushing water filled my consciousness as I worked to push a roll cast closer to the churning froth at the base of the falls. The swirling waters made casting challenging, and the moment the small streamer landed, it was ripped away by the swift current. Still, I believed a large trout was sitting there, waiting. We had seen them jumping, trying in vain to ascend the falls, not knowing that it towered dozens of feet higher than they could leap.

After another 10 casts, I nearly gave up and headed downstream to easier pools and runs. I stuck with casting, however, pushing the 5-weight rod as far as I could, working around the dark basaltic rocks that stuck out at odd angles from the shoreline. Then, in an instant, a fish struck. Diving deep into the tannin-stained water, the fish fought doggedly against 3X tippet, using the current to its full advantage and almost leaving the pool.

When the fish finally tired, I was able to glide it across the surface of the water and slip it into my net. There it lay for a second, the crimson belly brilliant in the mist-speckled sunlight. The white edges of the fins and the red spots surrounded by blue halos were unmistakable markings of another wild brook trout. Emptying it out of the net, I watched it quickly disappeared back into the depths of the pool.

Hiwassee River, TN

Hannah’s First Fish on a Dry Fly
By Nick Carter

Hiwassee River, TN

Although a drift boat is an excellent platform for fly casters, the Hiwassee’s shallow shoals can be difficult to negotiate in low water levels, especially for rowers with limited experience on the river. Photo by Nick Carter

Using oars to fend off tree branches, Bill Stranahan guided us, scraping and dragging, from the launch up Towee Creek and down to the Hiwassee River, where shoals spread before us, shallow and easily as wide as a football field, maybe two.

“This looks perfect,” Stranahan said, eyeing the water level as he swung his drift boat into a chute and anchored below the first shoal. It was early afternoon, and we were on a mission to put his 15-year-old stepdaughter, Hannah James, on her first dry-fly trout. Stranahan was just the man for the job. He’s logged countless hours on the “Hi” as a veteran guide with Southeastern Anglers. It’s his home water—literally. Both Stranahan and Southeastern Anglers’ Dane Law have homes along the river.

And though rowing a traditional drift boat on the Hiwassee in low water can be tricky, reduced flows present the only times wading anglers can safely navigate the shoals. A single generator running upstream at the Apalachia Dam powerhouse provides cold, clear-green water and what Stranahan considers optimal fishing conditions.

Upper Iowa River Trout Tributaries, IA

Spring Creek Nirvana
By Jeff Erickson

Upper Iowa River Trout Tributaries, IA

Wild brown trout inhabit more than 50 of northeast Iowa’s 100-plus trout streams. Photo By Jeff Erickson

Geographic stereotypes and misperceptions are rife, including those involving trout habitat. When many people think of Iowa, for example, the images springing to mind are thousand-pound, blue-ribbon-winning hogs named Betsy or Bertha by their 4-H kid owners, tabletop-flat cornfields, and maybe hordes of politicians and reporters descending on the state for the nation’s first presidential primary every four years.

If anyone pictures fish, it might be slimy catfish pulled from silty streams, bluegills or largemouth bass from lily-pad-punctuated farm ponds, or walleyes from the Mississippi. But trout? Think again, because northeastern Iowa shelters some of the most alluring, publicly accessible spring creeks in the country, holding native brook trout, wild browns, and stocked rainbows. At the epicenter of this bounty are tributaries feeding the 156-mile-long Upper Iowa River.

Rising in southeastern Minnesota, the Upper Iowa slithers back and forth across the Iowa border before definitively taking up residence in the Hawkeye State. The watershed’s trout treasure troves are the smaller, colder streams feeding the Upper Iowa.

Toledo Bend Reservoir, TX/LA

Keep Your Eye on the Prize
By John E. Wood

Toledo Bend Reservoir, TX/LA

Captain Stephen Stubbe steers his boat along a creek channel while James Dionizio works a fast-sinking fly along the edges of submerged brush. Toledo Bend is essentially a flooded forest that is surrounded by forest. Nearly the entire lake offers fish-holding cover in the form of submerged brush and trees. Photo by John E. Wood

Cruising the back reaches of Palo Gaucho Bayou on Toledo Bend Reservoir, I could feel the tensions of rushing to get there melt away, slowly replaced by the familiar feeling of anticipation that new water brings, especially when it’s an unfamiliar habitat.

