It’s been some time since I paused before releasing a freshwater fish – that hesitation that precludes stomping the life out of something, a glance at the water restored my senses and I opted to let the beast go..

It wasn’t due to some periodic male ritual, wherein we bend the environment to our will, it was an unlikely source – Singlebarbed as Locust.

Dawn had me wading through free garlic, and with 45 pounds of the Precious stashed in my kitchen, that Largemouth Bass took on new meaning.

In my youth, someone mentioned the presence of largemouth bass in Lake Merced – a pair of lakes sandwiched between the San Francisco Zoo and Ocean Beach, within San Francisco proper. It was a put and take fishery allowing city dwellers the ability to seduce trout with “Floating EggDeath” – salmon eggs and marshmallows.

About midway down the lake something shouldered aside the tules and latched onto the monstrous grape spinnerbait I was hurling. A 6lb largemouth, which confirmed the rumor – and sans camera I stomped the life out of it for proof.

While I’m tucking my napkin in place – I missed the “bitter beer face” of older brother, and stuffed that trophy fillet in my gob…

It was if I’d emptied a goldfish bowl and licked the algae off in one monstrous swipe.

20 years later, it’s the memory of that Lake Merced Largemouth that gave me pause, and while 45 pounds of Garlic may cover the initial fillet – it’s the other one I’m worried about.

Swirling green water looked back at me with the promise of flavors never tasted before … and I got cold feet, the Jungle stretch of Putah Creek looks a bit cleaner than the Little Stinking, but not worth the gamble.

I’d returned to test the X-Factor nymph on some of those huge Pikeminnow, saw one give it a half hearted bump – and then caught a pair of Largemouth and a matched brace of Smallmouth bass.

I’d tied some with gold beads and some with the traditional black, and black was the winner.

The bank side canopy allows me to poke the rod out and literally jig the fly in front of the fish – which is invaluable when testing out some silly theory or oddball prototype.

… and after Sunday’s adventure, I’ve got the resolve to explore the bizarre and absurd, leaving silliness to the guys that actually catch fish.

“You’re keeping an eye out for snakes, right?”

You can’t help a furtive glance at your feet when you hear that refrain. Here I’ve been stomping around the Little Stinking with impunity and I’m getting the real story from one of the landowners who stopped to chat.

Against my better judgement I’d taken a dawn hike up the river to see if there were any Carp above the normal spots fished. Last year I’d gone up an extra two miles and found a riffle feeding a deep pool, figuring that might block any upstream migration, and with the low water, eyeballing it might be appropriate.

Last week’s success required failure, as fish aren’t very smart – but they’re vindictive as hell. A momentary weakness for the “X-Factor” nymph means this week they’ll feign disinterest and give you the finger. Hoping to outsmart my destiny, I had a pocket full of new experimental variations of X-Factor nymphs and other beaded monstrosities.

They got the finger too.

The only bright spot was San Mateo Joe’s “Buffalo Stone” nymph. I’d been holding these in reserve for that special moment when you want to crush the spirit of the angler next to you ..

“Buffalo Stone? Never heard of it, what’s the pattern?”

“Buffalo shed.”

I figure just enough emphasis on the wrong syllable will have the guy reaching for plastic bags and a shovel… 

Black Hackle tail, shed buffalo fur for the body and thorax, with a couple turns of black rooster under the wingcase. It proved a slow sinking “change up” – which fooled a lot of bass this morning.

I spent two hours chasing a pod of six carp fruitlessly. I resolved to stop fishing for the “patrolling” fish, if it isn’t feeding, don’t cast to it. Tried every fly I had with me, including those from Minnesota and Oregon, and merely spooked a lot of large fish. 

OK, so the Carp are gone, and despite the 100 degree temperatures I feel … invigorated, refreshed even. Clay substrate is like grease – and the budding naturalist interested in Carp photos was taught a lesson.

At least I had one shot in focus … and an underwater camera.

