The Flyfish Journal - The Flyfish Journal 15.4
BIG REDWOODS AND SMALL CUTTHROAT
Words and Photos: Michael Carl 2024-06-17 09:47:48
California’s Smith River and its tributary streams support healthy populations of coastal cutthroat and rainbows. In the upper reaches of the Smith River watershed, you can find solitude, natural beauty and native trout willing to take the fly.
Driving north on Highway 101, the outside temperature goes from the low 70s to the mid 90s by the time I reach northern California’s Jedediah Smith Redwoods State Park. No wind, endless blue sky and bright sun—the kind of summer day locals shirtlessly embrace along California’s fog belt. I pass by the beach outside Crescent City packed with surfers and sightseers. I have a much smaller piece of cold water in mind. This particular water runs down a remote ravine in the Smith River watershed.
Most people probably drive right by the creek without a second thought. Most anglers probably think it’s too shallow and holds no fish. And there’s the thick, line-tangling vines and alders hugging the stream intimidating the rest. But for me, this kind of unremarkable small water never pressures me to hurry. No delicate long casts required. No mastery of aquatic insects needed. And, best of all, no cell phone necessary.
I turn into a pullout near the creek and my truck’s temperature display settles just below 90 degrees. I park in the shade of some red alders. They shade my rig and the length of the creek I can see in either direction. Large blankets of moss, sword ferns and coastal cutthroat all thrive under their canopy. The creekside is armored with alders, willows and briars. The dark green water forms the artery giving life to all that grows thick here.
Water is life, right? Most life needs simply that—water. If you’re a freshwater salmonid, then your water provides the food you eat, the oxygen you breathe, and the only way to regulate your body temperature. Coastal cutthroat trout require cool, clean water with ample cover and deep pools for holding in summer. This may explain why they occur within the range of the coastal redwoods.
I stumble over some big, slick cobble and step into the creek. I feel the cold instantly. I forget the heat just outside the dark canopy of alders and big-leaf maples and find ankle-deep relief in the dark water. I let my eyes adjust to the deep shadows and scan upstream for holding water. Coastal cutthroats prefer small, low-gradient coastal streams like the one I’m standing in. This creek, as well as other streams throughout the Redwood Coast, runs directly into saltwater or feeds into streams that do.
The fish typically feed throughout the day on nothing in particular. I don’t have to agonize over what fly to use here. Fishing a size-18 elk-hair caddis over tailouts, the cutts quickly announce their presence. Over two short hours, almost 20 take the fly, so densely spotted they appear solid black. Ideal camouflage where blue herons stand rigid on the creek’s edge and mergansers cruise the current. The dense black spotting covers back and tail, eventually running out of steam at their belly. The orange slash jumps off the lower jaw, almost shouting, I’m of clan cutthroat. The pectoral fin also gives off a flash of orange under the right light. But it’s the intensity of the black spotting that molds my impression of these cold-water trout.
As the world’s tallest trees, redwoods cast the forest’s longest shadows and create shade across the widest of streams. Giant redwoods also fall into streams. When they do, they slow flow and stabilize banks. As water tumbles over a fallen redwood, it eventually scours a deep pool. The bubble curtain of turbulence creates overhead cover from predators. Young trout and salmon seek out these pools where they ride out the low flows of summer.
A redwood growing near a stream bank has no intention, no predetermined goal. But its cooling shade and its binding roots have consequence over time. Why do the cutthroat dwell here? Is it because of the giant trees? I’m betting their proximity is no accident. Just look at a map of the Pacific temperate rainforest. It’s basically the range map of coastal cutts. I have a strong feeling this forest, this place along the Pacific Ocean, built their house. Take out old-growth redwoods or mature Doug firs and that has consequence for all salmonids.
Standing in the center of an intertwined world of branches, vines, leaves and mosses, I see new growth sprouting around moldering matter in decay. A smallish black bird, probably a dipper, darts off a leafed island of wet rocks. I hold my gaze downstream, imagining the path of the dipper. The creek pours faintly through a shallow riffle and slows against a tangle of matted roots exposed within a cutbank. I filter cold creek water to drink and find a downed log upholstered in broom moss to sit on. I think back on the cutthroat’s black spotting. I imagine the spots blending into the shadow world of this primeval rainforest, slipping completely undetected into the dark waters of this creek. Beyond camouflage, the spotting speaks to me of connection. It speaks of dedication. It speaks of dwelling in a place of dappled light and swimming under the shadows of great trees.
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