The backwater reaches of Toledo Bend are like few other habitats; to me, the place exuded something akin to a primordial amusement park. The hardwoods, having just dropped their spring buds and flowers, were coming into new leaf. The scene was far different from the cityscapes James Dionizio and I had vacated earlier that morning. We had rendezvoused around noon at Harborlight Marina and Resort, located mid-lake on the Texas side. The well-kept, comfortable collection of varied accommodations, a boat launch, and mooring options situated on the edge of Sunshine Bay was a perfect jumping-off point for our introduction to that arm of this massive impoundment that straddles the Texas–Louisiana border.

Traveling from opposite directions, Dionizio from the south and me from north, we arrived within minutes of each other and quickly shook off the frustration of negligible cellphone reception and unnecessary attempts to coordinate our arrival. The thick piney woods covering the undulating terrain around Toledo Bend offered a rewarding contrast to and welcome respite from our city lives, but the rural scenery is not conducive to the radio waves we’ve grown accustomed to for instant communication. But we hadn’t come for the local radio waves, we had come to chase largemouth bass on one of the most productive big-bass lakes in the country.

Crane Prairie Reservoir, OR

The Forgotten Forest
By Gary Weber

Crane Prairie Reservoir, OR

Colloquially called “Cranebows,” native rainbow trout from the upper Deschutes River inhabit the reservoir and routinely reach 20 or more inches. The fishery is bolstered by robust allotments of hatchery-produced rainbows. Photo by Gary Weber

People forget. We’re all guilty of it. Anniversaries, birthdays, names, phone numbers, even where we left our car keys—lapses in memory happen all the time. But don’t be too alarmed. According to German psychologist Hermann Ebbinghaus, father of the “forgetting curve,” much of what we forget is lost soon after we learn it. In fact, our short-term memories can retain information for only about 15 to 30 seconds unless it’s frequently rehearsed. Maybe that explains why a fly angler fighting a 4-pound rainbow trout on central Oregon’s Crane Prairie Reservoir can easily forget that this lake, lined with hundreds of spindly ghost trees, was once a forest.

Crane Prairie Reservoir was created in 1922 with the construction of a rock-filled dam that impounded the upper Deschutes River about 8.5 miles south of its source at Little Lava Lake. The new impoundment flooded a fertile forested meadow known as Crane Prairie, named for the prodigious numbers of sandhill cranes that flocked to the area to feed. Leakage through the original dam rendered it unsafe, forcing the U.S. Bureau of Reclamation to replace it in 1940 with an earth-filled structure.

Gifford Pinchot National Forest Lakes, WA

Weekend Adventures
By Derek Schroeder

Gifford Pinchot, WA

Prowling the shallow weedbeds on Big Mosquito lake, the author straps into a scrappy Big Mosquito Lake brook trout. Photo By Derek Schroeder

It’s 7:30 on a Monday morning in early June and my boss thinks I’m at work. Technically, I am. I mean, if I clear my inbox by the end of the day, that counts, right?

Now, however, I’m trying to glean the last drops of weekend out of the gray area that working from home during a pandemic has created in our lives. Quoting an adage his father said often, a friend once told me, “Never waste a crisis.” Good advice. I can always use another excuse to go fishing.

An evergreen cradle deep in the Gifford Pinchot National Forest backcountry holds a nameless lake like a jewel. At the north end of the lake, fallen trees scattered in the clear water lie like spent bowling pins, forming obvious shelter for a wise trout. My stomach grumbles. I hope the fish that I know must be down there hasn’t eaten breakfast either.

The stillness envelops me, and I try to mimic it with every motion. Quietly I stalk toward the logjam on my paddleboard, until I can nestle into a nook and unhook the leech pattern from my reel seat. Before my fly even hits the water, I imagine a big brown trout haphazardly, confidently, cruising his sanctuary like a wolf stalking a meal in the wilderness.

One. Two. Three false casts are all it takes. My palms sweat. My technique always seems to fail me at times like these. Probably why I’ll never be a kicker in the National Football League, I quip to myself. But I manage to drop the fly just inches from a log. My heart thumps with anticipation as I hope the fly has a clean drop to the lake’s sandy bottom. Please don’t snag, I whisper, picturing the empty slots in my fly box where the other leeches I lost this weekend used to live.

