So heres how this weekend went. Wake up 5 am Saturday get ready for a 6 am departure to the river. Fish all day, hook some nice ones, land some average ones as usual, and explore the river. My buddy Dave Hamel landed a TOAD of a whitefish, I gotta see if I can get that photo from him to post but without a doubt it was the biggest whitefish I have ever seen. My other buddy Justin had his rod bent a lot and landed some nice bows and browns too. Get hammered with a thunderstorm that got a lot of fish moving around, then ride back to the truck in filth from all the mud. Then, wake up sunday same time, do the same trip, this time with my girl, get into a bunch more fish, and enjoy perfect weather. Looking back a few days later I'm not thinking about the fish, Im thinking about the river. I am in love with that river. When I fish there I spend half the day hiking just to look at it, when Im not there I am haunted by the memories. I cant get the images of pool after pool out of my head, each one with a deep dark riffle. I am lost in the awe of that shimmering silver vein snaking its way through the canyon to my feet where I stand and onward toward more bends, cliffs, and eventually the desert. That may be one of the only rivers where my most prominent memory isn't watching a big fish chase my fly like I have seen so many times, but rather the river itself. How it caresses the rocky banks, looking more like a steelhead river in many spots than a sierra trout river. I don't mean to get too sensual talking about this river, so sorry for that but its truly hard to explain how that place looks and most importantly, feels. Being there makes you think about the true meaning of fly fishing. For those who know what I am talking about I need not explain, for those who don't, keep fishing and soon enough you will know too. Heres a brown I pulled out mid day after a few casts into a pool.
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