Fishing for Trout
Trout are probably the most popular to go fishing for—whether it's fishing in Oregon or outside of the area. With the abundance of trout, and the many different kinds out there, it's a great first step into fishing, as well as a relaxing activity no matter your experience level.
If you are just getting started, though, Gary offers some articles on how to fish for trout, trout fishing techniques and some fun trout fishing stories, as well. Read the articles below to get up-to-date on trout fishing Oregon and beyond!
There was a time when this section of river and its banks were poisoned by copper mining. There was a time when tons and tons of gravel were harvested from the river bed. But now the wild trout find a home in the cool water beneath the dam, right in the heart of this California city.
Big trout, the kind of fish that are measured in pounds, not inches, don’t come easy. Few live long enough to make it to the 20-inch mark. Maybe one in a thousand. Maybe one in ten thousand make it to 25 inches and beyond, developing the substantial girth that can tip the scales into the double digits. When you fish our best lakes and target the biggest fish, that trophy fish is only one cast away.
In the spring, a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of trout. Those were Tennyson’s words. Almost. Doubtless I am not the first trout enthusiast to make sport with poetic verse, but with apologies to the bard, I discovered that Shakespeare reads just as well if the word ‘trout’ is substituted for the word ‘love.’ Consider this, from Romeo and Juliet: Trout is a smoke and is made with the fume of sighs.
He was easily the biggest trout I’d seen that day. Peering over the bank I could see him at the head of the pool, ready for whatever insects might drift down to him. The smaller trout in the pool, just half his size, would have to settle for leftovers. I eased away from the bank and knotted a fly to my ten foot leader. This trout would only give me one chance to catch him. Downstream, the creek changed course in a ninety degree hard left turn between high banks. Approaching from the far bank would allow me the cover to cast without throwing a shadow on the water.
When I was thirteen years old I left my fly box on the bumper of my grandpa’s Ford at the Elk Lake boat launch. The accumulation of many evening’s work at the tying bench was crushed beneath the wheels of grandpa’s trailer. I didn’t realize my loss until that evening back at camp, many miles away. Heavy of heart and wise beyond my years, I passed a time of mourning, unable to hold a bobbin or look a bare hook in the eye. It was a full three weeks before I resumed my place at the bench and began to fill a new box with old favorites.
When I was 11 years-old I didn’t care much about fishing. Give me a BB gun or a good book to read and I could get excited. Until my Uncle Jon told me that I could learn to read a river like a book. Read a river? Now I’m hooked. There are two ways to approach fishing a stream. The first is to look for visible fish and then to make the presentation. The second is fishing on faith. This refers to anytime when there are no fish to be seen but you know that they must be there. To successfully fish blind requires that you can guess the spots in the river where the fish are most likely to be found.
He is kneeling in shallow, wind-riffled water, holding a trout that, soon, he will let free. Laugh-lines crinkle at the corners of his eyes as he squints against the morning sun. Water is dripping from the fish’s broad shoulders and hooked lower jaw. A pale rainbow stripes the spotted flanks. The infectious smile on Denny’s face speaks volumes. To most of us, a 12 pound trout comes once in a lifetime, but the look on his face says that Denny Rickards cannot wait to put that fish back in so he can catch another one. He bills his book Flyfishing Stillwaters for Trophy Trout as the breakthrough fly-fishing system that teaches you how to consistently catch tough trophy trout in western lakes. This is no idle claim.
Afternoon was slipping into evening as we left the truck and crashed down the hill. The Klamath River was down there in the gorge, still out of sight. I could hear the roar of the rapids below as we sought the trail we knew must be there. Heading straight down, we found the well-used path and followed it toward the water. “There’s the river,” Dan said. The water looked high, fast and brown, but I guessed it was probably always that way. As the water in the lakes above is never very clear, so must be the river that flows out of it.
For her fourth birthday we gave Jennifer a fishing rod. Tiffany, our oldest, had been fishing with her own for several years already. The three of us spent a few hours over the next month and a half, practicing for the trout opener. We went over the basics again and again. Pinch the line against the rod, flip the bail open, cast, reel, stop and wait. If you feel a tug on the line, then lift the rod quick and start reeling. We practiced this without hooks in the house, then later in the backyard. On the morning the season opened, we bought a dozen worms and headed for the lake.
There was new four pound test line on my spinning reel and a floating Rapala dangling from the end of the rod. I cast into the wind and started to reel. Stories I’d been told last year about this mountain lake were replaying through my head. Could it really have been like they said? Would we hook brown trout as long as my arm? Would my friend Ron quit speaking to me if he didn’t catch a fish on this trip? It’s hard to imagine that a man could reach the age of forty-four and never have caught a fish but this is what he told me.