Chip, thank you -- and your friends -- for trying to bring joy into the lives of those who need it. Such acts of generosity seem all too rare these days.

Chip,
I VAGUELY recall turning 50
It's a great thing you did with those cancer patients!
I guess my most memorable day this year was last Sunday, my "last day of the season." Like last year, I was content to cruise up the Little Truckee, stopping to look for eagles working the Kokanee run, watching the spawning Kokes and Browns (some huge), and stuff like that. The Last Day is more symbolic of the approach of Winter to me I guess, and I just like to take the whole scene in.
I did stop at a run near Boyington Mill though, initially just to watch the water flow. Presently, however, I started seeing a few bugs, mostly BWO's with the odd Mahogany, and soon after. a few rising fish. One was a very large "bow, but he only rose once. A few minutes later, a smaller but still large fish took a "gulping" position near the first, and soon was regularly sipping emergers. I couldn't resist trying for that one!
So, I rigged up with a #20 biot emerger and cast straight across to him three times, from shore. Each time, the faster middle current pulled the fly out of the lane. I moved upstream so I could quarter down to him but the necessary roll casts from that postion, STILL didn't find the lane.
Finally, I decided a guy's gotta do what a guy's gotta do, and I waded in with just jeans and tennis shoes (COLD). One cast and the fly settled four feet upstream of him, drifted over, up came his nose, and he was ON!
A good fight ensued, actually drawing a couple carloads of fisherpeople to watch, and finally I netted him-18 incher with some of the best color I've seen this year. As I released him, I turned to the bank and actually drew a little applause from the "audience."
Right then and there, I decided it doesn't get any better, broke down my rod and packed it in for the season.
It's been a great one!
Now, on to Pyramid Lake........

I guess ONE of 'em coulda tossed me a beer........

Yeah, it's tough duty-a beer, a cigar, and we are forced to fish for beautiful fish in beautiful places......
I have a scenery shot that I took down n the Truckee Canyon about 1 1/2 wk ago, that I'll email you if I can dredge it up off this computer. Totally God's country....

I found it. Richard should have it on his email by now, and passing it on when he opens it.
H

Glad you got it. Those hills in the background are where the Martis Fire went through a few years ago. It's recovering nicely and is providing huge feed for the deer there.

2004 was a great year for me . . . my girlfriend and nephew both gained skill in leaps and bounds and enjoy fly fishing more than ever, and I was lucky enough to land lots of beautiful fish, including a piggy butterfly peacock bass, some barracuda, and some scrappy channel catfish. But the best day of the year had to be March 31 . . . a buddy and I rented a boat in Stockton and set off through the Delta to find Frank's Tract. After some heated debate about skill and experience, with some dark mutterings about car driving history, we agreed that I would act as captain. I promptly stalled the boat, restarted it and then ran us aground, and then got thoroughly lost.

Being lost had its rewards, though . . . wandering around the San Joaquin channel we changed course to check out some gulls mobbing and diving the surface. We were hoping for some big stripers pounding bait fish. There were big stripers there, all right, but they were being savaged by an enormous sea lion. Several times it surfaced with parts of a 20-lb-plus striper in its mouth. It was an amazing thing to watch and I felt lucky to see it.

As we wandered around discovering that one hump of mud and weeds looks very much like another we spotted a couple of fishermen in a bass boat throwing spinnerbaits at the bank of a side channel. We throttled down and edged to within shouting distance--or tried to, because they were edging away from us. Guess we looked like pirates or something. Perhaps the parrot and eyepatch were not such a good idea. After some shouting they stopped and gave us what turned out to be not particularly useful directions and then went on their way. At this point we were on the edge of the main channel in about 7 or 8 feet of water just sitting and trying to decide what to do. I threw the anchor and my pal threw his Clouser at the far bank and started stripping it back. Within seconds he was into his first striper on a fly rod and couldn't believe the power of the fish. For the next hour and a half we were catching fish on nearly every cast and laughing like imbeciles.

We didn't find any more big schools like that but we did get a few more here and there . . . we saw a lot of the Delta, including another sea lion, and somehow found the marina by check-in time. Somehow I'd managed not to damage the propeller and we didn't even get too sunburned . . . it was a ridiculously great day.

My boy is two. He's funny, loves to chase "Dadda" and shove Cheerios in my mouth while we watch Clifford the Big Red Dog videos.

I took my wife and him to a lake one summer day so I could float it and get my fix for a few days (and get "family time" points.) After a while of not catching anything, I gave my rod to my wife and put my son my lap in the floattube. (Yes, my wife is a certified open-water lifeguard and I never got far more than twenty feet from shore.) He remained relaxed and I remember the scent of his hair, the warmth of his body....

He nestles right into my arms and boasts to his momma that he's in "Dadda's boat."
"Where's da pishies?" he asks, looking into the water. He hoots as a fish slurps an emerger four feet away in the clear water. His blue eyes warm me in that cold water.
"What dat?" he asks, pointing at the large raptor calling to a juvenile overhead.
"Osprey," I say.
He rests his head against my shoulders, watches the ospreys' mid-flight transfer of fish.
He's growing fast. I remember his birth. It seems like a week ago. I must remember this, I think to myself. I kick around quietly for a while, holding him, taking in his scent, his shape, his soft skin. I hold onto his chubby thighs and give him a little tickle. He laughs softly, lazily.
"Dadda?"
"Yes, Syd."
"I go fishing with you."
"Yes, you are. Are you having fun?"
"Yeah."
"Are you going to go fishing with me when you're older?"
"Yeah," he says, pausing to get a deep breath. "When I grow big."
For some reason, I am reminded of the osprey's mid-flight transfer of fish. I start to kick him back to shore.
"Dadda?"
"Yes, Syd?"
"I love you."
This is my flesh, my blood, I remember thinking. I hold him close to me. He's warm against my arms and neck.

No, I didn't catch every rising trout in site. No, I didn't even get to drink a nice cold one. Hell, I didn't even catch a F-ing fish. But to me, that was the best fishing trip I've yet taken.