Homosassa, FL

“River of Fishes”
By Rusty Chinnis

Homosassa, FL

Captain Jim Long poles Captain Rick Farrior across a shallow flat off the mouth of the Homosassa River on a busman’s holiday. Photo by Rusty Chinnis

The great American landscape painter Winslow Homer (1836–1910) was enamored with Homosassa, Florida. Homer regularly traveled to Florida, the Bahamas, and Cuba during the winter months, and this wild, spring-fed coast was one of his favorite destinations. The name Homosassa is derived from a Seminole word meaning “river of fishes.”

To this day the natural beauty that inspired Homer’s art, and his passion for fishing, permeates the area. In 1904, Homer painted at least 11 watercolors during a stay. In a letter to his brother, Arthur, he described Homosassa as “The best fishing in America as far as I can find.”

Despite the pace of progress and the impact of development and agriculture on the natural springs, the name still aptly portrays the area’s riches. The verdant and diverse marine and riverine ecosystem is a fly fisher’s paradise.

Jacks River, GA

Deep in the Woods
By Nick Carter

Jacks River, GA

The Jacks River has no stocked trout. The fishery comprises robust populations of wild browns and rainbows, thriving in a gorgeous backcountry watershed. Photo by Nick Carter

“He ate! My God, he ate! And I missed! I missed! Why, God, why?”

These were the opening words of a diatribe Joe DiPietro unleashed upon himself as he dropped his rod and fell to his knees on a Jacks River gravel bar. Miles deep in Georgia’s Cohutta Wilderness, I was the only one to hear what spewed from his mouth. It sounded like heartbreak.

Truly large trout are not an everyday occurrence in this wild place. It hasn’t seen a stocking for decades, and little wild rainbows and browns are the norm. They sometimes eat dry flies with gusto. That’s a lot of fun. But big fish are rare.

DiPietro swears the fish that turned on his big stonefly nymph was at least 22 inches long—an exceptional fish in a stream where a 14-incher is cause for excitement. With someone else, such an anomaly might be chalked up to hyperbole. But DiPietro has seen and caught plenty of enormous trout. He’s spent his adult life guiding where fish grow huge—on private trophy waters as well as on the nearby Toccoa tailwater. His judgment is to be trusted—at least in this matter—and this was a special fish, wild and stream-born, seemingly too large for the pool it inhabited.

Thornapple River, MI

Lurking in the Shadows
By Nathan Perkinson

Thornapple River, MI

The old bridge at McKeown Bridge Park, east of Hastings, is one of the author’s favorite spots to target bass and panfish. The water is fast, but wading is fairly easy. Look for fish-holding structure, including deep holes and submerged rocks. Photo by Kyra Perkinson

One of my favorite little smallmouth holes is just east of Hastings, Michigan, on the Thornapple River. You can see it from a highway bridge and it’s easy to reach. This spot was always easy to fish, too: just hop a heavy fly along the sandy bottom and wait for a fish. That is, until last year, when a log drifted into the hole and wedged itself in place. I’m sure the bass enjoy this extra cover, but it makes fishing that hole a real headache.

One day last autumn, I started my day on the Thornapple at that spot, casting a heavy sculpin pattern under a strike indicator—standard operating procedure for my style of targeting smallmouth. My first cast found that submerged log and I broke the fly off. When a second sculpin fly met the same fate, I began to suspect that my go-to spot may have soured. I lost a Clouser Minnow next, further confirming my fears.

Eager to feel a bend in the rod, I swapped out my smallmouth rig for a 5X leader and a Gurgler with lots of rubber legs. Having already lost three flies in that hole, my faith in that Gurgler was right on par with my belief that the Detroit Tigers will ever win another World Series. But fishing is full of surprises. The little white Gurgler plopped down, a shadow materialized from the depths like Captain Kirk beaming onto an alien plant, and I set the hook. The bass was no wall-hanger by any stretch, but my fear that the hole had been ruined disappeared in a hurry when I happily brought the smallmouth to hand.

