The great outdoors are a special place. Special was our overly used, cliché, yet incredibly appropriate word for so much of what we saw in the mountains. Being outdoors makes me happy and I do everything in my power to get out and stay out. The Eastern Sierras and the likes of the Upper Owens and Hot Creek rest at a comfortably dry altitude of 8,500 feet. The weather was hot and the arid climate sucked every bit of moisture from my skin it could find.

Jorge and I had been spontaneously planning (yes, I meant to say that) a fishing trip for the better part of a month. In May we almost pulled the trigger and darted North from Southern California, however, there was some remaining weather headed that way and we deemed snow and rain not the best intro to the Sierras. June rolled around and we blocked out a few days during the week to go camp and get some trout on the fly.

“Brah, chaaa we slayed the fish,” we joked often. Jorge is a photographer who grew up in Miami, surfed his whole life, lived in Hawaii, you name it. Now resides in Dana Point, just shy of 5 hours drive from the mountains. We both understood the humor in surfing, brah. Beach satire definitely helped pass the time in between fish on the end of my line. Jorge was indeed slaying it, both Rainbows and Browns. The learning curve in small trout streams and rivers was steep for me.

I’ve thrown the fly plenty in Jersey sweetwater, and tie my own saltwater flies (streamers, clousers and epoxy minnows). Something about a tiny nymph, a basic midge or the indicator tied above, that totally flipped my world of fishing around. I was used to tossing topwater to Largemouth in lakes and big wooden plugs to Stripers in the suds. This skinny water endeavor (at altitude no less) is a challenge accepted.