Desert Bobber Fishing: Rediscovering A Love for Nymphing on Pyramid Lake

Images by Kubie Brown

I hate nymphing with strike indicators. It’s not that I don’t believe in the technique or have some sort of “dry or die” superiority complex (well, not entirely)—it’s just that I can’t stand staring at them. As a fly fishing guide, I do whatever I can to put trout in the net for my clients, and that often means spending endless hours glowering at strike indicators. I watch as they drift across the surface like fluorescent turds in a punch bowl, trying to spot the tiniest flutter, dunk, or hesitation so I can tell my clients to set the hook. By the end of the season, I have recurring nightmares of a giant rolling Thingamabobber chasing me like a fly fishing Indiana Jones.

Needless to say, with all the indicator watching I do for clients, I loathe putting one on my own line. Even when I’m desperate to catch a fish and know that indicator nymphing will probably work, I’ll stubbornly stick to fishing dry flies and streamers or trying to tightline up a fish rather than pulling out the dreaded bobber. So when a couple of buddies and I decided to take a winter fishing trip to Nevada’s Pyramid Lake, I didn’t even bother bringing an indicator rig along. Little did I know that by the time this trip was over, the lake’s mythical trout would revive the joy of indicator nymphing in me and cause me to change my tune.

The Lost Sea

For the uninitiated, Pyramid Lake is one of the most picturesque and unique fisheries in the United States. Tucked in the corner of Western Nevada between the Virginia Mountains and Lake Range in the Sierra Nevadas, Pyramid is the largest remnant of the ancient Lahontan Sea. It’s a world of graphic desert sunrises and distant snow-capped peaks where you can almost feel the prehistoric pulse of a primordial past cut into you with the gusts of cold, driving winds that streak across the lake. As if to emphasize the ancient feel of the place, Pyramid Lake is home to its own dinosaurs which are the lake’s main attraction—the Lahontan cutthroat trout.

One of the angling world’s true success stories, Lahontan cutthroat were officially declared extinct in Pyramid in 1943. However, they were reintroduced to the lake in the 1970s, and thanks to the combined conservation efforts of both U.S. Fish and Wildlife and the resident Paiute Tribe around the lake, the fish are now thriving. A unique species of cutthroat, the Lahontan cutthroat in the lake grow much larger than their river-dwelling cousins, with the average Pyramid fish being around 25 inches and roughly 6 pounds. Swimming among these average but sizeable specimens are true leviathans that can be more than 40 inches long and weigh more than 20 pounds, making every cast into the hallowed waters of Pyramid Lake feel full of gigantic potential. This is especially true when you’re fishing with strike indicators.

Bobbing Along

Indicator nymphing is the perfect technique for Pyramid. Most of the trout feed up from around 30 feet of water into less than 5 feet. This means that with a long leader and an adjustable indicator, you can cover the entire water column where trout are active by simply casting out and letting your indicator drift from deeper water into the shallows. Yet fishing with indicators at Pyramid goes far beyond the simple effectiveness of the technique and strays into the romantic core of angling past.

We all remember those early days of childhood when we’d sit on boat docks and muddy banks of farm ponds, staring at a worm-baited bobber waiting for it to move. There was an element of mystery that plucked at our natural curiosity about what was swimming beneath that bobber, eventually making us all fall in love with fishing. Indicator nymphing at Pyramid restores that feeling of wonder. The fish are so big that when they take the fly, your indicator rarely twitches or tentatively dunks—it straight up disappears—leaving you with no idea what’s on the other end. With strikes often being few and far between, there’s a satisfaction and excitement that comes from gazing around the beautiful shores of Pyramid and then turning back to see your indicator has vanished that simply makes you feel like a kid again.

When you get to set the hook at Pyramid, you’re instantly transported into judgment mode. The cutthroat on the other end of your line is undoubtedly big, but just how big can almost be immediately estimated. You’ll feel either the hard, headshaking fight of a smaller fish or the heavy, towing pull of something truly humongous. This adds an aspect of anticipation to nymphing that you don’t get when fishing with any other technique at Pyramid. Every time your bobber drops you’re prepared for battle.

Changing My View

I spent my first days at Pyramid stubbornly sticking to stripping small streamers. I caught a few decent fish in the mornings and evenings, but during long stretches in the afternoon I was left without a strike. My non-indicator-biased buddies, on the other hand, caught big fish throughout the entire day as they bombed bobbers out into the deep and casually let them drift into shore. After a couple of days of watching them hook up when I wasn’t, and with my fingers raw and bleeding from continuously stripping line through the freezing, alkaline water, I finally relented and asked to borrow a bobber. Chuckling, my pals set me up with an indicator rig and then, having caught enough fish themselves, went up to have dinner and left me to fish alone.

We had been fishing from a sandy beach with a long flat of shallow water where it was easy to wade out and cast into a dark drop-off just a few yards from shore. Leaving my net on the beach, I strolled out into the rising waves and, after glancing begrudgingly at the bright orange indicator now clipped to my line, made my first cast. For a few minutes I watched as my indicator drifted on the waves, disappearing and reappearing in the rays of the setting sun. I was annoyed and frustrated with myself at having sunk so low and was about ready to reel in and go back to stripping when I noticed my indicator had suddenly vanished.

I set the hook and immediately felt a heavy, throbbing weight that bent my 8-weight until the rod tip almost hit the water. Backing towards shore, I fought the fish into the shallows, feeling a shock of excitement when I saw a bright red monster appear from the depths of the drop-off, dragging my indicator along like the shark dragging the barrels in Jaws. When I reached the beach, a passerby handed me my net and I managed to scoop the fish from the water. Handing the random beachcomber my phone, I dropped to my knees and lifted the mighty Lahontan from the net for a quick picture before letting it go. As I released the fish and watched it swim back to its murky home, I felt something in me had changed. That night I slept with visions of bouncing bobbers dancing in my head and, for the first time in a long time, I couldn’t wait to see them again.