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My first view of the Yuba River was of a blue line on a map of Northern California. Near the middle of its route from the mountains to the sea the line fattened alongside the words Englebright Lake. I traced the line with my finger north and east of the lake where it thinned into the Sierra Nevada, splitting into middle, north, and south forks. Next I followed the course of the river southwest through an area labeled "Goldfields" to its confluence with the Feather River in between towns named Marysville and Yuba City. "Where does the name Yuba come from?" I wondered. "Maybe it means there are trout in the river." I continued tracing the trajectory of the Yuba's water through the Feather River to its confluence with the Sacramento River. Once in the Sacramento, the water of the Yuba headed south through the Great Central Valley and then west through the ever-widening Sacramento-San Joaquin Delta before merging with the Pacific Ocean. "Wow, it flows clear on through to the Pacific," I whispered. "I wonder if there are steelhead in the Yuba?" I was in a hurry, so my questions had to go unanswered for the time being. I folded the map and set it on top of my masters thesis, just completed as a student of aquatic ecology and fluvial geomorphology. Then I shook open a map of North America to see just how far my office at the University of Illinois was from the Yuba River. Right there, highlighted like an angler's yellow brick road, stretched Interstate 80. All the way from Illinois to California. And in less than 24 hours I would be rolling west on that very highway with my wife and border collie to a new life in Sacramento. I hoped it wouldn't be long before the Yuba River was more than just a line on a map. My first trip to the Lower Yuba in October 1998 began as a lesson in scale. Accustomed to the Midwest's tiny trout streams and muddy smallmouth bass rivers, everything about the Yuba seemed big. The riffles stretched on between long smooth runs and deep pools. Stonefly larvae twice the size of any I'd seen before scurried across the hefty cobbles when I lifted them out of the water. The immense power of the flow in the Lower Yuba grabbed my attention as well, despite its nearly invisible presence. Even at the relatively low fall flow, the water's relentless push threatened to pull my flatlander legs out from under me. Gravel and cobble deposits punctuated the river's banks in conical piles and linear bars. I would later learn that these massive concentrations of rounded rock were the result of extensive hydraulic mining in the Yuba watershed that ended in 1884. Ever since then, flood flows like the one that rumbled downstream in the winter of 1997 have shaped and reshaped the Lower Yuba into the trout-friendly form it follows today. If that first visit began as a lesson in scale, it ended as a lesson in humility. My Midwestern fly-fishing skills were out of sync with the rhythms of this great California trout stream, and the fish ignored me all day. But over the next four years I logged lots of hours on the Yuba and learned many of its secrets. Now when I hike along its cobble-strewn banks I see much more than the intimidating river that first flowed into my brain in 1998. I see a diverse array of habitats that hold strong rainbows and steelhead: deep pools, long riffle margins, bankside slots, placid runs, and, when the salmon are spawning, just about any spot near a redd. I see a river that carves through a stunning Sierra foothill landscape where raptors screech and wheel through the sky, otters gnaw on salmon carcasses, and deer peer from the river's edge. In the gravel bars I see, too, the challenges the river has faced, from the legacies of hydraulic mining to flow-reducing water diversions (see sidebar below). I've come to regard fishing the dozen or so miles of the Yuba between Englebright and Daguerra Point dams as a year-round game played out in beautiful surroundings. A wading angler with an eye for the river's clues and a bit of creativity will almost always succeed in hooking up with wild Yuba salmonids. The fishing can get tricky when the flows come up in the spring or when temperatures top 100 degrees F at the water's edge in the summer. But as TU's Steve Trafton likes to say about his favorite Northern California trout stream, "The fishing in the Yuba is almost always fantastic!" My friend Mike Bias, who guides on the Lower Yuba, agrees. He's fished all over California and ranks the Yuba as one of the finest wild trout fisheries in the state. Unlike many other Northern California rivers, the Yuba is home to completely wild populations of Chinook salmon, steelhead, and rainbow trout. Even to the uninformed, there is something about a Yuba rainbow or steelhead that gives away its wild lineage. It could be the acrobatic nature of the fish when hooked, or the extra run they all seem to make before coming to hand. Or maybe it's the gorgeous inverse night sky painted on the sides of Yuba rainbow trout and steelhead-black stars against a shimmering silver sky. The Lower Yuba is open to fishing all year (with some restrictions), so anglers with an understanding of the seasonal feeding behaviors of the Yuba rainbows and steelhead are already more than halfway to hooking a fish. The influx of salmon in late fall is a cornerstone of the Yuba food web and one of my favorite times to fish the river. When spawning Chinook brawl their way onto the riffles in October, November, and December, the resident rainbows and migrating steelhead slide in right alongside or downstream of the haggard salmon. They gorge on the salmon eggs and aquatic insects washed out of the gravel as the salmon dig their redds and spawn. The most effective technique at this time is to fish a Globug and a nymph under a yarn indicator. Since all sorts of insects are dislodged by the salmon, the nymph can be a suggestive pattern like a bird's nest, pheasant tail, or hare's ear. A good rule of thumb is to probe the vicinity