By Paul Lebowitz

Mark Pierpont’s arms were a blur. He’d just powered through a tight bend on the high and fast-flowing Lower Owens River, and now he was paddling furiously to turn his kayak upstream. A few more hard strokes and the current relinquished its grip, allowing Pierpont to glide quietly up to the brush lining the submerged bank.

The wader-clad kayak fishing guide popped out of his boat and splashed onto an ankle-deep sand bank. For a moment he stood at the apex of the bend and surveyed the river. Like most of the miles of water we were to see that day, this stretch ran between impenetrable walls of thick brush and reeds before twisting out of sight less than 30 yards downstream. Short of a helicopter, the only way to reach this spot was by boat.

Pierpont liked what he saw. At the outside of the next bend there was a crease of calmer water swirling back opposite the main flow – an eddy where trout were sheltering from the swift current. He smiled his approval, grabbed the small four-pronged anchor resting on the bow, tossed it beside the thick vegetation to hold his Tarpon kayak, and then picked up a slender, ultra-light spinning outfit.

“With the river running high, we’ll have to change our methods. I’d rather use a fly rod, but today spinning gear will give us the best chance,” said Pierpont as he tied an artificial bait onto his 4-pound test monofilament.

Pierpont, a pro staffer for fishing kayak maker Wilderness Systems, cupped the lure in his hand to show me. Instead of the expected trout spinner or spoon, he was holding a 2-inch long curl-tail grub threaded onto a 3/8th ounce leadhead jig.

“In this flow we’ll fish the whirls along the eddyline. Let the bait sink down towards the bottom, but reel it in quick enough it won’t snag,” Pierpont explained as he fired off a cast. The lure plopped down into the cold river a few feet beyond the farther swirl, but the retrieve didn’t get far. The delicate pole bent to the weight of lively trout, the first of many Owens rainbows to come on a weekend spent kayak fishing the high country.  

It was mid-November, and Pierpont, his friend Lou Ciminieri, and I were determined to steal a march on old man winter. Rising long before the sun on the final weekend of the California Eastern Sierra trout season, we’d stormed up Highway 395 to our base camp in Bishop. In a concession to the cooler temperatures of late Fall, we planned to hunker down at night in one of the tourist-oriented town’s many motels. That would come later. First we stopped to stoke the fires with a hearty country breakfast washed down with mugs of bitter coffee. We’d need the fuel; we were headed up to 9,100 feet, where snow lapped the shaded shores of nearby Lake Sabrina.

Fishing in the Footprints of a Glacier
The many small lakes that dot the Sierras are a paradise for the kayak angler. Their tidy size invites intimate exploration of pine-shrouded coves and boulder strewn banks. Some of the more remote lakes – those accessed via twisting two-tracks for instance - lack improved launch facilities. That’s no obstacle for a boat as handy as a kayak.

But there’d be no portage today; Lake Sabrina boasts a paved although oddly curved launch ramp. If the crisp tang in the air hadn’t clued us in to the altitude, the slight burn in our chests as we carried the kayaks down the hill to the water would have told the tale.

Lake Sabrina is a typical eastern Sierra alpine lake. By typical, I mean breathtakingly beautiful but not especially large. Sabrina’s cool blue waters crouch beneath soaring walls of granite – reminders of the vast weight of the glacial ice that carved the valley out of the ancient living rock.

I was first on the lake, and as happens every time I kayak new water, my heart soared at the wonder of the place. In that natural amphitheater the sound of lively Bishop Creek splashing into the far, shaded recesses of Sabrina Lake carried clear across its mile-long length. Time to fish!

I lazily flipped a trout spoon 50 feet behind me, dropped the rod in a holder, and set out to tour the shoreline. I wasn’t in any hurry; an easy paddle stroke is the perfect speed for kayak trolling.  

It is a simple technique, but one that keeps a lure in the water. Favorite baits vary widely from lake to lake. Choices are legion, ranging from crankbaits such as the Rapala CD-1 and 3 and small spoons and spinners to compact.

To prevent line twist, consider using a swivel with the latter.

A rod holder up front makes the job painless – no crick in the neck – although it’s possible to get by with tucking the rod under a thigh.

Pierpont preferred to work deeper water, casting and retrieving across points and ledges. The catching – small rainbows and a brook trout - was slow but steady. The mountainous scenery was wide open. 

Cold Water, Hot Fishing
The next two days we’d sample a different sort of kayak fishing. One in which the nimble plastic craft was nothing more than a taxi, and we’d climb off to fish from the bank or while wading. Fun transportation to be sure, as we discovered when we pulled off U.S. Highway 6 where it crosses the Lower Owens River.

The river was full, running bank to bank. It would be a fast downhill slalom, as exciting as any flat water. Every sharp bend would mean digging hard across the current to stay out of the grasping brush. Paddling up current? Like running against a treadmill set on sprint.

Although I have years of ocean paddling under my belt, a few butterflies tickled my stomach. Pierpont, though, didn’t blink. In fact, he was raring to go.

