Out Of A Harsh Winter

Guest Blogger: Michael Vorhis

On Father’s Day I drove with my family to a nice little cascading waterfall on a small stream near the southern end of Lake Tahoe. We let the doggy dip his toes in the cold water, took a few photos, listened to the water, and generally decompressed.

Naturally I’d sneaked a fly rod into the car when no one had been looking, and when I thought the moment was right I asked my family whether I might take “a mere 20 minutes or so” and wet a fly in the stream about 70 yards below the falls. I may also have accidentally but strategically muttered the phrase “Father’s Day” in a mumbled half-whisper...anyway, they agreed.

Playing it as indifferent and casual as I could, the rod was together in 90 seconds; the fly was already tied to the tippet which was already wound on the reel. I fed the fly through the guides…it was my standard favorite – a soft-hackle wet fly on a size 14 hook with a dark red wine-colored body and light dark-barred hackle & tail. Usually I rib the body with fine red wire for durability, although I’ve often suspected that it attracts more fish if it’s unribbed and unkempt.

The stream was a monstrous ten feet wide, and I stood on a rock a foot or two above the water’s surface near a little gurgling pour-over, letting the fly swing downstream and then twitching it back up toward me as it entered a little eddy. The deepest part of the channel here was probably 16 inches, and the water was as clear as the air above it.

Ten or so drifts into the effort, I got a little strike, so I kept at it, drifting slightly different paths and lengths, mixing it up. Eventually I hooked a fish, but was surprised to see right in front of me a larger fish attempt to steal whatever the first one had in its mouth. I landed the 9-incher and at first thought it was a lost pickerel 3000 miles from where pickerels are found; it was a rope-skinny thing! It also had no strength and no color worth noting, except for the characteristic red throat-slash of a native cutthroat.

I released it and flipped out a few more casts. Ten minutes later I decided to call it quits. I’d make five more casts. No, that one didn’t count...one extra. Dang, that one drifted too far left...one more. Wait, wait, one more. Okay truly now, one more. That’s when I realized I had a much nicer fish on.

Without a net, and too high above the water’s surface to use one anyway, I took the chance and hoisted it up on the 4x tippet...which held.

It was a very nice 13 inches long, holy unexpected for such a tiny stream. But it too was as skinny as the thin end of a 1950s government agent necktie.

This fish, however, had truly the most beautiful colors of any trout I’ve caught in my life. I know that rainbows and cutthroats spawn in spring, and I suspect that at 6500 feet the word “spring” can mean mid-June…and that this would account for the spectacular coloration. And given the complete lack of plumpness in either fish I’d hooked, I can only assume that it had been one helluva cold, long, hard winter.

My family approached me from the slightly higher rock at my back and took a photo or two while I quickly unhooked the wiggling fish in preparation for turning it loose. My doggy, never having seen a live fish before, approach too, wagged his tail, took a sniff, and then my alpha killer Timberwolf…well, he kissed it.

Both fish went back to their lives in the tiny stream, and we left in search of a dinner of our own. Now in quiet moments I often think of the beautiful cutthroat trout that lived in a tiny rocky stream and through sheer will and tenacity had managed to survive a long harsh winter at this altitude.

It had been a good Dad’s Day.