How I learned to love fishing tricos

At first I hated fishing tricos. They were too much of a mystery - not much was written about them then and all I knew about them were things I didn't like. They were too small. There were no standard patterns - that I knew about, anyway - so I had to start from scratch.

The trout kept sipping them off the surface with maddening regularity for hours every morning. And when the tricos were on, it was useless to fish with anything else. If I wanted to catch these fish, I'd have to learn more about these little late summer bugs.

In those days the small group of old-timers who gathered at the Cassel Forebay above what is now the Wild Trout section of Hat Creek were like a private club. There was an easy sense of fraternity between them. They were cordial enough to me when I showed up one evening and I took a spot well above them.

The fishing on that stretch of flat water was as demanding as what became the fabled Hat Creek Wild Trout Project that the forebay eventually dumped into by way of the Hat 2 PG&E Powerhouse.

My mind, that first time I joined the old guard as a young buck flyfishing diehard in his early twenties, was set on learning how to catch more fish - fish that had me frustrated. When they learned that I was sent their way by one of their own who couldn't make it, I was welcomed. They treated me like one of their own.

I learned about the necessity for a downstream cast and drift, a long leader and gentle cast, but for the morning trico fishing I kept coming up short. One morning I left my rod leaned against the willows that grew along the streamside path and spent my time catching bugs.

I saw that the flat, outstretched wings of the naturals were about two to three times the length of their bodies. I went home and tied some accordingly, and the tails of the naturals were too long to duplicate in an artificial.

Some of the natural flies had all black bodies, and some had a very pale light greenish, almost white, abdomen and black thorax. I tied flies to represent both types, with bodies the length of the natural insects. I tied three sizes of flies - #18, #20 and #22.

Not knowing any better, I used about a #14 or #16 hackle wrapped sparsely through the dubbed thorax of a #20 fly for the wings, and trimmed the bottoms so they'd lay flat on the water like the naturals. The tails of my flies were sparse and long, too, but not so long as to interfere with hooking.

The next morning with my newly-invented flies was triumphant. I arrived late, and had the forebay all to myself. The sun was too hot for the regulars, and there would be no shade until evening when they'd show up. We could buy an extremely limp 5X tippet material in that era and I tied one of my pale olive and black spent-wings to a long tippet of this new 5X. Today you can fish tricos on 6X and finer tippet.

I waded slowly, carefully, into water just beside the current line where the fish were feeding, but far enough upstream not to disturb them, and carefully made a quartering downstream cast and fed line out. My nerves were taut but controlled as I waited, much like they'd be if I were stalking a deer.

My fly drifted into the spot where I anticipated a rise. I felt my pulse increase. When I saw that a fish's head barely broke the surface and my fly disappeared, I didn't overstrike. I was poised, ready.

I had a fish on, one that took my newly-crafted fly and probably wished it hadn't. It tried to wrap into the weeds near the bottom. I had to keep him out, mindful of not stressing that light leader or tearing that small hook out. It was a challenge, quiet and yet exciting, and I was reveling in it.

A while later I netted a healthy 14-inch brown. A little later, I landed a rainbow that ran and jumped several times. Then the rises ceased and the foam line above the weeds went still. That morning I started to love - and not hate - fishing tricos.