Pierpont has paddled his Tarpon fishing kayak down mountain rivers in Wyoming and Utah, even running mild whitewater between fishing holes. “It was a great experience, but to find a river like the Owens so close to Southern California is wonderful. I’ve wanted to try it for a long time,” Pierpont said. 

Fishing on the Lower Owens has been popularized in recent years by Tom Loe and his Sierra Drifters Guide Service (see sidebar). Loe and his guides use aluminum McKenzie-style drift boats to access long reaches of the river inaccessible to truck or foot traffic. Put plainly, although dirt roads run throughout the Owens Valley, most of the river is walled off by marshy ground and impenetrable brush. The fishing? Nearly untouched.

Loe runs his float trips from late fall to spring, when mosquitoes are scarce, the fish are biting, and the river flows most reliable. In the summer, the Owens Valley bakes in a high desert heat, warming the river. The rest of the time it is another story.

The water is cold, dangerously so. Tragically, in 2003 Loe discovered a pair of canoeists who had failed to dress for the water temperature. Loe said they succumbed to hypothermia when trapped against the bank by their overturned boat. They were in a mere five feet of water.  

Cognizant of the hazards, we donned chest-high waders over layers, and cinched them tight with wading belts. Then we turned our attention to the kayaks.

Setting up for a river trip on fast water is a bit different. With shore-side obstructions an ever-present hazard, the barer the boat, the better.

River veteran Pierpont rigged his boat simply. He brought only one rod, his custom graphite ultra-light, and stored it in a forward rod holder. The cherished outfit sat at a low, rakish angle, parallel with the kayak, the better to keep it out of overhanging brush. He dropped a small cooler into the stern tankwell, stored his tackle in a waterproof box affixed to the console, and clipped on a bow line and anchor.

We convoyed a few miles down the river, parked a truck, and then drove back up to the bridge and the boats.

“Ready?” asked Pierpont.

“Let’s do it,” I replied.

We jumped on the kayaks, peeled out into the current, and were off in a flash.

The fishing started off slowly. As we hop scotched our way down the first quarter mile, pulling to the side of the river to fish at alternate bends, we passed a succession of shore fishing spots.

Beer bottles, candy wrappers, and scraps of Styrofoam worm containers littered the ground. The rainbows we caught looked listless; two of the small stockers already had hooks in their mouths. 

Then we passed into a veritable canyon of brush, and everything changed. We were in no mans land, hemmed in by reeds, with nary another soul to be seen.  

Immediately the fish improved in quantity and quality. Predominantly rainbows, most were about a foot long, but all had thick, muscular bodies. The bigger trout pushed fifteen inches.

When hooked, they leaped a time or two and then bulldogged into the current.

I discovered an abandoned oxbow – an old curve chewed off the main channel. On a hunch, I tied on a spinner, flung it out and was immediately rewarded by a small but feisty brown trout. Moments later Pierpont nabbed its twin on a grub. Word is there are big browns in the river, and Alpers rainbows up to six or seven pounds, although we caught no whiff of either.

We blundered into trouble too. Pierpont, as seasoned as can be, paddled right up to the bank in a calm stretch of river. Instead of the knee-deep water he was expecting, he stepped out into water over his head. Later, I got sloppy while speeding through a turn. When my kayak nosed into a sharp eddyline, it was rejected right back into the main current. My impetus took me into the water. Less than ten seconds later I was back on the kayak. It pays to practice self-rescue.

Because we came prepared, these mishaps were only momentarily inconvenient. Soon it was right back to catching. In one golden hour late in the afternoon the trout went on a tear.

We’d just floated into an especially broad curve, where the water at the outer edge of the turn was still as a farm pond. In a relaxed mood, with ten or fifteen trout already to his credit (all released), Pierpont cast his line.

His jaw went slack as he was momentarily speechless. “Ah…, hey…, they keep grabbing the tail!” said Pierpont. Sure enough, the tip of his rod was twitching as if possessed. A trout finally found the hook, and Pierpont reeled it in to find just the stub of his grub on the jig.   

KAYAK FISHING GUIDE Mark Pierpont digs in as he approaches an Owens curve.

A CHUNKY Lower Owens rainbow shows its colors.

A SMALL lower Owens River brown.

INLINE spinners accounted for trout in quiet Lower Owens pockets. PHOTO COURTESY MARK PIERPONT

PIERPONT brings in another one on the Lower Owens.

A SMALL ANCHOR is essential for securing the kayak when wade fishing moving water.

PIERPONT'S SECRET trout weapon, a two inch Berkley Power Grub threaded onto a 3/16th ounce jighead.

“They chewed it right off,” hooted Pierpont. This continued for a dozen or more casts. Eventually the delighted guide didn’t bother to toss the bait out, he just dangled it in the water at arm’s length. The rod tip dipped and danced as the frenzied fish toyed with the bait.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” I said, shaking my head, amazed at the abundance and aggression of the Lower Owens rainbows.