Collegiate Peaks Wilderness, CO

Alpine Splendor
By Jonathan Hill

Collegiate Peaks Wilderness, CO

The trail up to Bear Lake gradually climbs through a mountain valley, affording outstanding views once the route climbs above timberline. Here, the author makes the morning trek in hopes of catching more cutthroat trout. Photo by Jonathan Hill

I enjoy coaching my son’s soccer team. Helping 9- and 10-year-olds develop their skills and then seeing their improvement each week is rewarding. I also get to brush up on my own skills and put them in action at the end of each season, when we parents scrimmage against the kids. Last spring’s game, though, almost thwarted my long-planned expedition into the Collegiate Peaks Wilderness of central Colorado.

The kids were winning, as usual, and I was dribbling the ball downfield. I went to pivot and pass to the middle, heard a pop, and went down. My left knee had given out and I knew I was done for. The next day I could barely put any weight on my leg, and the knee had swollen to three times its normal size.

After three doctor visits and an MRI, I was diagnosed with a tiny tear in my meniscus; it would require surgery. I told my doctor that I had a backpacking/fly-fishing trip planned and asked if it was possible to delay the surgery and still make the extensive hike six weeks from then. He gave me a shot of cortisone and told me to do some light stretching and mild workouts, have fun, and let him know if I made it back safely.

Lower Rio Grande Canyon, NM

A Stream with a Mind of its Own
By Toner Mitchell

Lower Rio Grande Canyon, NM

Jeremy Brooks died in an airplane accident en route to a guiding gig in Russia. He was admired throughout the New Mexico angling community and was a uniquely kindhearted person. He mastered Rio Grande pike fishing as a boy.
Photo by Toner Mitchell

If you’re going to learn the Rio Grande on your own, understand that it will take some time. This is a hard pill to swallow given how bank-to-bank fishy its habitat looks. There’s almost no uniformity, boulders of every size spinning and gushing water into one another, carving and shaping an infinity of surfaces and spaces occupied by an array of fish food that never ceases to astound me. No one should have trouble catching fish.

Yet most of us do, sometimes for days on end. The Rio can be an extremely generous stream, but even the experts will tell you that taking it for granted leads to heartbreak.

My own education on the Rio has been a circuitous path, with stops at delusion and optimism, disappointment, and relative glory along the way. As a teenager, I’d finally had enough of driving by the river on my way to the ski mountain or to some familiar, easy creek fishing. Upon getting my driver’s license, I dedicated a summer to fishing the Rio. It felt weird to step into a big trout river for the first time, then to feel the sharp contrast between the cool currents and the stifling heat that seemed stuffed into the canyon. When the sun dropped below the west canyon wall and the shade fell across the water, I got that strong whiff of willows and saw the barely perceptible pecks of surface-feeding trout.

Lake Davis, CA

Much More than Memories
By Jody Martin 

Lake Davis, CA

A slow hand-crawl retrieve, with frequent pauses, is typically the most productive tactic for anglers fishing Lake Davis during most of the year. In autumn, however, faster retrieves with bigger flies result in violent grabs from the lake’s heavy trout. Photo by Jon Baiocchi

The fire was starting to die down. Roger dropped another log in and Mike stirred the ashes and we gathered a little closer to ward off the chill in the air and finally somebody said something about Bob. He was the reason we had all been hired, so many years ago, and the reason we had come together now, even though we were calling it a fishing trip.

It was June 1995, and we were camped on the shores of Lake Davis in Northern California’s Plumas National Forest. A year and a half earlier, in the early morning hours of December 13, 1993, Bob had ended his life with a shotgun in the front seat of his car, and we were clueless as to why. There had been a memorial service for him back in Kentucky shortly after his death, but not all of us could make it, so this Western fishing trip was another way to gather and grieve and wonder what the hell had happened. And maybe it was a form of closure, whatever that word means.

Lower South Fork Boise River, ID

Blue-Ribbon Tailwater
By R. Chad Chorney

 

Lower South Fork Boise River, ID

Jessica French plays a nice rainbow trout from a gentle tailout during a late-winter outing on the South Fork. Perhaps counterintuitively, this river is often at its best during the winter months, largely thanks to reduced flows.
Photo by R. Chad Chorney

Boise, Idaho, has consistently ranked as one of the best places in the United States to live, work, and raise a family. The city is an outdoor enthusiast’s dream—hiking, mountain biking, skiing, hunting, and fishing opportunities abound in and around the City of Trees. One of the more productive fisheries located close to Boise is the lower South Fork Boise River. The South Fork, as its commonly called, is a trophy rainbow trout fishery near the community of Mountain Home, Idaho, about 90 minutes east of Boise. The lower South Fork is a blue-ribbon tailwater formed by the dam that created Anderson Ranch Reservoir, and it flows through a rugged canyon for some 30 miles before entering Arrowrock Reservoir.

