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December 2015 - Volume 24 Number 2
Blue-Winged Olives
It's the season for Baetis.
By Andy Guibord
Cast Off Those Winter Doldrums
How to fish the eastern Sierra with the right flies and tactics for winter conditions.
By Peter Pumphrey
Fly Fishing the Desolation Wilderness
Can you roll cast? Do you enjoy hiking? Hey, strap on the pack!
By Chip O'Brien
From Striper Flies to Trout Flies: Crossover Patterns
Useful lessons learned from other species and regions.
By Capt. Hogan Brown
Fearless Flies
An inexpensive, easy, and effective way to make streamers pretty much snag-free.
By Robert Ketley
When the Majors Call
Hooking big fish is one thing, landing them is something else.
By Bill Dudley
Snapshot: The Pit River at the James Black Powerhouse
Warning: the wading can be tough. Very tough.
By Michael Malekos
On Collecting: A Fly Fisher's Education
Angling by the book.
By Bill Barich
Boxcars and Snipes
Lessons learned by a steel heading tyro.
By Trent Pridemore

Click here for Doug Lovell's
February 2010 Good Fight article

Click here for Drew Braugh's
March 2011 Good Fight article about the Fall River - page 1 / page 2

Beneath the Paving Stones, the Beach

The rain had started as a slight drizzle, but for the last hour it had turned heavier, colder. I slipped slightly on the muddy slope above the creek, dropping the large, awkward bag of trash I was carrying to grab a convenient root and steady myself. With an Interstate fifty yards to my right and fast food and gas stations immediately to the left, there was a lot of garbage in the narrow channel soda cups and plastic bottles, crumpled wrappers and bags, a lone shoe, a watch cap, a sweater, broken snow poles, even a campaign sign two decades old. Whatever was dropped on the pavement would find its way, via wind, water, and time, into the willows that lined the stream, between the rocks over which the current flowed.

With the chill air and the exertion, my glasses had fogged. I ran a glove across each lens, improving my view slightly. Looking just on the creek itself, and not its surroundings, this was actually a pretty place, a Cinderella in a hard-luck setting. Thick willows along the banks gave a sense of intimate enclosure, and the culvert under the access road, at the head of the stretch I was cleaning, had created a deep, well-oxygenated plunge pool. Downstream, at almost regular intervals, large, water-carved rocks punctuated the stream, breaking it into well-defined pockets. A fishy-looking place, and although I had yet to spot trout, I knew they were in a meadow section a few hundred yards upstream, so surely they were here, as well. Probably not big fish, and likely not many, but stream-bred. Wild.

And surely, this would be a tough place to throw a fly, but, tactically, not at all different from other high-elevation creeks. Except it was ignored terrain, invisible, despite being in plain sight. Certainly long unappreciated.

The rain began falling harder. I climbed the short slope to my vehicle, stashed the bag and other debris in the back. The dumpster was a couple of miles away, the fishing season further. I had to smile, though. Come spring, I'll return, this time with a rod in hand, rather than a bag, and looking forward to getting better acquainted.

Richard Anderson

Publisher and Editor

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