CALIFORNIA | SIERRA NEVADA
California trout fly-fishing casts its spell
Four who've caught the sport's fever pursue a crafty rainbow and the reckless brookie.
Last trout season, two writer friends of mine flew into Los Angeles to fly-fish the Eastern Sierra. The guy from Cheyenne, Wyo., wore a big black Stetson. The one from Brooklyn wore red sneakers. They both dragged gigantic rolling duffels weighted with fly-fishing gear. They were happy to be in California and serious about catching fish. They expected me to show them the ropes.
Showing these accomplished anglers the ropes was an amusing notion: Chuck Box — "C.J." — is a former fishing guide from Cheyenne, and Brian Wiprud, our Brooklynite, was just back from fly-fishing in the jungles of Brazil. Or was it the mountains of Kenya? Between them, they had fly-fished for 50 years. I had scratched out 10, maybe. It didn't matter to these men: They wanted Sierra trout, and they wanted them now. I was elected to deliver. The heat was on.
Luckily I had help. Our friend Ken Wilson, a well-known L.A. book publicist, volunteered to co-chair the event, so Ken and I picked up C.J. and Brian at the airport terminal and headed out.
We're in my Ford, James McMurtry on CD and mountains of gear in the back. We spend the first half-hour catching up on things — our families, our book deals, our ailments and remedies — but four anglers headed for the water can only talk about things not fish for about 40 minutes, tops. By the time we hit U.S. 395, Chuck is telling us about a large brown trout he recently took from a Wyoming pond on a mouse imitation.
"The mouse had wobbling eyes, and I think they helped attract that brown," he says with apparent sincerity.
"That's ridiculous," Brian says.
Chuck produces the mouse from a shirt pocket and passes it around. It's a cute little thing with a leather tail, a hook hidden in its belly fur, and sure enough, the eyes really do wobble. Fly-fishers learn early that verisimilitude doesn't mean squat to fish — except when it means everything.
Brian doubtfully examines the mouse. He shakes it so the eyes move. "I made a mouse out of brown shag carpet once."
"Catch anything with it?" Chuck asks.
"Naw. Fell apart."
"It looked more like a toupee than a mouse," Ken says.
Brian has dug out one of his many fly boxes to show us some of the flies he tied for this trip.
A well-appointed fly box is a thing of minor beauty. There are platoons of caddisflies, sizes 12 to 18, in olive and gray and tan. There are legions of blue-winged olive mayfly dressings, and pale morning mayfly duns, and Royal Wulffs with their showy flashes of red.
"But where are the streamers?" Chuck asks.
"Right here."
 Should we take offense, order a drink, or what? That depends, of course, on where you think these words turned up. |
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