Rosebud Creek, MT

Gem of the Beartooth Range
By Carl Myers

Stephanie Myers subdues a feisty rainbow from the upper section of East Rosebud Creek. Both forks of the Rosebud are fast-flowing freestone streams well suited to nymphing with fast-sinking patterns. Photo by Carl Myers

Hoping my son’s first view of Mystic Lake would be one he’d remember and not wanting my backside to be part of it, I stopped to let him move in front as we crested the highest part of the trail. It didn’t go as planned. Instead, his favorite ball cap went flying out over the slot canyon on our side of the rim, and I barely managed to grab a handful of his shirt before he also went tumbling off the trail.
            I’m not familiar with the Beaufort wind force scale, but what hit us on that crest had to be at least one notch above gale force. With eyelids fluttering and streams of tears blowing sideways across our faces, we tried to take in the magnificent panorama that I remembered from 20 years ago, but it was all we could do to not gasp and turn our heads back and forth like newborn babes whose faces were being blown into by relentlessly cruel adults.
            We pressed on, though, and as we descended toward the lake, we spied a wave-lapped stretch of beach southwest of the dam and made that our goal. We soon noticed we weren’t the only recreationists coveting this little piece of sun-warmed sand. A circle of wilderness enthusiasts was already forming itself up in our spot. I was still concentrating on not having the oxygen forcibly sucked out of my lungs when I heard my son inquire over the maelstrom, “Hey, Dad, what are they doing?”

Whitewater River, NC/SC

Never a River So Appropriately Named
By Bill Chiles

In my early days of fly fishing, the number of fish I brought to hand was the major benchmark of a successful day.

            As the years passed, though, such an arbitrary measure of fly-fishing success waned. In its place, other parts of the sport became more important, such as the vivid color on a 6-inch brook trout, the unusual spotting pattern on the sole brown of the day, or the way the rays of sun beamed through the fog early one morning on what would be a fishless day. Sometimes just standing knee-deep in a trout stream is all the measure of success one requires. And then there are days like May 23, 2011.

            Matt Canter and I were fishing a remote stretch of the Whitewater River in North Carolina. From the moment we hit the water, the fishing promised to be good. Every conceivable holding spot produced a nice brown trout eager to gobble dry flies. All of the fish were healthy, with their bellies sagging over our palms. As we moved upstream, the fishing got even better. Although I believe I was, at the time, emotionally mature enough to appreciate how special such a day is without the aforementioned arbitrary measures of success, it occurred to me about two hours into this trip that it would be interesting to know just how many fish we caught that day. I began counting.

Steens Mountain, OR

High Desert Oasis
By John Shewey

I love angling for bonefish in inches of water on ivory-white hard-sand flats. But bonefish don’t live at 8,500 feet, in a near-frozen lake, in a remote part of the Great Basin West.

            But as far as I was concerned, this was close enough: Lahontan cutthroat trout materializing on a shoreline shoal like wraiths, ghosting up from the adjacent depths and feeding on something that compelled them to venture into potentially perilous shallows. The slightest wind ripple on the water made the fish difficult to track.

            “They’re cutthroat in an alpine lake; how hard can this be?” I told myself.

            I sent a beadhead Prince Nymph zinging over the shoal. The fly plopped down, the line cast a shadow, the fish vanished. Ugh. I should have been more careful, more respectful. Hubris can carry a price.

            I waited. A trout, then two, then three appeared on the shoal, easy to see when they turned broadside, but nearly invisible when they turned head-on to where I was kneeling just 30 feet distant.

            I snipped off the beadhead, added 6 feet of tippet, and tied on a nondescript little fuzz ball that I suppose might have been a scud pattern. I soaked the fly first, then cast just far enough that the leader and tippet laid out over the light-bottom shoal, but not the fly line itself. I waited while the fly sank to the bottom. I waited some more. The breeze died and the water stilled. Two cutts approached the general location where the fly lay in wait. I twitched it once, then again, and both fish scooted quickly forward—and then wandered off, unimpressed.

            This was a lot like pursuing big, suspicious bonefish in skinny water.

