TRAILER


Te Measure of Obsession


BIG THRILLS COME IN SMALL PACKAGES BY PAUL LEBOWITZ


erra trout, those iridescent gems that swim in old man Muir’s crystalline streams and granite-bound lakes, I have a habit of step- ping right over the line. Oh, the fish that fuel my obsession aren’t


I


large. Not the famous Alpers stockers nor the rare massive brown. In the out-of-the- way places my friends and I love best, the trout are known more for spirit than size. And for their fantastic coloration, garbed as they are in hues of gold, silver, red, pink and bronze. I’m not alone in my appreciation for


California’s heritage fish, now found stocked more oſten than wild. Take my friend Rob Witherill for example. Tis mountain man makes his home in Mam- moth. Te trout fishing in the string of gorgeous lakes perched just above this cool little ski town is as easy as it gets. But that’s not good enough, especially on a swelter- ing and crowded season opener. So we hit the road to claim some space,


an easy thing to do in the vast Range of Light. Just an hour later we’ve climbed to where our breath fogs the air. We’ve arrived at Little Virginia Lake, a deserted body of water scarcely more than a pond and still mostly frozen across the top. But hold on a second. A sliver of blue


shines in the sun. Hungry trout splash in the warm shallows at the back of the lake. It’s too much to take. Rob looks at me. A smile overtakes his


formerly disappointed face. Te words are inevitable: “You know you wanna.” I really should know better but can’t help


myself. Moments later our kayaks crunch across the rotten ice. It seems there’s noth- ing our versatile little fishing craſt can’t do. Feeling like kids who’ve gotten away


with stealing the entire cookie jar, in the next two hours we catch countless little


62 … KAYAK ANGLER spring 2009


SWEAR, I never mean to go so far. But somehow, when it comes to Eastern Si-


rainbows. Each gleams with liquid fire be- fore swimming safely away. Te bookend to that trip is set in late


November. Frigid winds tumble out of the high country as fellow lowlander Mark Pierpont and I pull into the nearly deserted tourist town of Bishop. It seems everyone thinks fishing season is over. Not for us! We roll to the Highway 6 bridge where


it crosses the lower Owens River. Today, the water is forbidding, slate grey, running hard and fast, cold and filled to the brim. Even before I look Mark’s way I know what he will say. “Let’s go!” We slalom our way down the serpentine


course, outlined by tall reeds that fence out land-bound intruders. Beaching in the slow water on the inside of a hairpin, we skip tiny grubs along the bottom. Mark yells in excitement as his rod bends to the weight


With the potential for drag-ripping yellowtail just minutes away, is it sane to put so much effort into chasing 12-inch trout?


of a stout ‘bow, its compact foot-long body thickened by fighting the current in this rich and rarely fished habitat. Every feature of this nativized trout is perfect. Later, Mark steps into a hole while wad-


ing, coming up sputtering. I swim too. Chilled but undaunted, we linger on the river. We can’t leave. With every twist and turn, the fishing gets better, peaking at a broad curve. Te trout are so frenzied, they swirl at our feet, snapping at baits dangled at arm’s length. I’m back in Mammoth in the midst of another glorious Sierra season. Rob is fired


up; I can see he’s itching to share another idea. “Tere’s this lake not far from here. It’s off the road. Nobody kayaks there. If we can get off the shore we’ll kill it,” he says. Soon I learn why this feat is rarely ac-


complished. Te route is a rutted, over- grown old mining road that climbs into the sky. At 9,500 feet, the air is thin gruel. With our hearts pounding in protest and a pair of kayaks strapped to wheeled carts, we struggle our way to the top and straight into a cloud of vicious mosquitoes. Minutes later, all travails are forgotten.


Rob reels in a colorful reward, a shimmer- ing cutthroat. I soon follow his example. We gently release every one. Tese beau- ties aren’t big. Yep, you guessed it. Few out- stretch a ruler. Back in suburbia, head cleared of alti-


tude-induced fuzziness, I can’t help but wonder. With the potential for connecting with one of La Jolla’s drag-ripping yellow- tail just minutes away, is it sane to put so much effort into chasing 12-inch trout? To risk crumbling ice, frigid fast-moving riv- ers, and heart-pounding exertion? I’ll leave that judgment to you. As for


me, once the sun thins this winter’s snow you’ll find me back in the high country. ‘Cause the fundamental truth is big thrills can come in small packages. My obsession for the Sierra’s living jewels is measured twelve inches at a time.


PAUL LEBOWITZ covers kayak fishing for kayakfishingzone.com and the western regional sportfishing press. He is the inaugural president of the Kayak Fishing Association of California.


ILLUSTRATION: LORENZO DEL BIANCO


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