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.