I just got back from the river a few days ago. A friend and I spent an evening on the quiet stretch near Last Chance and, through a quirk of fate, nobody else was around. Still, the fishing was tough — insects blanketed the water's surface as if someone had spilled a giant bowl of aquatic mixed nuts, and the trout were sorting through the smorgasbord, picking out whatever caught their fancy.

I’d been optimistic. Maybe, I thought, ash from the fire, and subsequent flooding, didn’t destroy the river completely. Perhaps a few stretches were spared, leaving just enough water for a handful of the river’s wild rainbow trout to survive.

The fire spared nothing. Usually, I fish the river year-round. Save for a few weeks of runoff, it fishes well and few other anglers ply its shallow runs and medium-depth pools. It’s brushy, tiny water that most anglers would write off as more work than it’s worth, and they’d probably be right.