I saw the big dip in the daytime temperatures and figured fishing would be better served come Sunday and Monday, thankfully my resolve weakened and I went Saturday – as the rest of the weekend was blowing topsoil and “hunker down” weather.

Saturday saw me at the bridge pool eyeballing the cocoa colored mass as it ebbed past the bridge, I could see the feeding Carp as an indistinct lump in midcurrent, trailing the traditional mud plume.

It was the bubbles that drew my attention, oxygen bubbles filtering up to the surface marked the forward progress of the fish. I’m not sure how that’s possible – but as each fish tipped forward to siphon mud, bubbles popped to the surface.

I suited up and got down into the creek bottom, sidling up against one of the bridge abutments for cover. Sure enough, I could see 6 or 8 plumes of bubbles out in the open water. Gauging the water depth from above and knowing where that mouth was headed meant I knew how far above to drop the fly.

I started off with the brightest of the experimental flies – a scarlet San Juan Worm with a collar of red Angelina fibers to add some needed flash. Visibility in this section is 12″ or less – and the hint of flash might make the fly visible rather than fearsome – spooking fish like in the clear water upstream.

I’d added a 4mm gunmetal bead just ahead of the collar, enough to reach bottom within seconds. I’m guessing that in brown water the fish don’t vary their path much as it’s too hard to see anything other than what’s in front of them.

The remnants of an earlier bridge lies in the water opposite me – and the morning sun allows me to see a big shadow coming around the concrete from downstream – bubbles start trickling up to the surface and I lay the fly in about three feet above. Just when he should be eating it the line pauses and I yank about 4 feet of branches and root mass off the bottom.

I’m looking at dead glassy water – and all them Carp are gone. Every fisherman is an optimist on the first 5 casts – the predatory tree branch set the bar where it needed to be.

It’s growing warm quickly and the thought of the long slog through the sand and pea gravel to move upstream is suddenly onerous. I’ve got all these flies to try, it’s going to be triple digits shortly, and the next available fish are at least three miles distant.

I crack out a foul smelling cigar and am content with my mortality.

After 10 minutes, I see some bubble streams appearing below me – but ignore them – I’m fixated on that small patch of water at the end of the concrete that I can see into. A brown shadow appears and more bubbles, moving slowly upstream like the first fish.

I outsmart myself again – figuring I could slip the fly into the water by bouncing it off the concrete above the fish; the plan was sound – I just didn’t see that foot long chunk of rebar that the fly wrapped itself around.

So now I’m a pessimist. All the swearing and tippet snapping occurred out of the water and the fish is still feeding peacefully.  I’ve got three left, and after knotting on a replacement – I managed to avoid roots and rebar and bounce the fly into the water where it’s needed.

Just about the time it should be in harm’s way – the steady “tic – tic – tic” of the bottom stops, I rear back on the rod and have something living on the other end. It heads down the pool, slams on the brakes, and heads back towards me – all the while I’m trying to get those precious fingers away from all the fast moving Sharkskin …

Note to self, stop using this ^%$# line, it’s dangerous.

Just as fast the fly comes unbuttoned. I’m still savaged by adrenaline and full of bravado, gesturing at the water. “Hah, you ain’t invincible Dammit, Golden lockjawed Ghost of the Pooty Water, you sure as hell ate that !”

That nice lady behind me must’ve blushed about seven shades of red watching my obscenity laced war dance. “Excuse me, are you fishing?”

I smiled a bit sheepishly, noting I was knee deep in the river, holding a rod and pulling coils of green fly line off me, “Yes, at least I think so.”

I chatted with her for a few minutes before she jogged off up the river, she’d never seen anyone fly fish before – and I had to assure her all the swearing wasn’t part of it. It bought me time to let the water cool down and get another fly attached.

As if on cue another big shadow appears at the end of the concrete and the bubbles start welling up from below. I slip the fly in above it and the line stops dead – I ear back on the rod and start getting fingers out of the way, the fish is headed south and the running line is coming up at me like a vinyl-jacketed coping saw. I sacrifice the thumb and index finger to get the loose line under control and the fish on the reel – while both fingerprints are removed.

The fish is still headed away and I’m cradling the rod with an elbow trying to blow the smoke off my fingers. It hits the end of the pool and reverses direction – forcing me to back up smartly and reel at the same time.

It goes dormant opposite me, and I can finally do the wounded angler dance, “Ow-oW-Ow, %$#$ – Jesus, who thunk this ^%$&# line up?” It didn’t help that the fine grit and sand had added to the texture – what with my big feet stomping it into the streambed between casts. 

The antiseptic qualities of the Little Stinking are well documented – and I opted to put them in my mouth instead.

I’ve got a 4X tippet and two fresh knots – so I’m feeling ahead of the game, until that big tail broke water and it headed downstream. This fish is much bigger than I figured and suddenly I’m mortal again.

On my side is the shortness of the deep water – it’s only 50 yards long and this beast insists on staying within the confines of the pool. We sawed back and forth for the better part of 15 minutes – then I waded out and grabbed a fistful of tail to end it.

I’ve learned a couple things from all this; double digit fish on a 5 weight is silly – that’s why they make 8 weight rods. The Golden Salmon are mortal, barely – and the SA Sharkskin is a wonderful casting line – but I grow tired of protecting myself from it’s excesses.

I returned Sunday for the long march upstream, armed with a Sage 7 weight and a beautifully smooth Cortland 444 Nymph tip I had laying around. I upped the backing to 30lb after Saturday’s fish – there isn’t much room for error with only standard 20lb Micron. 

I did manage to hook one large Carp in the upper stretch – also on the San Juan Worm, but the hook came free just after the struggle started. My ears were feeling pretty good what with the extra power to push the fly through the stiffening breeze, so I’ll likely start carrying this on the dedicated “Golden Salmon” outings.

With low water I don’t have to worry about runs more than 100 yards, and the #7 allows the smaller Pikeminnow and Bass that attack the fly to give a good account of themselves.

I figure it’s a draw, both the Carp and I came to grips with mortality, and we both retired bleeding…