Doctor Mom would’ve given me a good scolding, the Evil Eye, and an increased ration of Chicken soup.
A significant relapse this weekend suggested I’d returned to work much too early, and after feverishly climbing back into bed Saturday, I was just as feverishly climbing out of bed Sunday morning.
For the next couple of months we’re enduring “plus change” weather, you add 100 degrees to the “change” and if you can’t get it done by 10AM it’ll have to wait until tomorrow morning…
I felt pretty good after securing the groceries and laundry by 6AM, so I packed a couple liters of water, rod and vest, and took off adventuring before I thought better of the idea.
Rumors of a vast fetid waterway full of Carp, yet limited by my tenuous health meant all the ground-pounding would have to be complete before the sun became oppressive.
I had premonitions of success as I drove past the perfumed ziggurat of decaying garbage. My directions had omitted landmark detail, but a ponderous mound of earth, electrified fence, and airborne garbage bags marked the resting place of Solano county’s unwanted leftovers.
I was getting my hopes up thinking I’d be fishing something other than little insects, as a refuse pit offers so much more variety than traditional stream fare. I’m thinking partially digested Filet O’ Fish imitation, complete with golden deer hair “bun” and big treble – how the fish would pirouette lazily in appreciation before inhalation.
I squealed to a stop upwind and cross referenced the debris field with my map – but the thin blue line I was after was further east; so it would be regular-nasty and absent taint from buried leftovers.
… which was probably for the better, as most dumps have an onerous fee for parking…
It’d be gracious to call it “stained with tannin” but the abundant alfalfa fields, herds of sheep and corn, made it more muck-coffee colored; bigger than I’d anticipated and with a lot of miles available for exploration.
The tell-tale puffs of mud in mid-channel confirmed carp, and “kissing” sounds from the Tules suggested additional quarry, bluegill and possibly some largemouth bass.
I was fast running out of gas, the combined weakness of doing too much physical too soon and increasing temperature. I’d covered a mile of the south bank – getting a feel for changes in depth and bottom structure.
It’s a perfect fishery for a two man team, one to spot fish or mud plumes from the roadbed – and the other to cast using the spotter’s directions. Once down at water level only tailing fish can be seen, and they’re understandably skittish despite their size.
I hooked two large Carp on the march back to the truck, both took the Laughing Damsel I’d tied for lake fishing. The brass bead chain gets the fly to the bottom instantly, and I just rolled it through the mud plume while watching the tip for a hint of movement.
Both fish scrubbed me off in clumps of elodea, and I was thankful as the idea of feverishly chasing after double digit fish on a 45 degree incline was daunting.
I call it “Sporting Creek” due to the amount of soccer balls, footballs, and basketballs at the high water mark. I counted 33 decaying balls in the first mile of bank, there’s some hidden story yet to be revealed.
Sound lovely, and with the added heat it must smell just as lovely. Great read.
Tight lones
Tannin? You’re killing me Smalls!
I’m hoping to see a Keith, a la Mr. Miyagi, “crane” pose on one of those stumps in the future.
Nice write-up.
Let me guess.
You want me to join you so I get to hike along on miles of shade-less, parched and dusty roadbed, all the while, pointing down and yell, “there’s another one,” while you bask in the blogosphere glory of displaying your trophy catch.
And with all those sports balls you saw, there must be a trophy down there, somewhere.
When do we leave?
Now that idea has merit. I’ll have you fitted with a golf cart containing extra rods and more “irons” – so I can call up the bluff for a pitch wedge or driver …
Why not just toss a pontoon boat (or kayak) in that puppy? Chicks would dig you.
I have a tandem, sit-on-top kayak that I have offered, more than once, to paddle Mr. Barton around on, but so far he has refused my advances.
Imagine the response from the “chicks” on seeing that sight.
I find it more productive to focus my energy on pursuing fish – rather than alternately bailing your leaky vessel with a Starbux mug – while screaming in terror…
The fellow on the bridge of the Exxon Valdez thought he was quite a yachtsman too …
You two fight like a veteran married couple. There maybe an online reality TV show in this.
I shudder to think of what might grow on the bottom of anything dropped in that ditch. And then there is the drive home in the heat with the stench of decay. Waders would likely have to be towed behind the truck on a rope. This new waterway could make anyone who fishes the L.A. aquaduct jealous of the water quality and the coarse nature of the quarry. I think this discovery may have saved your blog at the risk of your health, a worthy sacrifice. Gratz!
I would double check to see if you’ve gotta growth coming out of your abdomen after wading in that sludge. Brownliner? More like Greyliner.
When “hard as nails” Roughfisher goes squeamish on me – I may have to rethink this creeks “girlfriend” status.
…come to think of it, both legs sprang leaks – so there may be some really sinister biologics at work.
Whatever doesn’t kill you will only make you stronger…. or give you a third leg