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Posts Tagged ‘Jess Barker Actor’

As is the custom in our family, we generally spend a day or two up in the Eastern Sierras during Thanksgiving weekend or, later during the Xmas Holidays. This time, Ally and I did a quick up and back to the Owens valley to recon some places for us to initiate my Grandson Miles (or Moo 2) into the Troutastic angling arts…I had mentioned in a previous post – “THE MUTHA’lode…”, that I would put up some information on places that MY Dad took my twin brother and I to fish for Trout when we were little – here is a bit on Lone Pine Creek…we also spent some time looking for “pointy obsidian and jasper” objects and roamin’ around…that’s how we roll…

The Owens Valley, just after sunrise, from the White Mountains…

After a long “mush’, up from East of Independence, we stopped here for some deserty activities

We pulled in here for some lunch and spent some time flipping over pieces of shiny black flakes…

Desert GOURMET lunch…

This place has been quite productive through the years…my Dad would get my brother and me out here at the crack of dawn on really cold December days…

It would be worth it to find a batch of these…this time we came up with only pieces…not a single complete point…

Ally wanted to send some pills out of her BHP… “THE SHADOW” documented her efforts…

Sunlight was getting short so we decided to gain some altitude…

Ally, bushwackin’ Lone Pine Creek…

Ally with Mt. Whitney in the background…it gets very cold when the sun drops below those peaks…

PT stands on a boulder overlooking Lone Pine Creek…this is one of the spots I would take my Dad into, to fish the creek…when he was two years younger than I am now, he refused to go down this hill, fearing he would take a fall…As Ally said: “What a WUSS”

My Dad, Jess Barker, about the time he became a WUSS, in 1974…along Lone Pine Creek…

Ally, preparing to clobber her Dad with a snowball where the road was closed heading up to the Mt. Whitney portal…

PT shows Ally where her Grandfather would make us sit and fish with a size # 18 Mustad, gold, treble hook and Velveeta cheese for planted Rainbows…while he wandered off – elsewhere…This is at the bridge above Movie Flats road…

Ally checks out the water on the upside of the bridge…it looks like this…

While we were standing there, we saw a 17″ Trout wave out into the current, just above the mossy rock…

A reminder of memories past and fishing Lone Pine Creek with salmon eggs, crickets and red worms…

Somebody else, sitting on a rock at Lone Pine Creek, with FRYE BOOTS, when she was about Ally’s age…

Looking East towards the White Mountains from the base of Mt. Whitney at dusk…

Another location along Lone Pine Creek where one has to slither in like a serpent to present an offering to the residents…there are Rainbows and Browns in this creek…I have taken Browns up to 18″ in here if I do my part…

The sandtrap at the bottom of Lone Pine Creek just before it enters the LA Aqueduct…this will be the location of my Grandson’s first Trout outing…Ally MADE this decision…

My son Michael, explaining to Muy ( Miles ), the size of the TROUT he will catch with his Grandfather…on Thanksgiving…

Mt. Whitney at sunset…

OK…time for dinner…and Virgin Marys…

…and the best spot for food on the EASTSIDE is:

SEASONS…Lone Pine California…hands down !!!

Back to tying…

PT/TB

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The next day was the day the NY Yankees beat the Dodgers 5-3 in their third World Series game. I know, my Father insisted on my listening to it on the radio.

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My Dad, his Grandson Michael and Jean Marie Hon

We departed West Yellowstone at 5:00AM. I wanted to drive straight through to Bridgeport and spend Saturday and Sunday there before returning to work. A heavy snow was falling and the visibility was zero on our journey to Ashton, ID. It took us three hours to make the drive. By now, the snow had turned to a drizzling rain. As we passed through Idaho Falls, the skies began to clear and we made excellent time to Battle Mountain, NV. We stopped in Austin for a quick burger and cruised South to Hawthorne then on to Yerington which is the back way to Bridgeport.

In fading sunlight we drove past Bridgeport Reservoir and into town. We checked in at The Walker River Lodge and met Mary who, along with her husband and daughters, owned the lodge. I glanced at the wall behind the check- in counter and saw a commemorative plaque that had been given to Mary by a team from the 10th SFG (ABN) the previous year. She told me that these guys had come to the Marine Cold Weather Center to train the jarheads in cold weather OPS (it figures).

This was the first of many times I have stayed at the WRL. I had come up from Bishop a couple of times to fish the East Walker but had not stayed overnight. The next morning, we had a hearty breakfast at the Sportsman’s and then traveled South to Green Creek Road. Green Creek is situated in a high, alpine valley. My favorite section of the creek is just where the road starts into the valley, near a giant, collection of glacial boulders. This area has beaver ponds and slow moving water.

Green Creek, in it’s upper reach, above the meadow…

When we arrived, it was cold. A frost covered the grass and the leaves on the Aspen trees had already turned bright shades of yellow, orange and gold. I wore my silly hat which still itched.

Green Creek, in the meadow…

My small Winston was perfect for this water. I rigged a 12 ft., 5X leader to the 4WT DT line, pulled a Sierra Brite Dot # 18 from my fly box , added 12 inches of 6X tippet material to the leader and tied on the fly with a UNI knot. I waded into the tail of the first pool slowly, being careful not to push a wake or stir up the silt on the stream bottom. I began casting to the head of a log jam where the water spilled in.

When the fly floated to the water’s surface, two shadows streaked up from the darkness under the wood pile. I gave the rod a gentle lift and was firmly attached to a spunky 12 inch Brook Trout. I worked the fish quickly downstream, grasped it while turning it upside down, pulled the barbless hook from the corner of it’s jaw and gently released it back into the pool. I caught and released several other nice fish as I worked up through a series small ponds – both Brookies and Browns. The Brookies were radiant in their spawning colors.

