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.

I’ve got enough solid information after spending the last four days afield to keep you entertained for a couple of days at the least … But before we get into all those tales of daring-do, the overcoming of adversity, and the weakness of wild trout for Peach yogurt, we’ve got the odd tale of the Bridges of Alpine County …

… and how the local chamber of commerce, in an effort to woo those painfully scarce vacation dollars have decided to treat us fishermen especially good, by paying for a constant stream of brood stock to be pumped into the shaded pool at each local highway bridge.

There to be fought over in a hail of pre-dawn Kastmasters, Rooster-tails, and every BB equipped nymph known to Angling-kind.

Rather than accidentally enrage anyone at the concept, I’ll go on record as having no issue with carnage of any kind – fly or otherwise. Nor do I care whether a brother angler kills his fish or spares them. I’d suggest an only caution that at this late stage of the game, it might be prudent to only kill what you can eat, given most of the world’s fish supplies are dwindling and many are already farmed, and wild-caught anything is in ever-shortening supply.

As I’d not been to the Carson River before, and eager to begin assimilating data, I slowed to a halt at the first bridge and its gaggle of parked cars drawn onto the shoulders, to present my hindquarters to traffic while I peered over the rail and into the depths below …

… there to see six or eight anglers frantically lobbing death at an imaginary spot 14 feet under the bridge, wherein lay the precise phalanx of recently baptized hatchery fish finning silently amid the concussive thunder of thrown polished steel.

A stringer at the bank attests to fly fishing’s superiority, and the owning angler proudly displays a limit of five 4-pound fish, most belly up, but the occasional movement of a fin suggests while imminent, death is still at arm’s length.

I complement the angler on his catch, while ducking him and a pal lobbing two BB shot and a beadhead nymph back-hand under the bridge.

His advice was to be repeated by every grocery store, gas station, waitress, motel employee, or good natured local, who like stock market pundits – each had a favorite bridge and the knowing wink that accompanies, “ … and they just planted there last week.”

I’m just not used to it.

The bulk of my excursions in recent years have had some wild trout agenda or restriction, or I was simply far enough removed as not to have a lot of human interaction, angling or otherwise. While none of this makes me blanch overtly, the scene was repeated so many times over the course of the next four days, it makes me wonder whether the contented angler, as defined by Fish & Game’s “Put and Take” hatchery management – isn’t having the out-of-doors removed from his piney woods experience.

Certainly a concrete abutment isn’t a pine tree – nor is the constant hum of overhead traffic, which can never be confused with normal “woodsy” wildlife noises or the sigh of a light breeze in the tops of tall pines. Whether you’re parked on a sunny rock or Styrofoam cooler, the watchful gaze of those spectating – and those coveting your spot – must make the multi-hour drive no different than the checkout of the local grocery store, with the warden displaying momentary outrage when you’re discovered  bringing 9 items to an 8 item checkout.

The thoughts about bridges came unbidden, in part because of the reflex stab at the brakes when you encountered them undefended, and part because I wondered if there wasn’t a larger notion involved.

On one level, twenty pounds of hatchery fish dipped in five days worth of clean water, isn’t quite like dry-rub ribs, which can be smoked for eight hours then flamed to perfection. Rather, six months in a concrete trough eating dough-bait and floating excrement from the fish next to you, then baptized in a bit of clean water will make you pasty-flavored at best, given the temperatures of that trough aren’t cold enough to build firm and succulent flesh …

… which means my brother angler is about to show his spouse (and his entire neighborhood) 20 pounds of pasty white flesh that tastes only a bit better than licking the glass of an aquarium …

… and fourteen pounds of it will likely wind up lining his or his neighbor’s trashcan.

Which is the tiny bit of censure I’ll allow myself, given that wanton body count is a feature of my Dad’s sport (and his Dad’s sport) and we can no longer afford such waste.

But the other thoughts that came unbidden – was how the bridges serve as some unlikely metaphor of us as anglers; how we leap into the sport as young and impressionable, largely unaware of anything other than catching – and how with a bit of maturity and some experience do we realize much of what draws us back is between the bridges, and how as we acquire experience and preferences, spend most of our angling careers there.

Dry fly Purism, Wild trout, fly tying, conservation, and entomology, are a small fraction of the many wonders of that journey, as is the out-of-doors and the incredible environments wherein we find ourselves and our quarry.

… and later, when old age and infirmity permits only a short shamble from the car, how we return to those bridges – and how welcome they are given the certainty that one day, from some unfeeling hospital bed, even they will be lost to us.

Like you – I am still mid-journey. I left the comfort of the bridge and its supply of wallowing fat fish and walked the entire valley following the West Fork of the Carson while it wound through grassland and willows. A bit down the trail was a park bench with an inlayed brass plaque inscribed, “May all who fish here enjoy it as much as I did” – with a brother-anglers name who died some eleven years ago.

While the water and watershed were intact, there wasn’t a fish to be seen in the entire three mile walk.

A stunning watershed with classic undercut grass banks and deep outside bends that would have held large wary fish – requiring hands and knees sneaking versus marching to the edge and flinging a downstream cast.

It was a rare glimpse of some fellow’s treasure, a relief that he was no longer part of any issue, nor could see his past glories diminished – and a bit of thought towards our unique form of stewardship given those Bridges of Alpine County.