of the salmon redds, which are often surrounded by relatively deep pockets where steelhead and rainbow trout lie in wait for free meals. I've often been surprised by very large fish in very small pockets. The fishing can get frenzied, so it is critical that anglers avoid snagging salmon or walking over redds. Keep in mind that the salmon are working unimaginably hard to propagate their species. Fishing subsurface isn't the only show in town. The Yuba hosts some excellent dry-fly action as well. Skwala stoneflies hatch sporadically in January and February and catch the attention of rainbow trout. The mottled brown adult Skwalas are similar to golden stoneflies, but tend to be a bit smaller. Catching the hatch can be hit or miss, so it's always a good idea to be prepared with some Skwala nymphs for the days when the juvenile bugs don't feel like making the leap to adulthood. Those that do catch the hatch are in for a treat: catching big rainbows from a big river on big dry flies! Springtime on the Yuba awakens the relatively large and dark-hued March Brown mayflies. The March Browns hatch sporadically most days, but occasionally come off in good numbers. An extended-bodied drake pattern works well to imitate the adults. Dead drifting and then swinging a size 10 or 12 brown A.P. nymph can be effective when these mayflies are hatching but fish aren't keying in on the adults. The Skwala and March Brown hatches get the most attention from anglers, but it's probably the baetis hatches that produce the most fish on dry flies. Baetis are small mayflies that normally hatch at midday under overcast skies. A small pheasant tail nymph is a good match for the baetis nymphs in the Lower Yuba and will usually take fish when the trout are not rising to the adults. The forage changes as the long summer sets in and the river corridor heats up. The river becomes an aquatic insect smorgasbord where the rainbows take their pick of caddis flies, pale morning duns, and little yellow stoneflies. This is a good time to turn over a few rocks and examine the insects drifting with the current. Discovering what's prompting the feast can make for phenomenal fishing. Things can get even more exciting in the late summer and early fall when stiff winds knock grasshoppers into the river. A great technique during this period is the old "hopper-dropper" trick. The grabs on the hopper are a blast to watch, and the dropper often gets those fish that don't fall for the big hopper pattern. Whether it's winter, spring, summer, or fall, the same gear will do the job on the Yuba. I usually fish a 9-foot, 5- or 6-weight rod with a floating line and a leader tapered to 4X or 5X. I carry an extra spool with a sink-tip line during the steelhead season, but other than that I keep things as simple as possible. Four years ago I told myself that my fishing experience on the Yuba could only get better. Without a whole lot of improvement on my part, that's exactly what happened. Since 1998, I've spent more days than I can count wading upstream and downstream of the Highway 20 Bridge, catching hearty rainbows in every season. With the help of a drift boat I've fished almost the entire lower river. Floating is a great way to cover a lot of water and fish some of the less-pressured habitat. I experienced a "day of a lifetime" on my most recent float on the Lower Yuba with Mike Bias. We drifted downstream on high, chocolate-brown flows, and the fishing started out slowly. Finally, near the end of the day and after much experimentation, I discovered a magic pattern (actually a ratty old bird's nest) and hooked four steelhead in subsequent drifts through the same run. Each fish was bigger and stronger than the last. My right arm grew cramped and tired after landing the fourth shimmering steelhead. A steelhead-induced cramp is a symptom I can live with. That experience crystallized my feelings about the quality of the Yuba River fishery and solidified its position on my short list of great trout streams. The day's fast fishing even inspired me to finally answer the first question I ever asked about the Yuba-the origin of its name. I discovered that like the river itself, the explanations for the name varied. Some say the river was named for the Indian village Yubu (also referred to as Yupu or Juba) near the confluence of the Yuba and Feather rivers. Others claim the river was named Uba by an exploring expedition in 1824, because of the quantities of wild grapes (uvas silvestres in Spanish) growing on its banks. What I do know is that in just a few years a meaningless blue line on a map transformed into an amazing river shaped by a rich, complicated history and painted with a diverse palette of swift water, rugged terrain, and wild trout. An amazing river called Yuba. ________
If You Go Anglers can access the river at several locations. The most popular access point is the Highway 20 Bridge. Parking is available near the bridge abutments on both sides of the river. Access to the Lower Yuba is also available at Hammond Grove, a county park on Highway 20 about five miles downstream of the Highway 20 Bridge. The parking lot is close to the river and anglers can fish upstream and downstream of the park. There is a $3 day use charge and camping is available. Another Lower Yuba River access point is Sycamore Campground (formerly known as Sycamore Ranch), just west of Hammond Grove. There is a $5 day use charge here. For seasons and regulations, see www.dfg.ca.gov. Guides and Fly Shops
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from Trout Magazine,
Winter 2003
The
20-odd miles of the Lower Yuba are arguably the Central
Valley's last stronghold of purely wild Chinook salmon.
The mainstem Sacramento and San Joaquin river salmon,
as well as those in most of the significant tributary
watersheds, depend heavily on hatcheries. The Yuba has
no hatchery. A small but significant spring run of Chinook
salmon complements its fall run. Steelhead are also present.
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