Jan/Feb 2010

Jan/Feb 2010
Jan/Feb 2010
Jan/Feb 2010
Jan/Feb 2010
Jan/Feb 2010
Jan/Feb 2010
Jan/Feb 2010

Sheridan Lake

by Larry E. Stefanyk


Sheridan Lake is stocked frequently with three strains of rainbow trout. This extensive stocking program helps sustain a good trophy trout fishery. The average weight is about 3- to 5-pounds. Trout more than 10-pounds are caught regularly, with some anglers sharing stories of rainbows over 20-pounds.


Anywhere from May to October will usually prove successful fishing. Trolling is the most popular method of catching the lake's trophy rainbow trout. Using floating lines with long leaders or full-sinking fly lines and long leaders can be very effective, and in addition, the many weed beds and island shallows make for excellent fly fishing. From June 15th to July 20th, fly fishers can enjoy hatches of mayflies and traveler sedges.

Chironomids are also abundant at this time. Leech flies in olive, brown or black with red are always effective.
Any kind of setup can be used for trolling, but an 8- to 10-foot rod using either a small mooching reel with enough capacity to hold at least 100-yards of 12-pound line, with 4- to 6-pound monofilament leader is effective. Some popular lures used in this lake are plugs in green or black, Hotshots and Wedding Bands.


Lake Access
From 100 Mile House, travel south on Highway 97 for approximately 8-miles (13-km) until you meet the junction of Highway 24. Take this scenic paved road east, past Lone Butte, for about 20-miles (32-km) to Sheridan Lake. 


Quick Facts
Surface Area: 4,050 acres (1,639 ha)
Shoal: 2039 acres (825 ha)
Maximum Depth: 115-feet (35.05 m)
Mean Depth: 24.92-feet (7.7-m)
Elevation: 3,658-feet (1,116-m)
Game Fish: Rainbow trout/Kokanee
Fish Stocked: Rainbow trout/Kokanee

For More Information:
South Cariboo Visitor Info Centre
Box 340, 422 Hwy. 97
100 Mile House, BC V0K 2E0
T: (250) 395-5353
F. (250) 395-4085
Toll-free 1-877-511-5353
info@SouthCaribooTourism.com
www.SouthCaribooTourism.com


:
Rainbow Trout and Kokanee Stocking Program:
Spring/Summer 2009 Rainbow trout 100,376
Spring/Summer 2009 Kokanee 40,000
Fall 2009 Rainbow trout 150,181
 

Huxley’s Run: 

It was the best of spoons, it was the worst of spoons.


I fly fish almost exclusively on any stream. But in certain conditions, certain fish need certain effort. I am an unabashed whore to the Gibbs Ironhead when water is big and colored. It is a gold-plated wonder.
So it was that I went to the Gold River with my friend Brent Marin in the deep grasp of a January thaw/snowfall/thaw/sunshine/rain/snowfall/sunshine day. The river was just browning as we arrived, then browning more, then clearing, then browning, then dropping, then rising.
 

Brent was perfectly outfitted with his dink float, slip catch and whatever the hell he had on the end of the line. I had on one of my 11 Ironheads - my fly vest was full of them. I had tied one on the night before, a
3/4-ounce I think. At the first pool which was not quite up and really still low, Brent asked: “You want to try a float? Might be too shallow for that spoon. I have extra.”
 

It was an innocent question. But one that irked me. Who was this young pup to suggest that I, the great Dr. Adipose Huxley, wouldn’t know what I’m about on a river? I scoffed at his suggestion, cast and promptly hooked up with something huge. A 200-pound boulder methinks. I broke off and tied on another. And hooked up with the same boulder. And broke off.
 

“You want to try a float? Might be too shallow for that spoon. I have extra.” I heard it said again. An asshole no doubt.


By the grace of God, no one hit a fish in that pool.
 

The next pool was elegantly dark, made specifically for my deep, wobbling spoon. I made the ultimate sacrifice; I let Brent go through first. For two casts. Then I decided to teach him a lesson. And that lesson turned out to be how to hook, secure and almost land a 200-pound boulder. It was close to a successful tailing, but just as my hand encircled it, the line gave in and broke.
 

Two casts later and the gold content of the Gold River grew exponentially.
 

“You want to try a float? Might be too shallow for that spoon. I have extra.” Obviously another asshole.
Before I go on I must tell you of my success with the Ironhead. I have left my home in Campbell River to go to the Gold at 11 a.m. on a Friday and returned to Campbell River at 3 p.m. having caught and released two to five white-sided steelhead in the 8- to 10-pound range. Oh, that gold-plated wonder. I have gloated. I have gloated. I have gloated.


I have also caught coho and Chinook and cutthroat off the beach. With an Ironhead. All when they were out of range of, or not taking, the fly. Oh, that gold-plated wonder. I have gloated. I have gloated. I have gloated.
But on this particular day the river reached up and grabbed me by the balls. All 11 Ironheads, at about $7 each, contributed to the mineral content of that majestic river.


On the last pool, with my last Ironhead, I was completely confident that something other than a rock would take my spoon. We had hiked all the way to the head of the Peppercorn Pool, (probably 10- to 15-feet deep where I first cast) a lovely brown, and succulent, and up.
 

My rod tip stopped and pulled down on that first cast. I held the rod tip high to verify that something was indeed fighting me and fighting the current. I was right. It was a tree branch, obviously just flushed down and sitting there, snuggled to the bottom of that pool, yet reaching with its branches for one last go at the sun.
Tugging on my line I could just see the tip of the branch and my glorious, golden ring I had bestowed on the finger of fate, gleaming marvelously, an inch above the golden-green surface of the river. Then the line snapped and I was out of gold, my last Ironhead.
“You want to try a float? Might be too shallow for that spoon. I have extra.” Strange how assholes can follow you around remorselessly; dropping shit on your shoes and your pride.
The drive home was somewhat uneventful, especially since I curled into the passenger seat and sipped, sulkily, on my flask.
 

Well now I know how good a fisherman you are.” The voice came from the orifice driving the vehicle.
“What do you mean?” I bit, like a steelhead on a bag of roe.
“You’re so good with that spoon of yours,” the anal passage said, “that they named the river after you.”

 

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