I like trout better.

Big trees, cold water, and a ready shade tree with rock to perch under – so I can dangle them big, tired Lumberjack feet in cold water …

I’ll be back to my senses shortly. I’ll remember the sphincter-puckering roar of that 100 car freight that surprised me on the outside turn, the cannot-assume-anything trek up the Upper Sacramento’s leafy bank – where the first step is four inches and the next step is four feet.

I’ll remember them bad burgers and wilted green thing accented with a spear point of grayish-red tomato; defying description even with the advanced color palette of a fly tyer…

But the present is a 112 degree blast furnace of Central Valley, where the shade trees have been plowed under – the fish simmer in warm water nursing hateful grudges and bad temper, and the angler starts perspiring while unlocking the truck.

I bounced all over the Upper Sacramento this weekend – submitting my portly frame to all manner of abuse pursuing the hidden, passed over, and seldom fished…

Mostly I found out the “why” them labels were attached, rather than ferreting out massive fish overlooked by the throng. Lots of anglers, lots of bugs to please anglers – and the fishing both enjoyable and arduous.

There’s no question the fish are keying on the large bug – both dry and nymphal forms. Those multi-colored beadheaded “Mutt” stonefly nymphs knocked the fish for a tizzy – and I spent a goodly portion of the weekend fishing all the colors, and Olive proved the biggest hit … the Purple a distant second.

Naturally I’d prefer to chalk it up to intense entomological research coupled with amazing foresight, but the yarn colors dictated all those oddball patterns – I was merely crazy enough to fish them.

Fishing is dominated by the unorthodox – a lesson drilled home after chasing year’s of uncooperative slimy – it’s the lack of boundaries fish display when hungry, despite the countless reams of angling text arguing the contrary.

The fish were small and plentiful, mornings spent wading up the center throwing weight at every good looking rock, evenings spent flinging even bigger dry flies – with the occasional #14 Yellow Humpy chaser. Egg laying Golden Stones were much in evidence and once keyed to the color the fish ate yellow whether it was large or small.

So did I – and despite the proprietor’s claim, that salad was past its prime …

One quick trip to the “Bachelor Store” (Chevron MiniMart) addressed the culinary hardship – and I dined on flat rocks in the river – tearing dried animal flesh and rinsing the result with trail mix and warm water.

The angling pressure is significant, and only the early riser gets to dictate his fishing grounds, as the throng starts arriving after breakfast.

I don’t get to fish with the Brotherhood too often – and as the tackle intensive, large-arbor crowd showed late in the morning, I’d perch on a rock with my “rat meat” and watch them move through the runs I’d completed.

That part of fishing will never change.

While the Chicken Fried Steak sure looks good on the menu, the time lost ensures you’re second through the prime water, and the digestive stupor guarantees you’ll miss the first half dozen fish …

… leaving us portly predacious types in the Jungle eating rat meat, and growing stronger.. (when we ain’t wilting from the heat.)