Oil Creek, PA

A Trout Riddle Wrapped in an Enigma
By Ralph Scherder

One of my earliest fishing memories is of driving across the bridge in Oil City, Pennsylvania, as caddisflies plastered the windshield. They were everywhere, huge clouds of them high above the water. It was late April and the Grannoms were in full swing on Oil Creek.

            With a name like Oil Creek, you wouldn’t expect this stream to offer great hatches or quality fly fishing. In that regard, Oil Creek defies logic. Sure, it has weathered the typical environmental woes and suffered for the sake of “progress.” A look at the area’s history is enough to give one pause, and yet, despite that, Oil Creek has emerged as a quality fishery, if not one of the top fishing destinations in western Pennsylvania.

New Haven Harbor, CT

A Multi-Species Mecca within City Limits
By Tom Migdalski

New Haven Harbor is a quintessential juxtaposition of wildness and civilization. There’s something special about hooking a wily predator alongside one of the busiest traffic and commercial hubs in the Northeast. This fishing thrill occurs all season long in the waters surrounding New Haven, Connecticut, where baitfish attract bluefish and striped bass almost within casting distance of oil tankers, Interstate 95, and bustling city life. The fishery also features weakfish, false albacore, and other species, not to mention one of the biggest and oldest oystering industries in New England.

            New Haven Harbor is a triangular, 4-mile-long bay and the second-largest commercial port in Connecticut. The bay’s central location on northern Long Island Sound makes it appealing and accessible to many anglers….the fishing can be excellent even deep within the harbor and inland from the interstates.

The harbor is readily accessible from shore or boat. And it’s a reasonable run from multiple launches, including those in Milford, West Haven, East Haven, and Branford. However, unlike most of the rest of the Connecticut shoreline, which is largely privately owned, New Haven Harbor offers miles of beach and coastal access for land-based casters, and that’s its strongest point.

Lake Lenore, WA

A Chance for Trophy Trout
By Mike Benbow

Back in the 1970s, Lenore Lake was barren because its waters are too alkaline to support most fish. But in an experiment, fisheries biologists caught a few Lahontan cutthroat that that were already thriving in the alkaline waters of Omak Lake on the Colville Indian Reservation in Washington state and put them in Lenore. They survived.

            So Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife (WDFW) fisheries biologist Bill Zook sent to California for some eggs from Lahontans, the largest-growing subspecies of cutthroat trout. Alkaline waters can be good for insect life, so the fish grew quickly in Lenore and fishing for them was popular, especially in the lake’s north end, where the Lahontans, in their seasonal spawning mode, gathered in spring near a fish trap that WDFW had set in an inlet creek to collect eggs. WDFW used the eggs to spawn trout, and then reared them in a hatchery, restocking the long, narrow lake with some 70,000 fingerlings each fall. The lake attracted crowds of anglers each spring, causing some to refer to the fishery as a “zoo” because of all the fly fishers crowding the north end.

            A friend of mine called the other day…he reminded me of the days 10 or so years ago when we went to Lenore and caught 20 to 30 fish between us at the north end. He said the Lahontans reminded him of a smaller version of Skagit River chum salmon. They don’t jump much, but they are a strong, powerful fish, he said.

Cottonwood Creek, CA

Dreaming of Alpine Gold
By Dave Fason

Pine needles crumble under my feet with each step. The cool air, perfumed by the scent of sagebrush and conifers, is thin and dry; breathing is more labored than I am used to. The sun is setting over the mountain ridge, quickening the onset of the evening’s cold. The water, gliding over a rocky creek bed, is a mirror reflecting magnificent hues of gold and yellow. I crouch low and hide behind a pine tree to spy on the golden figures swimming gently in the current.

            My good friend Chris Barclay is with me, and he has spotted them too. I whisper to Chris, “Do you see what I see?”

            He answers with a quick nod and a grin.

            Chris pulls a few feet of fly line out to ready himself for the first cast of the trip. He decides a roll cast will work best. In tight quarters, he gracefully delivers a Royal Wulff to the nearest trout. Within seconds the fish sweeps over and inhales the fly. After a quick fight, our first fish of our trip—a kaleidoscopic prize bejeweled in vivid colors—fills the small net. This trout is very different from what we are accustomed to back home in North Carolina.

            This is California’s golden trout country.