May 23-26, 2025- I got home from chasing tarpon in Mexico around eleven at night, and instead of unpacking, I packed. The van, the rods, the trolling motor, the cooler. Some trips you ease into. This one I jumped from saltwater straight into the Sierra without much of a landing in between, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Gina and I pulled out the next morning—Saturday, May 23rd—around eleven, stopped at the Black Bear Diner in Redding for lunch around one, and pointed the van uphill toward Lake Margaret.
Saturday: The Last Site, the Last Boat
We rolled in to find the place nearly full. Sunny, mid-seventies, and windy—the kind of wind that makes you question whether the fishing gods are testing your commitment, especially after not so stellar fishing in Campecheless than 24 hours ago. The Campsite was full and every site was taken except one, which we got by virtue of being the last to arrive. It sat a fair walk from the water and the van didn’t level up perfectly, but I figured someone would pull out over the long weekend and we could reposition. For now, it was home.
Then came the small miracle: rowboat number eight—the very last rental boat left on the rack. Better yet, it was a deep-V hull, which is exactly what you want when the lake looks more like the North Pacific than a mountain reservoir. I bolted on my trolling motor, hauled the boat up near camp, and launched around 5:30 p.m. with the wind still howling and whitecaps marching across the lake. Getting back to camp was an adventure all by itself. With the trolling motor pinned on high and me rowing like a madman, I could barely make headway against the wind. At times it felt less like boating and more like participating in some bizarre endurance event where the grand prize was not being blown into the Dam land walking half a mile back to camp.
Most of the campers seemed content to watch the show from shore. From their perspective, there was one lone idiot out there attempting to fly cast in conditions better suited for kite surfing. Every time a gust hit, I probably looked like I was either fishing or trying to signal for rescue. Somehow, despite the chop, the trout didn’t get the memo that fishing was supposed to be impossible. Three fish came to hand. I kept one destined for breakfast glory and released the other two to tell their friends about the crazy guy waving a fly rod around in a gale.
Back at camp, Gina and I reheated our diner leftovers, declared them gourmet cuisine, and climbed into the van. After a day of battling wind, waves, and my own questionable judgment, we slept like rocks.
Sunday: Glass Water and a Freezer Run
Sunday morning was a different lake entirely. I got up early and rowed out into dead calm. I worked blobs and junk flies right where the creek feeds into the lake, and the fish were there—I’d landed around thirty by eleven o’clock. I kept four of them, three of those a proper size, and vacuum-sealed the lot to bring home.
That was the whole show, as it turned out. By afternoon the wind came back with a vengeance and stayed cranked nearly until sunset, so we called it on fishing for the day. Gina settled into the van with her scrapbooking; I was still running on Mexico time and surrendered to a long nap in the hammock after lunch. She took a walk down to the dam. A good, slow afternoon.
We grilled steaks and brussels sprouts for dinner and got to know Nate, our camp host, who turned out to be a Bay Area transplant. He gave us the green light on the propane fire pit—keep it contained, sweep the pine needles well clear first—so we had a fire, hot chocolate, and a show on the iPad. Starlink was humming along without a hiccup, which still feels like magic out there. Lights out happy.
Monday: Memorial Day, and the Day It All Came Together
I was up early again the next morning, and once again Lake Margaret greeted me with glass-calm water. The trout apparently hadn’t gotten the memo that they were supposed to be difficult. Five fish came to hand before breakfast, and another fifteen during the morning session before the daily afternoon blow arrived. Nearly all of them fell for the same pschodelic rubber junk flies and blobs that had been producing from the start.
What really impressed me was the quality of the fish. These trout fought harder than many of the fish I’ve hooked at Henderson Springs. They jumped repeatedly, tore off line, and generally behaved like fish that had never seen a fly before. The average size was equally impressive. In most places you’re looking for the biggest fish to keep. At Lake Margaret, I found myself doing the opposite—sorting through fish trying to find the smallest one that would fit in the frying pan without having to cut it in half. Most of the trout were over twenty inches long and built like footballs.
