Every fish is a trophy!
by Dean Growdon
As a young boy growing up in the pine-scented mountain town of Westwood, my imagination was always drifting toward water. I daydreamed about glassy lakes at sunrise, ripples from surfacing fish, and the jolt of a fish tugging on the line.
There are so many ways to go fishing, but time is often the rarest lure in the tackle box. Then there’s the cost of gear, the tangle of techniques, and the steep learning curve of understanding each river, creek, or lake. To push past all those obstacles, step into the field, fool a fish into eating your fly, and guide it safely to the net—that is an accomplishment worth savoring and remembering.
This past week, I had the privilege of fishing the legendary Hexagenia “Hex” hatch on the deep blue waters of Lake Almanor. Each year, the hatch has its own personality—some seasons explode with bugs and rising fish, others are quieter and more mysterious.
Still, there are certain flies, depths, and presentations that consistently bring success. I usually begin with these tried-and-true tactics, then fine-tune my approach based on what I see the fish and the insects doing. I’ll switch patterns, vary my depth, slow down or speed up my retrieves—constantly experimenting in search of more hookups or that one truly unforgettable fish.
Earlier in the evening, we were fishing nymphs suspended under an indicator (bobber)—and seeing steady action. The indicators kept dipping, and each successful hookset brought powerful, acrobatic rainbow trout to the net. They fought with furious energy, slicing through the water and straining the rods, and we enjoyed every second.
As the sun began to sink behind the silhouette of Mt Lassen, the sky softened into shades of orange and red. A few pale-yellow Hex mayflies started to hatch, their delicate wings glowing in the last light. Soon, dim rings appeared on the surface as fish began to rise, sipping the big mayflies from the shimmering surface of the lake.
I switched to a classic Scott 6-weight rod that I have fished with for 24 years. I rigged it with a long tapered leader and a dry fly, and laid out a cast toward a subtle rise. Although the hatch was light and the fish were far from frenzied, my fly had barely settled before a dark, heavy wake pushed up behind it. The fish didn’t smash the fly right away. Instead, it circled, inspecting, its back breaking the surface like a slow-moving shadow. Then it slipped beneath the water, turned, and surged up again.
The take was explosive—a sudden flash, a loud splash, and the fly vanished. I lifted the rod and felt it bend under a solid, immovable weight. For a moment, the fish refused to budge, holding deep with a stubborn, head-shaking power that left no doubt: this was a brown trout, and a big one. Then it came alive.
The fish drove for the depths, line singing through the guides. It made a series of long, determined runs, boring down into the darkness, using every ounce of its strength and the lake’s depth to its advantage. Each time I gained line, it took more back, until at last the runs shortened and its circles near the boat grew smaller and he was finally in the net.
I laid down on the deck of the boat, keeping the fish cradled safely in the net and in the cool water. The Hex dry fly hung neatly from the fish’s upper lip. I gently backed the fly out, then nodded to my wife as she readied the camera. In one smooth motion, I lifted the trout from the net. It glowed with rich browns and golds, and was scattered with black and red spots. We snapped a quick photo, then I lowered it back into the water and watched it glide away, disappearing like a shadow into the green depths. The satisfaction of having fooled that majestic brown and brought it to hand was immense—a true trophy, in every sense of the word.
A few days later, we traded the open expanse of the lake for narrow mountain creeks winding through the Dixie Fire burn scar. The day was scorching, the air dry and still. Charred trunks and ash-gray slopes stretched in every direction, reminding us of the fire’s fury. With so many trees gone, there was almost no shade, and the sun beat down on us as we hiked. It was a demanding, gritty day.
We explored along creek banks and tried several different stretches of water before so much as seeing a fish. The creeks were small and clear, with pockets of water with a blue/green hue where the current slowed. Finally, in a shady bend where surviving willows leaned over the water, the indicator dipped just slightly. I lifted the rod and felt a flicker of life—a tiny brook trout.
Its body was no longer than my hand, but it shimmered with remarkable color: olive back, marbled with pale markings, flanks dotted with little blue halos around red spots, and fins tipped with white. On that hot, difficult day in a scarred landscape, that small fish was every bit as much a trophy as the giant brown trout from the lake.
We often measure our fishing trips by the numbers—the count of fish landed or the size of the biggest one. But as the years have passed, I’ve found myself valuing something deeper. I’ve grown more grateful for the entire outdoor experience: the cool breath of evening wind across a lake, the chorus of birds at dawn, the play of light on moving water, and the quiet time to reflect.
Yes, there are unforgettable days and extraordinary fish that will stay with you for a lifetime. But we should also pause to appreciate the everyday beauty that God has painted across the landscape and the simple opportunities we’re given to step into it. You don’t need a boat full of high-end gear, the latest waders, or a custom rod to experience that joy. A basic setup, a willing spirit, and a little bit of time can be enough.
Invite a friend who’s never held a fly rod. Bring a neighbor who’s curious but hesitant. Take a child and watch their eyes light up at the first tug on the line. Or go alone and let the water clear your mind. It doesn’t really matter who you’re with, as long as you get outside and give yourself a chance to pursue that “trophy” fish—whether it’s a hefty brown trout, a tiny brookie in a burned-out canyon, or anything in between.
In the end, it’s not just the size of the fish that matters. It’s the colors of the landscape, the music of the water, the stories you bring home, and the memories that stay with you. It is, and always will be, the experience that counts.
