“Big Yellow fish jumping out of the water” was all I needed to hear, I knew what A.Wannabe.TravelWriter had stumbled on – the Lost Carp Graveyard, a rumored oasis of gigantic and hungry fish aching to have someone fling something sharp at them.

I’d missed the “Creek Walk” last weekend with my tomato-induced ailment, TravelWriter had made the trek and mentioned seeing lots of big fish upstream of my normal haunts. This was uncharted territory somewhere in the vicinity of Capay Dam, near Esparto.

It’s largely private property, but the streambed afforded us the opportunity to stay below the high water mark, offering its usual thin veneer of legality.

The Little Stinking has little current this time of year, most of the water is being diverted into the crisscross of aqueducts spreading it throughout the county. The diversions were brim-full, leaving the creek bed a semi-stagnant, overly warm, trickle of water.

“The Palisades” was about a mile above our access point, a manmade riprap of sofa pillows filled with concrete. It’s an awkward looking structure akin to a giant mattress, with metal pylons and heavy cargo net slung between – designed to slow debris or catch it, I’m not sure which.

Travel writers are always compelled to test the mattress, and while I’m alert to fish, he’s busy making notes on firmness and accoutrements. I took his scowl to mean the Proprietor was short sheeting the bed..

The lack of fish life was a bit unsettling, no sign of anything feeding, despite an ample Trico spinner fall – and no visible fish in either the main channel or in the slack water under the overhanging branches. I’d expected something akin to what I normally fish, a mixture of terrain and fish interspersed with burned out vehicles and abandoned lawn mowers.

It looked like Carp water – the kind of water that holds nothing else, no current and little cover means it’s likely oxygen starved and unable to support much invertebrates or a diverse population of fish.

But there was evidence enough – hard evidence that brooks little argument and gives the river its piquant bouquet.

I wanted to snag it and blur the picture enough to make it “live again” – but TravelWriter had both principles and scruples. That’s unconscionable in a real angler, but as it was only his third outing with a fly, I had to make allowances.

I figure he’s one complimentary trip away from sharing our “relaxed” sense of fair play, so we tucked the carcass in a safe spot in case we needed it next time.

Farther upstream the “big yellow fish” mystery was illuminated. The river was quite murky but shallow, and the silhouettes of fish were everywhere. Big pods of 8-15lb carp were alternating coming out of the water and raising big puffballs of mud.

Spawning behavior, and I was heartbroken.

I’d seen this on the reaches closer to town and knew they wouldn’t eat or respond to anything put in front of them. The big females would come out of the river headfirst making an enormous splash, and while I couldn’t see into the mud plume, I assumed she was using her tail to build a nest – and propelling herself out of the water in the process.

TravelWriter and I threw an assortment of flies and stinging insults, but other than getting splashed by hormonally challenged fish – we had no action. I stung one fish and had a brief lift of spirit – but an examination of the fly revealed it’d been foul hooked. Note the size of the scale, and  think about the bend that horse would’ve done to my anemic little 5 weight..

Capay Dam proved to be the Lost Graveyard of Carp, and the small impoundment below the dam had 50 large fish with no interest in flies whatsoever.

I’m really not sure what I would have done with 25 pounds of carp headed downstream, but blistered fingers would’ve been apropos with the pair forming on my feet.

It was another adventure, and we emerged from the underbrush like Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow, supplies non-existent, torn and beaten, feet bandaged, and ready for a nap.