Out of the sack at the crack of dawn, the weather is cooperating as it has dropped nearly 20 degrees since last week, I’m in the mood to spoil someone’s breakfast… I meant besides the neighbor seeing me in my skivvies.

I’m headed for the Bridge Pool of the Little Stinking, that’s where the Carp sleep at night and my ongoing struggle with them is giving rise to an angling complex, I can get to the Superbowl, I just can’t ever win the damn thing.

I sneak my head over the bridge railing and immediately scream really quietly. Below me is about 100 big carp milling about looking for chow.

The smallest is about 6 lbs, the largest appears closer to 17lb, and I am doing a happy dance all the way back the vehicle.

This won’t be easy, but the volume of fish suggests something stupid is present – besides me. These fish weren’t here last week and where they’ve come from is a mystery, but I am not examining the teeth on this gift horse.

I sneak down to the creek and move about 50 yards upstream from the bridge, staying in the bushes – keeping a good 30 yards between me and the water. Walking on cobble is noisy, and usually these fish know about me before I get within range – so I’m ensuring they don’t get the chance this time.

The upstream side is all in shade, it’s early morning and the sun isn’t high enough to give me away. I’m going to fish down to the pool assuming that anything spooked will head downstream to where the other fish are already feeding.

I walked into a full bore mayfly spinner fall, last week I was lucky to find a single mayfly, now they are all over the place – more importantly, the fish are eating them. Not heavily, just an occasional gallon sized dimple appears in the line of foam downstream.

A #14 Black AP Nymph is my first choice and I start quartering down and swinging it across the current. The AP is a fast sinking nymph, a slim silhouette with little to impede its sink rate, and from the bridge view – most of the fish were on or near the bottom.

I have carp moving by me constantly, all looking for something and schooled nicely, they are moving as a group sticking to the deeper water and moving up and downstream continuously. This appears to be a feeding pattern, as I’m only 30 feet away and they’re unconcerned.

I get a bump and set hook, 30 yards of stream erupts all at once – I have carp headed north, carp headed south, mud flying, and me standing there with mouth agape, nearly soiling myself. Something big is on the end of the line and it’s scared every fish around. The suddenly skinny 8’6″ fly rod with the #5 line is very much outclassed, but rather than melt the reel the fish is hanging in cover, with me attached. I’m seeing color as the fish heads for downed timber, but it’s not carp colors, I lay the thumb onto the exposed reel rim and bear down, I have 5X tippet and it’s time to check my knots…

I have a bass hooked solidly, not a carp, the knots hold and I steer the beast clear of the branches. I am able to work the fish in close and finally get to see clearly what I hooked, it’s a really big Largemouth and it likely owns this stretch of the river.

Nothing is more fun than being surprised and finding a nice fish when you are expecting his smaller cousin, it’s like winning the lottery and not having to share the proceeds. I light a cigar and wait for the ruckus to die down. The bass had fought right through the carp and they were all on Defcon 4, alert and suspicious.

I ease down nearly to the pool, fishing the bend and slot it made in the far bank, the carp have returned to their earlier patrol and I am still obscured by bridge shadow and unnoticed.

I’m caught wool gathering, but set hook anyway, two head shakes and I am wearing the fly. The V-wakes headed away from me are testimony to something sizeable. I quarter down with the next cast and get thumped softly, another couple of head shakes and the fly and tippet are snapped clean.

They’re eating what I’m offering and that’s the hard part, but the disturbance of hooked fish has driven the bulk of the school into the pool proper. The sun is high enough to illuminate the entire area and I have to move below the bridge to get within range. No longer cloaked in shadow, I will be in full view of the fish, as will the rod and line.

I make a wide loop away from the water and regain the shore behind a large clump of tule rushes. Hoping they mask my presence enough to get some casts at the fish…

I get a dozen casts at the fish and nothing. There is at least 50 fish visible and suddenly they’re not interested in what I am throwing. I was fishing in shade before, now I am in bright sunlight. I swap flies to a Pheasant Tail nymph with a pearl flashabou line down each side, just enough flash to offer visibility, yet not so gaudy that it might spook the entire area.

