The woods lining both sides of the serpentine road appeared uncharacteristically cold, dark, and lifeless, under the gun metal grey sky.

"Well, at least it's not snowing," I said as raindrops stippled the windshield. Just then, as if on cue, we spotted the first large flakes drifting earthward against the evergreen backdrop. "That's cool, I haven't seen snow since I was six years old," exclaimed my nephew Dylan Rush.

Dylan, a high school senior in Na'alehu, Hawaii recently spent three weeks in California visiting family. Dylan has experienced blue water fishing in the islands, but he's done very little freshwater fishing. Naturally, I was anxious to get him into the mountains in pursuit of trout.

We were headed for French Meadows Reservoir on the headwaters of the American River's Middle Fork. The road to French Meadows had only recently been cleared of snow and I expected the lake's trout to be on a good spring bite. Fortunately for us, the rain and snow tapered off by the time we reached the lake, despite the leaden clouds that swirled overhead.

The lake was in great shape, brim full and crystal clear. Our plan was to try bank fishing from various locations, until we found fish. Our first stop was at the northwest end of the dam where a jagged granite point knifed into deep water.

I set up my first rod with a sliding sinker rig, baited with an inflated nightcrawler. I tied a red/brass Cripplure on Dylan's rod and attached a No. 11 chrome Husky Jerk to my second rod.

As the worm soaked, we fan cast our lures along either side of the point. On my third cast I saw a trout shadowing the Rapala. A few casts later, a thick bodied, dark colored trout shot out of nowhere and slammed my Rapala. The trout was hooked for a second, but came unbuttoned when it ran for deeper water.

Just when things were getting exciting the breeze shifted and an expansive raft of driftwood floated over the area we'd been fishing, sending us in search of open water. "If the wind changes and pushes this driftwood back offshore, we'll try this spot again before we leave," I told Dylan as we drove away.

I knew the area surrounding the northeast launch ramp boasted an irregular shoreline and plenty of boulders, so that's where we headed. A short hike west of the ramp brought us to a rocky point.

Dylan tied on a chrome/blue Cripplure and began casting as I inflated a 'crawler. I could see a submerged boulder forty feet from shore, so I pitched the worm near it and put the rod in a holder.

I'd made about fifteen casts with the Rapala when Dylan nailed the first trout of the day. After putting the feisty keeper on the stringer, I decided to swap my Rapala for a Cripplure. I was nearly finished when the worm rod bent deeply and 4 Lb. line began zinging off the reel's spool.

Picking up the rod, I instantly felt the power of a heavy trout. Careful not to horse the fish, I kept the rod tip high and recovered line when I could. Minutes later the golden hues of a husky German brown materialized in front of me and I led the exhausted trout onto the shoreline gravel.

The brown was 22 inches long, weighed 3.75 pounds, and was magnificently marked with heavy spots from head to tail. After landing the second trout, things slowed down and we didn't have any more action for over an hour, so we went back to the truck for lunch.

I figured our spot near the dam would be clear of wood, since a stiff wind was blowing out of the west. After lunch we drove back around the lake to the dam. Sure enough, the raft of debris was now several hundred yards offshore.

Wasting no time, Dylan began casting his lure while I lobbed out a nightcrawler. Before the bait hit the bottom, I saw the line twitch sharply as a trout grabbed the worm and swam away.

"Here take this rod and close the bail. When you feel the fish set the hook and start reeling," I told Dylan, passing him the rod. After a short hard fought battle I plucked Dylan's sleek 17 inch brown from the gravel at our feet.

With Dylan's brown on the stringer and the worm rod back in its holder, we were treated to the site of a majestic bald eagle as it soared over the dam 200 yards away. Suddenly an osprey appeared diving toward the eagle. After a brief airborne scuffle, the eagle, not being able to match the osprey's maneuverability made a hasty escape. Judging from the osprey's temperament it must have had a nest nearby.

Just as the eagle disappeared the worm rod pulsed to life. I quickly open the reel's bail and picked up the rod, feeding the trout line. When the line was flowing from the spool freely, I closed the bail, allowed the line to tighten, and began fighting the trout.

The brown put up a determined battle, attempting to swim around submerged rocks several times. Luck was on my side however, and before long I had the awesome 20 inch brown in hand.

With the wind howling and the clouds spitting popcorn snow, Dylan and I stowed the gear and set off for town. It had been an exciting and memorable fishing adventure beyond the Foresthill Divide.