Green Creek, where the beaver dams have widened the stream flow…

About noon, I had come to a place where the creek meanders through a large meadow. I switched to a # 18 beetle and bounced it off the bank. There was just enough over hanging grass to provide some cover and shade over the undercut bank even though the sun was high in the sky. On my first cast, I watched as a good sized fish drifted upwards ever so slowly towards the imitation. I took up slack and finally, after what seemed like five minutes, the fish nudged then sucked down the fly. All hell broke loose. The fish ran up stream as the little Hardy buzzed, It dove under the opposite bank and sulked. I could not move it, I gave the fish slack then pushed upstream reeling in line. Approaching where the leader entered the water, the fish suddenly burst from beneath the bank, raced below me, catapulted through the surface and cartwheeled twice.

The hook and leader held and after a time , I was able to net a husky 19″ Brown. The fish had taken the fly deeply. I finally removed the fly and spent the next five minutes holding the fish in my cupped hands, moving it back and forth in the water. I opened my hands and the Brown finned it’s way up the creek.

That was the largest fish I have ever caught in Green Creek

Soon, my Dad walked up the road and asked if I was ready to leave. He was hungry. We drove back down the mountain to Bridgeport and after lunch, I dropped him at the motel. He said he wanted to watch game 4 of the Series.

I spent the rest of the day fishing on the East Walker River with streamers. I took eight nice fish using a black and white marabou – the largest, another 19″ Brown. That one was caught in the meadow section, in the tail out behind the little island (for those of you who fished there before 1987).

When I returned, my Dad told me the Dodgers lost again.

It was a good day….

A few fish from the East Walker River, 1977…

The rest of my ongoing story is here:

PLANETTROUT

PT/TB

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There are five stories that make up this trip with my Father. When I started this BLOG, I never connected them. Links are now placed to the following story at the bottom of each story…1.3.10

It was early October 1977. The guys I worked with knew I needed a vacation. I asked my Dad to accompany me on this ten-day trip. He had given me the impression, through the years, that he was familiar with fly-fishing and had, at sometime, actually done it. My experiences with him were limited to the streams in the Owens Valley although, when my brother Greg and I were about eleven, we had taken a trip with him to Great Falls, MT. to deliver a “pink” Cadillac El Dorado to a female friend who wanted him to drive her and her new car to Denver.

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My Dad ( Actor – Jess Barker )in the Owens Valley fronting the Sierra Nevada Mountains near Lone Pine,CA… 1973…

On that road trip, we had fished in Yellowstone Lake off a Chris Craft Cruiser for cutthroat and lake trout. I remember when we went ashore on a small island; I took a spinning outfit and attached a gob of night crawlers to the treble hook on a Mepps spinner. My Dad told me emphatically, “You’re not going to catch a damn thing!” Hmmm…I knew better and within a half hour I had eight good-sized cutts stringered and lying on the beach.

I picked my Dad up a 6am and headed up the 14 freeway out of the San Fernando Valley towards Bishop, CA., We had breakfast at Jack’s Waffle House around 10:30. As we pulled out of the parking lot, my Dad asked me to stop at a liquor store so he could make a purchase. Well, when he got back in the car, he had a fifth of Cutty and a fifth of Cognac – untreated Alanon meter spikes to ten. Immediately, I envision that it is going to be THAT kind of a trip.

We got as far as Fallon, NV when Dad asked ME if I wanted a beer. “ Not really”, I responded. “ Well I do”, he shot back. So I pull into this dumpy little tavern with tumbleweeds blowing through the parking lot. Now I have a vision of “Bad Day at Black Rock” in my head. We stayed for his two and made for Battle Mountain. A replay occurred in Battle Mountain, Elko, Wells and almost in Jackpot. When Dad repeated the mantra as we approached Jackpot on the Idaho border, I looked over at him and said, “ If there was an ejection button on this console between my seats I would be jumping up and down on it RIGHT NOW! This is a fly fishing trip, not one of my ATO trips (of which I did many while attending Auburn) to Panama City!”

With that, we rode in silence to Idaho Falls where we spent the night.

The next morning was overcast, cold and drizzling. I made my way up through Ashton, Island Park and into West Yellowstone. We arrived around noon, checked into a motel/cabin and I went to a local shop to buy some waders and to ask for fly suggestions. My Dad went elsewhere.

We had a great prime rib dinner at a restaurant next to a pub where my Dad had spent the majority of the afternoon and early evening. The next morning was crisp and cold. I wanted to fish the Firehole River in the Park so we paralleled the Madison and following the road to the river. I found a nice parking spot just off the road next to the Firehole. I started to rig my rod and was prepared to set one up for Dad. As I came around to the passenger side of the car, I noticed my Dad had the fifth of cognac between his legs and was reading the Wall Street Journal (he did not own any stocks).” Hey Dad, I said, which rod do you want to use.” It was at this moment that he chose to tell me that he had never fly fished in his life and did not intend to do so now. “ Great, I exclaimed, so what do you want to do? “ “Well, replied my father, I’m going to sit in the car, read my paper and watch you fish and when it gets cold I’ll turn on the heater – so leave the keys!”

Fuming, I slid into the water and began casting the Leonard with a #22 yellow mayfly imitation upstream…

This story continues here:

1. The Arrangment
2.The Big Freeze

4. On Being an Obstruction

5. South to Bridgeport

PT/TB


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