Fishing the Finn River

The eerie quiet was only broken by the whistle of the freight train as it glided past us some 20 feet above.

The walk along the train tracks to a steep path down to the water was cumbersome. My ill-fitting loaner boots and the uncomfortable waders made the uneven walk a bit of a struggle. Yet once we reached the water and cautiously crossed arm in arm--with Matt, my guide--the beautiful vista of the Finn opened up beneath a blue sky.

The running water was magical. The sun glistened off the rushing currents. A few flies circled above the open water. The scene was that of a richly drawn watercolor painting.

Matt and I spoke a bit during the ride from our meeting place, a restaurant in Combs, California, located in the High Sierras within the Lake Tahoe National Preserve. The ride from Truckee through the tall trees and open roads made for a glorious morning. Up early, California time, and well-caffeinated, I felt energized by the outdoors.

En route to my visit to Downieville to see Carl at the Messenger, this was an interim break after fishing the Madison in Montana. I carried my four-weight rod from home to enjoy dry-fly fishing here. Matt had rigged my rod and was ready for the hatch.

Dry-fly fishing is a bit of a technical task. These tiny flies float, barely visible, and when a fish takes one, it is usually a swipe detectable only by a modest flash in the water. Hand-eye coordination is a must, and at my age, there is a slight delay while the mind connects. Yet I was able to bring a few small rainbows to shore. The thrill of success was encouraging.

Matt made such technical fishing feel easy. Clearly prepared for these special waters, he had me rigged for fishing the bottom of the river as well. This was clearly his home water, and I caught my fill of trout.

Beyond the fishing, I truly enjoyed the time with my guide. Matt was not a part-time guide. With grown children of his own, he lives and works in the Sierras. Formerly a professional photographer in Florida, he brings enthusiasm to the sport of fishing along with a deep respect for the environment.

Occasionally, during my fishing travels abroad and at home, I come across a guide who impresses me not only for his skills but for his respect and understanding of why someone would travel a thousand miles to spend time walking railroad tracks to a small stretch of water where the fish are free to anyone who has the patience and a bit of skill to stand in cold water and throw a tiny fly at them.