Hooked on Yosemite
“THE HOOK is in my face.” I say it out loud, as if seeking confirmation from the pine trees, because I can’t believe it. It’s my first time flyfishing, and the only thing I’ve hooked in the past hour is my own chin. I deliberate for a moment, waist-deep in the swift, cold mountain water of the south fork of California’s Stanislaus River: do I hike back to the trail in search of help, or do I handle this myself? I imagine presenting my new facial hardware to Rick Mazaira, our guide from Yosemite Outfitters, a burly flyfishing devotee whose truck and clothing are decorated with flies and who spouts cheery aphorisms such as “A pole is something you dance on; a rod is something you fish with.” I decide to pull the hook out myself. Later that evening in my cabin at the 95-year-old Evergreen Lodge, which resembles a luxe summer camp and has its own tavern, I’ll examine the scab and wonder — not for the first time — if the incident has damaged my credibility with the group of seasoned outdoor adventure writers exploring the wilds of Tuolumne County, the northwestern gateway to Yosemite National Park. Bluntly put, this part of the county is no place for wimps. One hundred and sixty years ago, migrants lured by the promise of gold hacked their way east from San Francisco into the densely forested foothills of the Sierra Nevada, building roads, railways and, over time, thriving, ethnically diverse towns. Modern adventurers satisfy their desire to conquer Yosemite by coming up with ever more creative and dangerous ways to summit (or leap off) Half Dome and El Capitan, the park’s twin granite behemoths located in neighbouring Mariposa County. Accidental self-mutilation aside, fly-fishing is more my speed than highaltitude hijinks. With the hook out of my face and my pole — sorry, rod — reset, I work on my casting form. Nothing’s biting, but the sun is warm on my shoulders, and the only sound is the whisper of the Stanislaus as it rushes west toward San Francisco. Something else Mazaira told us before we dispersed along the riverbank comes back to me: “Fly-fishing runs totally counter to the pace of our culture. It’s all about being in the water, slowing down, smelling the forest. It’s a very Zen experience.” You might say I’m hooked.