This weekend I saw seventeen flavors of “I’m not wanted.” I also saw why – what with all the refuse people dump onto private land, and their fascination with gravity and water. 

Sportsmen and waterfowlers make up the balance of the eco-friendly, low impact, refuse slingers. We’ve seen gravity in action too many times to be amused, so we just leave the worm cartons, empty bottles, and shot up signs – where they lay.

The consequences of trespass is well documented in law, but that doesn’t stop property owners from attempting to scare hell out of you. Action words usually dominate – suggesting that this landowner will remove your testicles – the guy down the road may not.

Penal Code 602 is simple trespass, a $100 fine (which can grow to $1000) if you don’t leave immediately when asked. Section 2016 of the Fish and Game code is for waterfowlers – and those carrying firearms.

Brownliner’s are exempt, as these laws apply only to humans.

Sunday evening found me in the pea green bosom of something with no name – likely it’s there only to move water from corn to rice, but it has enough depth and clarity to host some monstrous carp. 

Occasionally some big fish came out of the depths to hover under the surface. They were over two feet long and brownish so I may be onto something. The scenic part of Interstate 5 is in the background, far enough away that I don’t have to worry about a tailing loop ensnarled in a semi…

I took an eight weight and six flies with me but nothing appealed to the residents – so I may swing through here next weekend with something brighter. A little flash can’t hurt in this water, and if the fish were bass – they’ll appreciate a change-up.

It may warrant a float tube, as there’s a couple miles of this trench to explore … legally.

 Lack of water drove me to Google Earth, but despite my search it didn’t oblige me with a big red arrow emblazoned with “Big Carp Here.” Instead I traced big water to little water, little to rivulet, then rivulet to irrigation ditch.

Satellite imagery showed a bridge and that’s enough to gain access to the creek bed legally, so I lumped my gear into the front seat and dead reckoned my way through garlic, corn, and bell peppers.

I should’ve brought my machete – as the slot containing the creek was a dense tangle of blackberry vines, brush, and traditional flora, buttressed by English Walnut trees and alders. 

It was deep, green, and from the vantage of the ancient bridge I could see a pod of patrolling fish; Pikeminnow roam in packs, a dead giveaway when the fish are too distant to identify.

I geared up and headed upstream, wary of poison oak and the potential for snakes, following the indistinct trace of a game trail through the brambles.

The water was too deep to wade so I was bound by terrestrial means – which was not at all friendly. I managed to get close enough to the water to observe and saw plenty of fish; smallmouth and largemouth bass, Pikeminnow, and hardhead – but saw no carp, although the water suggested they were present as well.

The traditional Trico spinners were out and quite a few fish were on the surface eating them, most were small – and I couldn’t get near them with anything other than a roll cast, so dry flies were not an option. 

I flipped Hare’s Ear’s under the far bank and was intercepted by a 9″ Pikeminnow, confirming their presence. I keep heading upstream slowly and after an hour of threading my way through thorns I managed to get a couple hundred yards above the bridge.

I’ve got free space over the water only, and practiced some side arm casting. It’s a “Pikeminnow raceway” and there’s a school of enormous fish nervously pacing between the pool below and the pool above. Half of the fish would go better than 5 lbs, and the largest I see is closer to 9 lbs.

The fish are about 4 feet below the surface and I figured the Algae Carpkiller can make that depth without fuss. A couple of nice bass rushed over to intercept, but thought better at the last moment.

I was hoping for more desperate and hungry fish – but realized painfully that it wasn’t going to be easy, a conundrum wrapped in a riddle – and like every other stream uniqueness would apply.

A 16″ fish detached itself from the stream of larger fish and inhaled the fly, it screams off down the creek with me straining to hold the rod out past the encroaching blackberries.

I managed to get everything untangled from the thorns and grasping flora  – then went face first into an enormous spiderweb occupied by some meat eating, eight legged, fast mover…

The human body isn’t meant to move like I did – ending in a satisfying spray of spider-guts compliments of the Singlebarbed Spider-killing Curly-brim.

