Reasonable Suffering

Reasonable Suffering (or, Why I Enjoy Fishing Baum Lake in the Dead of Winter)

There is an agony I endure that begins with the onset of high country snows or stream closures due to DFG regulations, whichever happens to come first. Denied the pleasures of my favorite small streams, I find myself sliding into a deep blue funk, fighting the asphyxiation of another season, a process which is never merciful and always premature. In more than three decades of experiencing the arrival of this nether-time, there is a grip of angst that increases in intensity every year; that my allotment of casts may have finally reached its end and nobody bothered to tell me.

So, until I’m arrested and jailed by Sheriff O.M. Time, I will continue to break the winter doldrums with an occasional foray to a peculiar piece of water called Baum Lake. “Lake” is really a misnomer, as Baum is a dammed stretch of the famed Hat Creek near Burney, California. Its ambiguous personality confounds that piece of legislation prohibiting year-round trout angling in most of California’s streams and rivers, but permits it in lakes, because Baum is neither river according to the law of man, nor lake according to the Maker of such. In this singular instance, I rejoice in man’s law.

Baum Lake retains all the character of a true spring creek, only wider and deeper. It is slowly flowing, crystal clear, heavily vegetated, always cold, and choked with trout food that supports a population density of fish that would rival mid-town Tokyo. It is my winter refuge, as there are semi-regular outbursts of Baetis and the main attraction of the season, the midge. It is also a place where the resident trout are difficult, where a person can use a lifetime inventory of flies and still be lacking the one-size-smaller variant being consumed not two feet in front of you. Winter is a wonderful time of year to fish Baum Lake with a singular exception: the cold. You can’t effectively fish from the bank, so it’s into the float tube and that means a degree of suffering.

The pain from the initial immersion lasts for about five or ten minutes. After numbness takes over, one simply needs to suppress the unfounded fear of frostbite to enjoy outstanding solitude which, to me, is fishing of the most satisfying kind. If I layer properly, I can last two hours before needing a break, but I always have problems with my fingers. Sitting waist deep in forty-five degree water, hands wet, air temperature about twenty-nine with a three or four mile per hour breeze, my fingers function about as well as cocktail gherkins. I have tried every mitten, glove and fingerless variation thereof and have settled on the ultra-cheap Wal-Mart neoprene jobbies that last exactly one season before the seams rip. They offer a bit of protection and they float.

The subject of suffering begs “I’ll one-up-you” comparisons and I already know that these descriptions are being sneered at by some anglers of cold weather regions, especially the winter steelheader. I met a zealous bunch of these folks on the Smith River a few seasons back. They have developed a religion of sorts that elevates suffering to a hallowed tenant. If I understand their dogma correctly, success without sufficient suffering is worthless. Pity the novitiate should their fly find a fish before “real” dues have been paid. The hostility that surrounds such a catch is genuine and smacks of angry mobs and dunking stools. Trust me, my joy at catching a beautiful buck was quickly doused by superstitious agitators muttering “heretic!” I quickly realized that I wanted no part of that congregation and got out of town.

I don’t seek pain for pain’s sake as if it were penance of some sort. My suffering is simply an occasional by-product of the process of seeking worthwhile things. As I see it, the boundary of reasonable versus unreasonable suffering is crossed when affliction overshadows affection. The quarry, if obtained, will rarely be worth it, as its value will be weighed against resentment, the kind with roots that reach into every crevice of motive and will, the kind that can produce the antithesis of joy. Captain Ahab is a case in point. He would have easily qualified as a member of the Smith River Church of the Perpetual Scowl. Reasonable suffering, on the other hand, enhances a positive outcome. The sense of achievement is heightened and glorified. Fishing midge patterns in the midst of the ice-cold cauldron of Baum Lake spring water boiling with trout is a perfect example of reasonable suffering.

The rule at Baum is simple enough: fish a midge pupa under an indicator until you start seeing noses, then switch to an emerger or a dry. However, the Baum Lake midge game is complex and often exasperating. Dawn’s #22 bead-head zebra is ignored at 9:43 a.m. in favor of the un-weighted #24 rojo midge trailed 6 5/8” beneath it, etc., etc. (I call my midge box “the pack of pain”, and it starts every Baum Lake trip with one hundred sixty-two small flies, all #20 to #24.) Combine this frustration with winter-time cold, 7X tippet and big trout that have evolved an audible chuckle and the suffering threshold is quickly achieved. But, what bliss when that white speck of CDC disappears within a lovely dimple and I’m tight to Mr. Smart-Aleck!

When I finally roll up the gear and point the car toward home, the hot blood of happiness begins to flood back into my cheeks, fingers, and toes. “Was it worth it?” I ask myself. The rear-view mirror shows snowflakes swirling in my wake and a red-nosed kid with an ear-to-ear grin.

MikeM

nice piece. sounds like winter fishing on the san juan.

I used to live in Chico, Ca, and I'm very familiar with Baum Lake. You described it perfectly. It's really just a wide spring creek with about a million trout in it. They are picky as hell but when you have the right fly, it is sort of like shooting fish in a barrel. Thanks for bringing back great memories!