With all the attention on the West and East Forks, in light of a wild trout designation and the attendant hordes that frequent such places, it’s not surprising we opted to dabble in the group scene on the East Fork – and spent most of our time on a much smaller creek found by accident, whose virtue I felt was largely intact, despite the many pilgrims whizzing by in search of the wild or trophy fishery.

Small streams offer an intimacy that large streams do not, and I’ve been too long away from their welcome tinkle; where the muddy footprints are yours, the scrape of a cleat on granite sounds jarring, each plunge pool a mystery, and each fallen log welcome shade from which some silver lightning bolt will materialize or vanish.

They’re always physically arduous, doubly so when wearing the restrictive rubber band of waders and the full fishing regalia that accompanies new water – where you’re not quite sure if you’ll need every fly ever made, and double that for tippet …

… where with a precarious foot on the uneven rocks of mid channel, you can wipe the sweat from your hat band, gazing backward at the steep grade you’ve already fished, and forward towards the unknown – and the steeper incline it hides. Where you can pause for a welcome blow that comes from knowing that those out of shape couldn’t last – and only D. Boone and his ilk are fit company.

Silver Creek drains Silver Lake (Ebbet’s Pass) and offers something pretty to look at while plunging down Hwy 4 to the East Fork of the Carson below.

Access is limited to the occasional gravel pullout and from the Wolf Creek and Silver Creek bridges – which bookends the long downhill run from Ebbet’s Pass to the East Fork.

All the fish are planted and seem to distribute themselves throughout the watershed, in contrast to the balance of milling, confused throng in the bridge pool.

A Silver Creek rainbow pulled from a deep plunge pool complements of an experimental dry fly.

It’s the kind of “shortened-leader, slam-it-down” dry fly fishing favored in these small stream, steep gradient creeks that drain both sides of the Sierras. The fish are not overly selective so much as opportunistic – given the insect will be lost in the bubbles in a fraction of a second, and their diet is equal parts aquatic insects mixed with odd bits of pine needle, leaf fragments, cigarette butts, or anything looking about the right shape and size.

It was completely delightful to simply exhaust yourself in the climb, lose yourself amid the intimacy and charm of the small stream experience, and then scrabble up the slope to the freeway, reminding all those air-conditioned faces pressed to the glass that the woods is an awesome fearful nightmare, populated by scratched and sweaty fat guys on the verge of a heat-induced coronary.