Sierra Mountain Times

A beautiful 18” German Brown caught in the Tuolumne River
a few weeks ago. Photo by Thomas Atkins.

By Jerry Maxwell

Fall, for the fisherman, is a time all its own. The river looks so pretty with the trees turning colors. The light reflects upon the waters in every ripple and bend of the river and the sunset hues of fall are evident. For some fishermen this is a time to contemplate the meaning of life; this time is very special and lets one get in touch with one’s inner self. But for Fishermen like myself, and a couple of dozen others, this is the time of year to test our mettle against the most formidable and elusive of goals – the fall-run trout. The big fatties that are left from the summer who now make their home on the river – the things fishermen drool about…

To get there where the lunkers are requires a lot of stamina yet virtually no common sense. I have been there many times on many rivers throughout America, and it makes me proud to know I have fallen into almost every one of them. To be a true fall fisherman one must know the ins and outs of the river and deal accordingly. For example; one time up in Northern Washington investigating a particularly interesting bend that my fishing buddy had told me about, I discovered a particularly peculiar slope upon the river. I was looking at a basaltic moss encrusted 90-degree rain-soaked path down to the prettiest fall-run trout hole I’d ever seen. I just had to get down there.

So, with mud-slickened tennis shoes I set out down that 480-foot path with all my tackle, fishing pole, fishing fold-up chair, cooler with 14 beers, live worms and fishing hat to hit that gorgeous piece of river…and made it about 22 feet. Then, Murphy’s Law of Physics took effect and I found myself (and 100 pounds of gear and beer) sliding and bouncing off basalt all the way down (458 feet) to where the lunkers were lying in that hole in the bend of the river. Of course when I landed in the water I scared all the fish off, but that didn’t really matter at the time because the water was really cold.

Now, when you are being swept downstream in a fall rainstorm-flooded river, one must not panic. You will lose consciousness a of couple times but think of yourself as a log. Go with the flow. Eventually, after the shock of the slightly above freezing water immersion wears off, one find one’s self enjoying the experience of being swept through class 3 rapids totally immersed in hypothermia. It ain’t really nothing unless your death-grip on your fishing pole loosens – but eventually you might get lucky and find yourself washed up on the bank.
As you come to…don’t panic. That bear there, looking at you like a spawned-out salmon lunch, can’t be real serious. Simply shoo him off with your fishing pole, which should be frozen to your hands if you have followed the above suggestions right. If you haven’t, don’t worry, you’re doomed and may never have to read a stupid article like this again. Yer bear meat. But if not, then you may still have the chance to fish the wonderful fall river.

So be careful, watch the slippery slopes, and always use rubber bands to secure your fishing pole to your hand. After about four times of the mighty fall flood season rainfall moss soaked basalt sliding screaming thing into the rushing raging river you too will understand…you never caught a fish!

But it sure was worth it, wasn’t it?