The affect of low water is a boost to the bass population. Tules are now coming out of the creekbed and offering ample cover for hundreds of smallmouth. Most of the fish are four inches long – and should be six to eight inches by the winter flood. I’m hoping that’s large enough to survive the surge – and next year could be something special.

Remains to be seen, but that’s a lot of cover for small fish – and most should escape the herons, egrets, and mergansers. This stretch used to have only three large bass – now it has hundreds of small bass hiding under the mats of vegetation.

My inventory shows one water and a six month old “hooter” bar, the bane of the social angler. I’d found it trapped in the catch pocket of the passenger side door, knew it tasted like granulated cardboard when new – so age could only be an improvement.

“Hooter” bars are shown on TV – always some fit, smiling, office denizen skipping the fatty lunch for the pleasure of a rich and satisfying soy-laced, protein substance, glazed with a faux sugar exterior – often resembling chocolate.

What they don’t show is the percussive effects of such a hearty, well balanced treat. The fat doesn’t melt away, it bloody vaporizes … Age didn’t help the flavor, and right now some coyote is wondering what in God’s name he ate.

I go by visuals and my eyesight ain’t what it once was, he lives by a keen sense of smell, both of us should have been smarter.

The riffle and pool combination had some feeding carp that I could get to – but like the earlier fish, wanted nothing to do with flies. I flung and stripped, left them on the bottom, dead drifted over the top, and were either ignored or caused the fish to spook and run for the deep water.

Sorry, but if you think selective trout are difficult, I’ve got something much worse.

I’ve got to rethink everything, as something is fundamentally wrong with what I’m doing. Large flies spook the fish, whether bright or somber, and the only fish I’ve landed took a #14 caddis emerger.

Watching them feed is a bit of a conundrum, they’re not mowing weedbeds, rather they’re in the muddy areas siphoning the bottom like a vacuum cleaner. Outside of the “burrowing nymph” class of insects are the tiny clams – that’s the only visible prey I can see when wading the same locations.

Roughfisher has an imitation that I’ll try next week, “Clam before the Storm” – and if that doesn’t work I may try creamed corn, just to get even.

The landowner that paused his work to visit was a cheerful and informative fellow, he was astounded that I’d walked the entire length from town and lived.

“Once they flood the ditches the Rattlesnakes are all over, killed two in my driveway yesterday.”

That may be the reason my right leg is full of water, remind me to check for fang marks.

“… and we had a mountain lion here in March, big fellow ..”

Hopefully he likes Hooter bars, at least I’d hear him coming.

I followed up on last week’s find early Saturday morning, big brown fish roaming unmolested in a pea green bayou held promise, although I couldn’t find any sign of them this morning.

Plenty of human sign, as the proximity of the roadbed means you can empty your truck of trash with no one the wiser. It explains the multitude of “No Trespassing” signs – as it appears this is prime dumping ground.

Before you start blaming us Brownliners – and bringing up contentious issues like “watercolor-profiling”, think again. We obviously welcome the additions to the landscape, and only Angelina Jolie and Madonna adopt more orphans than we do.

We take most of this stuff home, usually it’s better furnishings than we’re accustomed to – and after you sanitizing it with a quick kick off the bridge, we get years of value from your gravity-me-downs…

The Ditch ended in a forebay which was a pumping station for another nameless brown creek that parallels the Sacramento River. Lots of families were present and everyone was fishing worms and bobbers. 

I hung around hoping to see someone land something but other than the excited chatter of kids, it was slow fishing. It’s traditional August weather, which means it’s 100 degrees by 10AM, so I started thinking about the chores I needed to finish before going fishing tomorrow. 

The goats agreed, seeking the shade of the railroad trestle before their workday starts. These four legged eating machines clean all the flood control dikes so they’re not compromised by vegetation and roots. It’s a great untold symbiosis of the Central Valley, the herdsmen get free graze – and the folks in the floodplain sleep soundly knowing the earthen barriers protecting their homes aren’t weakened by forces of Nature.

The goats get to become a burrito, which is an ignoble end for such heroic service, but I always observe a moment of admiration before plowing into one.