Low Water Mark
With the camp set and the fishing gear sorted, we clambered into the Forester in search of that perfect patch of Trinity shoreline. The weather was hot, nearing 90 degrees in the shade. And that's what I was after. A spot of shade from which I could toss my hook into the water, sit back on shore, and tilt my hat against the world.

Before trekking too far, Brian and I decided to have a look at the lake. Fishermen do that. They look at their fishing hole. I supposed it's akin to surfers checking out the shore break. It was well we did. We had been warned the lake was low, but we didn't expect to find 100-feet of dried, cinnamon-brown silt between the tree line and the water. Putting the Forester's all-wheel-drive to use, we drove off the edge of the cement boat ramp and onto the surreal landscape.

It was like driving into a huge, sandstone salad bowl.

Scattered across the naked band of iron-stained soil, we found hundreds of forgotten tree stumps undoubtedly cut before the rising waters swallowed them. With their massive roots exposed, they looked like hideous wooden creatures waiting for nightfall to scamper into the forest and disappear.

Lewiston Lake
We navigated the Forester out of the sand basin and onto Highway 3. Brian pointed me toward Lewiston Lake, a much smaller, coldwater reservoir squeezed between the Trinity and Lewiston dams. There is a 10-mph limit on Lewiston, thus watercraft consists mostly of trolling boats and pontoon fishermen.

We found a low patch of dusty gravel that stretched to the lake. At its edge, wild grass and reeds hung over Lewiston's calm waters like a green scruffy beard. We pulled in and emptied the Forester.

Flopping open the kayak, Brian and I took turns at the hand-pump until the bright orange craft was bulked up tight. We filled the kayak with our fishing gear and paddles and then slipped it into the water where the algae-coated bottom was flat and shallow. My brother-in-law climbed in first. I straddled the hull, dropped into the rear seat, and drew my wet feet inside. I pushed away from the shore.

As I paddled, Brian launched a spinning lure and trolled. Over the next few hours we swapped rod for paddle. We talked fishing, we talked family, and we talked in whispers because the stillness of Lewiston's chalkboard waters carried our voices across its length and breadth. Although dusk inspired a number of large browns to jump near our bow, we brought none into the boat and returned to camp empty handed. The warmth of the day lingered through the night, giving us more reason to appreciate the Jumping Jack's large mesh windows.

In the morning Brian made use of my new Atle BBQ stove from Primus. Its single burner was assigned water boiling duty for morning coffee, while its built-in grill made quick work of bacon and scrambled eggs.

A River Runs Through
I was looking forward to returning to Lewiston when I noticed Brian gathering the fly-fishing gear. "Time to try the river," he said. I smiled weakly. Directly below Lewiston Dam, the Trinity River teams with large Brown trout, elusive rainbows, and, during their fall run, hard-fighting steelhead. But before I committed to my borrowed Hodgman waders, I needed to take a look at the river. Check the surf, as it were. Regardless of my brother-in-law's assurances, I was not convinced I could swing a 9-foot rod over my head while standing in a freestone stream for hours.

Below the dam, we found a dirt road that zigzagged down to the river. At its end, a field of softball-sized stones continued to the riverbank. We eased the Forester onward as the big rocks rattled against each. From the water's edge, Brian and I looked upriver where the sun illuminated the broad earthen dam. In the other direction, the dappled Trinity sliced through a canyon of tall evergreens and oak. For most of its visible length, the river kept its shores 50 feet apart. In its clarity we could see a checkerboard of sparkling shallows and dark pools.

A hundred yards away, two fly anglers had already lay claim to a pair of deep ponds. They were casting their lines with well-practiced ease.