There’s a stretch of the East Walker River, just outside of the town of Bridgeport off of Highway 395, that is known by anglers as the “miracle mile.” Mike had heard of this area for close to 20 years, and recently got further directions from his brother Alan, also an avid fisher. We left Yosemite at the end of our stay there, with the intention of finding this holy grail of fishing on our way to the next campsite.
I stepped out of the car when Mike pulled off at a likely-looking pullout beside the East Walker River—and was engulfed in the sights, smells, and sounds of early morning in the Sierra high desert.
Meadowlarks sang, crickets buzzed, large busy ants crawled over piles of sand and dry stone, and the air was filled with the scent of vanilla and incense cedar, some delicious combination of summer’s blooming.
The river, where we stopped, turned out to be disappointingly choked with algae and flowing low due to drought. We didn’t see any of the gently moving shadows in the water ind…
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