I saw the big dip in the daytime temperatures and figured fishing would be better served come Sunday and Monday, thankfully my resolve weakened and I went Saturday – as the rest of the weekend was blowing topsoil and “hunker down” weather.

Saturday saw me at the bridge pool eyeballing the cocoa colored mass as it ebbed past the bridge, I could see the feeding Carp as an indistinct lump in midcurrent, trailing the traditional mud plume.

It was the bubbles that drew my attention, oxygen bubbles filtering up to the surface marked the forward progress of the fish. I’m not sure how that’s possible – but as each fish tipped forward to siphon mud, bubbles popped to the surface.

I suited up and got down into the creek bottom, sidling up against one of the bridge abutments for cover. Sure enough, I could see 6 or 8 plumes of bubbles out in the open water. Gauging the water depth from above and knowing where that mouth was headed meant I knew how far above to drop the fly.

I started off with the brightest of the experimental flies – a scarlet San Juan Worm with a collar of red Angelina fibers to add some needed flash. Visibility in this section is 12″ or less – and the hint of flash might make the fly visible rather than fearsome – spooking fish like in the clear water upstream.

I’d added a 4mm gunmetal bead just ahead of the collar, enough to reach bottom within seconds. I’m guessing that in brown water the fish don’t vary their path much as it’s too hard to see anything other than what’s in front of them.

The remnants of an earlier bridge lies in the water opposite me – and the morning sun allows me to see a big shadow coming around the concrete from downstream – bubbles start trickling up to the surface and I lay the fly in about three feet above. Just when he should be eating it the line pauses and I yank about 4 feet of branches and root mass off the bottom.

I’m looking at dead glassy water – and all them Carp are gone. Every fisherman is an optimist on the first 5 casts – the predatory tree branch set the bar where it needed to be.

It’s growing warm quickly and the thought of the long slog through the sand and pea gravel to move upstream is suddenly onerous. I’ve got all these flies to try, it’s going to be triple digits shortly, and the next available fish are at least three miles distant.

I crack out a foul smelling cigar and am content with my mortality.

After 10 minutes, I see some bubble streams appearing below me – but ignore them – I’m fixated on that small patch of water at the end of the concrete that I can see into. A brown shadow appears and more bubbles, moving slowly upstream like the first fish.

I outsmart myself again – figuring I could slip the fly into the water by bouncing it off the concrete above the fish; the plan was sound – I just didn’t see that foot long chunk of rebar that the fly wrapped itself around.

So now I’m a pessimist. All the swearing and tippet snapping occurred out of the water and the fish is still feeding peacefully.  I’ve got three left, and after knotting on a replacement – I managed to avoid roots and rebar and bounce the fly into the water where it’s needed.

Just about the time it should be in harm’s way – the steady “tic – tic – tic” of the bottom stops, I rear back on the rod and have something living on the other end. It heads down the pool, slams on the brakes, and heads back towards me – all the while I’m trying to get those precious fingers away from all the fast moving Sharkskin …

Note to self, stop using this ^%$# line, it’s dangerous.

Just as fast the fly comes unbuttoned. I’m still savaged by adrenaline and full of bravado, gesturing at the water. “Hah, you ain’t invincible Dammit, Golden lockjawed Ghost of the Pooty Water, you sure as hell ate that !”

That nice lady behind me must’ve blushed about seven shades of red watching my obscenity laced war dance. “Excuse me, are you fishing?”

I smiled a bit sheepishly, noting I was knee deep in the river, holding a rod and pulling coils of green fly line off me, “Yes, at least I think so.”

I chatted with her for a few minutes before she jogged off up the river, she’d never seen anyone fly fish before – and I had to assure her all the swearing wasn’t part of it. It bought me time to let the water cool down and get another fly attached.

As if on cue another big shadow appears at the end of the concrete and the bubbles start welling up from below. I slip the fly in above it and the line stops dead – I ear back on the rod and start getting fingers out of the way, the fish is headed south and the running line is coming up at me like a vinyl-jacketed coping saw. I sacrifice the thumb and index finger to get the loose line under control and the fish on the reel – while both fingerprints are removed.

The fish is still headed away and I’m cradling the rod with an elbow trying to blow the smoke off my fingers. It hits the end of the pool and reverses direction – forcing me to back up smartly and reel at the same time.

It goes dormant opposite me, and I can finally do the wounded angler dance, “Ow-oW-Ow, %$#$ – Jesus, who thunk this ^%$&# line up?” It didn’t help that the fine grit and sand had added to the texture – what with my big feet stomping it into the streambed between casts. 

The antiseptic qualities of the Little Stinking are well documented – and I opted to put them in my mouth instead.

I’ve got a 4X tippet and two fresh knots – so I’m feeling ahead of the game, until that big tail broke water and it headed downstream. This fish is much bigger than I figured and suddenly I’m mortal again.

On my side is the shortness of the deep water – it’s only 50 yards long and this beast insists on staying within the confines of the pool. We sawed back and forth for the better part of 15 minutes – then I waded out and grabbed a fistful of tail to end it.

I’ve learned a couple things from all this; double digit fish on a 5 weight is silly – that’s why they make 8 weight rods. The Golden Salmon are mortal, barely – and the SA Sharkskin is a wonderful casting line – but I grow tired of protecting myself from it’s excesses.

I returned Sunday for the long march upstream, armed with a Sage 7 weight and a beautifully smooth Cortland 444 Nymph tip I had laying around. I upped the backing to 30lb after Saturday’s fish – there isn’t much room for error with only standard 20lb Micron. 

I did manage to hook one large Carp in the upper stretch – also on the San Juan Worm, but the hook came free just after the struggle started. My ears were feeling pretty good what with the extra power to push the fly through the stiffening breeze, so I’ll likely start carrying this on the dedicated “Golden Salmon” outings.

With low water I don’t have to worry about runs more than 100 yards, and the #7 allows the smaller Pikeminnow and Bass that attack the fly to give a good account of themselves.

I figure it’s a draw, both the Carp and I came to grips with mortality, and we both retired bleeding…

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.