Back at camp, Gina and I fried up fresh trout and eggs for breakfast, one of those simple meals that somehow tastes better at a campsite than at any restaurant. Truth be told, Gina and I could probably eat fried trout for every meal and never get tired of it. Maybe that’s a little strange, but after a morning on the water and fish caught just hours earlier, it tastes about as close to perfect as food can get.
Being Memorial Day, we spent part of the morning watching the ceremonies and tributes honoring America’s fallen servicemen and women. Memorial Day has always meant more to us than just the unofficial start of summer. It is a day to remember the men and women who gave everything so that the rest of us could enjoy the freedoms we often take for granted—the freedom to gather with family, travel where we choose, speak our minds, worship as we see fit, and live in the greatest nation on earth.
For Gina and me, those sacrifices feel personal. Gina’s late father, Nick, was a decorated veteran of D-Day, serving as a combat engineer with the 29th Infantry Division during one of the most pivotal battles in world history. Like so many of his generation, he answered the call when freedom itself was under threat. We are also reminded of that continuing tradition of service through our son-in-law Ryan, who proudly serves on active duty in the United States Air Force.
As we watched President Trump honor America’s fallen heroes, recounting stories of extraordinary courage, valor, and sacrifice, it was impossible not to reflect on the debt we owe those who never came home. Every white cross in a military cemetery represents a life interrupted, a family forever changed, and a sacrifice made on behalf of future generations.
Sitting beside a beautiful mountain lake, enjoying the peace and freedoms that those men and women helped preserve, the meaning of Memorial Day seemed especially clear. The quiet moments we enjoy with family, the traditions we pass down to our children and grandchildren, and even simple mornings spent fishing and sharing breakfast all exist because brave Americans were willing to risk—and ultimately give—their lives in defense of our country and our way of life.
It’s a debt that can never truly be repaid, but it should never be forgotten.
After eating, I was right back on the water despite the wind. Actually the hardest part of fishing Margaret in the wind is the fact that the anchors that come with the boats wont hold in the mud. Might be worth bringing your own or a trolling motor with spotlock. Later, Nate, the camp host, shared some local knowledge that really got my attention. He told me the lake holds a substantial population of large brown trout that move into the creek channels to spawn in August. Even more intriguing was his description of the native brook trout. According to Nate, they spend their lives feasting on the lake’s abundant tui chubs and grow far larger than most anglers would expect from a brook trout. He suggested that anglers willing to throw streamers and target the baitfish schools have a legitimate shot at some truly exceptional fish. As if I needed another excuse to come back.
What followed on that Windy Memorial day of ’26 was one of those days you tell people about. Over twenty fish in the afternoon. The bite just would not quit. Gina held down camp and worked on her scrapbook while I lost track of time on the water. A cold wind stayed in it, and you could feel the weather thinking about turning—clouds stacking up, the air going cooler, a storm front sliding in.
I brought one pan-sized fish back for dinner, fried it up alongside broccolini, and it was exactly as good as you’d hope. We sat out by the propane fire until the first rain pushed us inside, where we got cozy and watched a little more TV. It hadn’t been forecast to rain, but I slipped out in the late evening anyway to stow gear so I wouldn’t be wrestling soaked equipment later. Good thing—it rained hard through the night.
Tuesday: Cold, Misty, and One More for the Road
Morning came in overcast and genuinely cold—forty-one degrees—cold enough that we ran the heater in the van. I wasn’t about to leave without a last cast. The lake was wrapped in mist, quiet and gray and beautiful in that way only a cold mountain morning gets, and I picked up another eight fish before the wind started to build again. When it did, I took the hint, returned the boat, and headed back to the van to pack up.
The Tally, and the Takeaway
Four mornings, one rowboat, a freezer’s worth of trout, and somewhere north of seventy fish to the boat over the weekend. The pattern was about as clear as fishing patterns get: calm mornings were gold, wind shut it down a notch, and blobs and junk flies near the creek inlet did the heavy lifting all weekend long.
But honestly, the fish were only half of it. Going from a tarpon flat to a misty Sierra lake inside of a day, sharing a van and a propane fire with the love of my life Gina, hot chocolate and a working Starlink signal under the pines—that’s the part that sticks. The wind tested us on the bookends and the middle gave us everything. I’ll take that trade every time.
