FISHING MAMMOTH LAKES
By Donald Hammond
Copyright 2010 by Donald Hammond
For further information on fishing, check the other books by this author or go to http://www.donomite.biz/fishing
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
This is another in my series of books on fishing from the early days of America to not only talk of fishing but show some of the history of certain regions and of fishing itself. The love of fishing has not changed so any fisherperson can relate to these stories.
Incomparable as she is in her magical handiwork, nature has, nevertheless, left many finishing touches to be added by the industry of man. A case in point is that of the Owen's River system.
This stream has its beginning in some small creeks that start from the Sierras in the neighborhood of Mono Lake, in Mono County, Cal., and form a river which, after meandering in a southerly direction along the fifteen or twenty miles' length of Long Valley, pierces the range that heads Owen's Valley in Inyo County, and being continually augmented by streams shedding from the Sierras, parallel with which, on the eastern side, it holds its course, sweeps along through that valley, a river of no mean proportions, until it finds its bourne in Owen's Lake; this latter, as is the case with Mono Lake, containing peculiarly strong waters, the component parts of which, as set forth in the local press, convey to the glancing eye the idea of some formidable medical prescription.
In no part of this somewhat extensive system were any of the finny family found indigenous; this was also the case with Rush, Lee, Vining and Mill creeks, which a few miles farther to the north empty into Mono Lake, after leaving the numerous and magnificent mountain lakes which now yield annually an enormous harvest to "the multitude of the spearmen." It is not until we come to Virginia Creek, which flows down from Castle Peak and is the southernmost tributary of the Walker River, which we find the scaly tribe aboriginal.
The settlers of Owen's Valley many years ago stocked their waters with trout, carp and catfish, which have thriven amazingly, the former in the mountain streams, and the two latter in the main river, the southern portion of which seems to be too highly impregnated with alkali to admit of the propagation of the salmon species, but this is not the case with the Long Valley or upper part of the stream, into which, among others, flows the creek from the Mammoth Lakes, of which more particularly I wish now to write; for, years ago, Thompson, erstwhile a miner, then a prosperous cattle owner, who resided at the head of the valley, stocked the stream with trout, and that, too, in the most unselfish manner; for, although hailing from the bonnie land which gave birth to Scott and to the noble author of that very charming work, "The Moor and the Lock," he is, strange to say, in matters of the angle a veritable Gallio; and his fish have thriven and spread down the length of the valley. Their career, however, has not been an uncheckered one, for Thompson told the story of how once, when he returned home from a temporary absence, he found his trout almost exterminated, while in his cabin were inadvertently left sundry odds and ends of dynamite, and along the banks were washed up pieces of fuse. Thompson little thought that, he was about to gain the esteem of all the respectable anglers of America. 
This part of the river is easily accessible, being twenty miles distant from Benton, a small town on the Carson and Colorado Railroad. From Benton it is a low range, over which are a trail and a wagon road. I made this place my headquarters, and being accompanied only by Dot, the pack pony, I crossed by the trail, my destination being the lakes of Mammoth City in the Sierras, and an important mining camp, but long since abandoned to the coyotes and stray parties of summer campers. Herewith I send a photograph of Dot, in order to show a convenient way of transporting a camping and fishing outing into places that are inaccessible to vehicles. Mammoth is forty miles from Benton by the trail, but considerably farther by the old wagon road that connects the two places. I stopped a day in Long Valley and tried fly fishing, but the trout were rooting on the bottom of the stream as if in the act of spawning. This condition was easily understood when I found nothing but caddis worms in the commissary department of the few fish which I managed to lure with the fly.
Arriving at Mammoth at noon, and finding myself alone with both mines and waters, I made my way to the lake at the foot of the falls. It is about two hundred yards in diameter, shallow all around, with a deep pool in the middle. A nice, gentle breeze was rippling its bosom, and I found the raft on the lee shore, the rigging of which consisted of a short pole and a paddle, and it was only in a half-hearted way that I loosed it from its moorings; for, if the trout would not take a fly, I should catch nothing, the alternative being that, if they were feeding never so well, my catch must be confined within the narrowest limits, as I had no one to eat my fish, and my own appetite has its bounds; but, as it turned out, another and more cogent reason combined to stop my fishing. It is said of the English that they take their pleasures sadly, and on this occasion I fully sustained my national character. My idea was to navigate the raft to the opposite shore and there cast from it as it drifted back with the wind, and accordingly I poled it out a short distance, and put on my leader one fly only, a green drake with a shot affixed to its head. This fly is yellow from the tip of its tail to the extremity of its wings. I remember seeing a play in London in which an English pater familias, not so accustomed to mountain climbing as some of the more adventurous, is represented as toiling up a trail in the Black Forest, and, on his wife asking him, "But why is it called the Black Forest?" she receives the testy reply, "Because it's green now." By parity of reasoning, if asked, "Why is it called the green drake?" I should reply, "Because it's yellow." However, I tossed my leader overboard to soak, and kneeling down in the end, I began to urge my craft forward with the paddle by a few strokes on each side alternately, when to my surprise, click! went the reel, and turning round to seize my rod, I saw a fine trout leap in the air, freeing itself, as it proved, from the hook. Looking around, I saw large trout sailing about in every direction at a distance of two or three feet from the surface. I at once began casting, and immediately hooked a trout, which, after a short struggle, I rafted, its weight being one pound ten ounces. Then, I must confess, several misses occurred, as I found a difficulty in striking at the proper moment with my fly at a distance from the surface; my split bamboo rod also, in playing the trout which I had just caught, showed a decidedly weak place in the joint just behind the ferrule, into which the tip fits. Soon a fine trout seized my fly just as I was about to retrieve for a fresh cast, and this time I drove the steel home, and away went the fish, and after it like an arrow went my top joint, my rod having snapped clean through at the weak place; nevertheless I managed to play my fish with the two remaining joints, and, after a fight of about ten minutes, gaffed him; weight, three pounds eight ounces. The raft had now drifted back to its moorings, and I stepped ashore. Wooden rods can be temporarily repaired with a very small amount of ingenuity, but, assuredly on no frivolous grounds has the caution been uttered, a split bamboo rod, pleasant as it is in actual use, is difficult, if not impossible, to be repaired when broken at a distance from the shop.