The fish suddenly go on alert and voices from upstream start filtering to me,  before I can curse I am surrounded by  four dozen eco-terrorists. Zealots are never too pleasant,  I’m usually one of them, but this time I’m the odd man out and the horde descends on me oblivious to my fishing. It’s a good cause, they were the Cache Creek Conservancy folks picking up streamside litter. I can’t protest too much as the area sorely needs cleaning and outside of the small amount I can pack out, deserves some environmental love.

“Grandma” standing behind me wasn’t so good, I’m trying desperately to remain cordial and good natured, and Grandma’s bottom is in mortal peril of an errant backcast. I’m thinking, “Check the Physics, Grandma – the line is in front of me, then it’s behind me – and if you are slow in announcing yourself, I am likely to bury a beadhead where the sun don’t shine much…”

It’s one thing to think that, but I am seriously outnumbered here. Eco-terrorists are always squeamish at the sight of their own blood, I figure I can take at least two dozen of them wielding a hemostat and line nippers, but as they’re now on both sides of the creek and the high ground, I’ll just nod pleasantly and out wait Grandma.

The Trout Underground had mentioned something about an Upper Sacramento cleanup, likely I was callously in the middle of some national event – being suddenly self conscious, I put the cigar butt in my vest.

The crowd began to thin but the kids were fascinated by me fishing in the effluent. I figured the little girl for no more than 6, and her brother posed some intelligible remark that had her valiantly come to my defense. “No, he’s FLY FISHING, and he uses insects and the fish jump out and eat them.” I was facing the other way grinning from ear to ear, I didn’t need to add to her older brother’s quandary – but he just got owned…

I can see the last of them headed downstream and sent the next cast up by the bridge abutment. I am strumming the line with an index finger as it passes through a pod of fish, I get a gentle thump and set hook. My old System 7 reel starts screaming, the rod is doubled over, and I am grinning the “Who me?” idiot grin…

Now I’m back in “5 weight hell,” woefully under-gunned, 5X tippet and attached to a train headed north. The fish blows past the bridge and is sawing my floating line against the concrete in a painful way. I’m unconcerned about the fly line and really concerned about what I am going to do next; I can’t move upstream to follow, can’t move out far enough to get the line away from the bridge, and can’t do anything rational except cackle gleefully as I watch the fly line vanish and the backing start.

Thankfully the fish stops somewhere upstream, and I start the slow process of convincing him he needs to head my direction. What would really be useful is a couple of noisy environmentalists grabbing trash near where it’s come to rest, no such luck.

I have the “suddenly spineless” rod parallel to the water on my left side, hoping he’ll swim in the “easy” direction – away from the bridge and out into the open water. As the fish comes into view he does just that, and the line is no longer being tortured against the concrete. I can see three other big carp following my fish in squadron formation. I have about 40 yards of open water below me and I catch a break – my fish wants to fight me south of the bridge. I am guessing the weight as “larger than my tippet” so I can’t horse this cow too much, it blows water violently at every run – a big fish in shallow water and me holding on for dear life.

The down side of a 5 weight rod is the lack of power when you need it most, that last 30 feet, he finally sees you and wants no part in coming closer – with you lacking anything to convince him otherwise. That little nymph looked mighty fragile in the maw of this tuna, the small gape doesn’t allow for much purchase. Each time I head the fish and turn it back towards me I have the vision of it coming loose. (I would see that happen later on a second fish)

These fish are stunning when caught, large golden scales prominently displayed during battle, mixed with a bit of iridescence as they get closer. They are mortal now, not the cunning and shy beasts that tormented me during my vacation. A great adversary, giving the angler as much nail biting agony as anything I’ve caught in the past.

I expect tomorrow morning will find me here again, I may want to try a shot at a Fly Fisherman cover story:

“I hastily switched to 7X and presented the gossamer #20 upstream to the slimy Polaris Class submersible rooting about the sunken tire… it was a smutting rise, and I nearly lost my grip on my crumpet..

I got to go get my teeth whitened for the cover shot, one of you lads take my place on the foam line.

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