Between my pirouette on the bank and the fish – we managed to scare hell out of the entire watershed. I returned the fish undamaged, then faded into the thicket behind me.

I tried downstream and was greeted by the “Good Fishing Starts Here” sign, No Trespassing compliments of ravenous canine. Lacking any beef jerky, I knew I couldn’t negotiate my way out of any indiscretion, so I returned to the car instead.

The signs suggested a wildlife refuge, but when I looked it up on the Internet it turns out to be the Solano County Water Agency. If you live in Vacaville, Benecia, or Fairfield – you’re drinking this stuff.

It’s a bit of an eye opener for me as farm waste can be brutal stuff, and while the rest of you are making pucker face’s and saying “..eww” – a couple hundred thousand folks are gargling the pooty water.

Always question what the sign says – many are spurious and tacked up by landowners hoping to keep the beer-drinking Friday night crowd off public land adjoining their back forty..

No wildlife refuge here, and you may want to ask yourselves, “What’s in your spigot?”

We’ve returned to the “fun” part of summer, temperatures breached 103 today, add the smoke burden and it’s about as enjoyable as you can imagine; profuse sweat, extra humidity, and air you can eat with a steak knife.

Perfect opportunity to go fishing, if heatstroke and Mercury doesn’t get us than Cancer surely will. Harsh conditions are always a prelude to the best fishing, and the Little Stinking always welcomes those with diminished IQ and a high threshold for pain.

That new hole in the right boot was welcome, at least for the first 15 seconds, the spreading coolness on my foot quickly became a pants leg full of murk. Carp were in evidence and contentedly mowing grass roots along the bank, which is the way it always starts … them visible, you optimistic, then they crush your spirit by ignoring everything you throw.

I was tempted and there were a couple really big rocks close to hand.

Tight to the bank and facing the wrong direction makes it doubly difficult to see my stuff wiggling in midcurrent, but like most fishermen anything that outwits us consistently is assumed to be smarter than us.

“Aquatic Cows” is more like it, and I scrambled out of the murky water into murkier air and called it a day.

The creek is still only a quarter its normal size and is making the fish spread themselves thinly, what few pockets of deeper water remain hold fish – and everything betwixt that and the next is devoid of life. The combination of heat and poor air has me keeping the adventures short until further notice.

The Red Sun in the evening is pretty – but only from the artificial safety of an air conditioned smokefree living room.

The 40’s ended abruptly and the 50’s started with a bang, but I’m still officially an “average” fly fisherman. I’m vague on the source but I read the average fly fisherman was 51 years old – the demographic angling publications target.

I was struggling mightily to keep a midlife crisis at arm’s distance, but my insurance company and AARP pulled the rug out. Nothing like ripping open a missive to find out you’re an old guy.

I sought solace in the muddy bosom of the Little Stinking. She doesn’t discard “Gray Hair’s” like the rest of society, she’s odiferous and loyal.

Nearly a month since my last visit – and the water is lower still. The tomato fields have been in for a couple weeks and other crops are being sown and irrigated. The waterline is down nearly a foot and it doesn’t leave much room for fish.

I had my girlfriend in tow, part of my sinister master plan to build an angler out of raw clay, and the warm weather, low flows, and gravel bottom builds confidence in someone that’s never waded before.

I call it “the Brotherhood of the Muddy Boot” – it’s not quite fishing, more of a sweaty and arduous hiking trip – with the occasional cast for a visible fish.

..and the fish weren’t visible, so we covered a lot of ground without tossing a fly in anger.

I was explaining the intricacies of watching your line tip when something obligingly ate the fly. It was big, bright, and unknown – an inferior mouth like a carp, a bright yellow lower half and an olive upper. The dorsal was near midpoint on the back – so I knew it was no Pikeminnow.

My “cameraman” obligingly snapped what she could but the fish slipped from my grasp without posing. I’m assuming it may have been a Selenium enhanced super-strain of something – but I’ll have to do more research before informing the authorities.

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