So I drug him all over Hell’s Half-Acre and returned him to Momma broken and sunburnt. It’s said “Revenge is a dish best served cold” – but I served it hot, rationing his water brutally, driving him like a beef to market.

I’m not vindictive most times, but eating them dirty socks in fourth grade wrought a terrible retribution; marginal fishing, 90 degree temperatures, and miles of gravel creek bed – no respite, little remorse, and less sympathy.

It’s the “little brother syndrome” – by accident the big lout was older’n me, requiring me to run screaming to Momma at the slightest affront. Now with civilization hundreds of yards away, it was payback time.

Occasionally I let him fish, heckling from a safe distant, mindful that I was going to have to run like hell if he got pissed. It’s my home water and while I’d hoped to crush his spirits further by outfishing him – that wasn’t in the cards.

All I could do was tell him to cross the river at the deep spots, fling rocks – and claim they were monstrous and hungry fish rising for Twinkies, and expose him to enough Selenium and Mercury to alter his genetic material.

I don’t expect I’m completely even, but fourth grade was covered nicely. We haven’t addressed anything more recent nor the “Igneous Rock” nom de plume … Hell hath no fury like a blogger heckled by his brother …

The beauty of it all is Ma don’t read the blog, so even if he rats me out there’s no proof. I’m expecting the worst however, shortly the phone will ring and the salutation will start with, “Damn, Ma’s cookies are good…”

Rat Bastard.

Technorati Tags: dirty socks, payback time, Ma’s cookies

Which may be the reason they’ll be here long after we’re gone.

I rolled out of bed early Sunday, hoping for a repeat of last week’s bug fest, and to make sure it happened I left the dry fly box on the kitchen sink. It’s reverse logic – if I brought the flies nothing would pop – but if you forget them, hordes of the little buggers will be coming off.

As always, the odds favor the house.

I stopped at the Sex Pool to watch the Carp spawn, it’s an amazing display and four phalanx’s of fish were blowing hell out of the flat water. Each phalanx is a single female bullied by six or seven males – and they herd her up and down the creek, through rocks, brush, car tires, barbed wire and anything else in the way.

I waded out in their midst to record the action, figuring fish porn is popular, but the “good stuff” is worth money…

They were oblivious to me and I pounded the far bank for bass. I had replaced the missing “Manhattan Leech” flies – and needed to determine whether they were “all that” – or merely a fluke.

A big largemouth came out of the water with the leech in his gob, and two of the Carp squadrons were in proximity, he managed to tail walk into their midst sending everything scattering for cover.

I’m not sure which fish to watch as I’ve got two 12lb fish headed for my crotch thinking I’m cover. Instinct wins, I assume a deflective stance – the bass wraps the tippet around a snag and snaps it, and the “Nut Missiles” discover I’m a human and slam on the brakes..

I retreat hastily, the voyeur thing was fun but I can’t hang with the stress..

New fish are showing up regularly, and I assume they’re moving downstream to repopulate the areas scoured by winter floods. A lot of scarring is evident on the fish caught – suggesting they rode out the high water somewhere with better protection – but show the wear and tear from being buffeted about.

The creek bottom is covered in minnows – approximately the same age, not more than an inch in length. Great forage for the big fish that survived – these may be what I saw (and caught) last season in the 4″- 6″ size. The small fish stretches are still devoid of life, which is the one mystery remaining.

Any fish fool enough to get caught a second time gets a name, it’s part of the luxury afforded to “home water.” That really big Pikeminnow that swallowed the dry fly last week ate the leech this week. The reel screamed nicely and “Old Lacefin” was both pissed and chagrined. He’s got a nickel sized hole in his right fin – instantly recognizable to me – so I protected my nuts…

Fish hold a grudge – and after my earlier brush with Death, I flinched badly. The drab winter colors are giving way to their traditional hues, and anything capable of making my reel spin backwards is both pretty and welcome.

Technorati Tags: pikeminnow, leech, bass, carp, fishing

Smallmouth bass are fast becoming my favorite quarry, readily available, alternately finicky and voracious, and never disappoint in the ensuing brawl. They’re the nearly perfect predator, adapting their coloration to the surroundings at will, and fish a hundred yards apart can be colored almost like two different species. Common to all is the “Cylon” red eye, glaring back as if to say, “If you were only a little smaller Mister Homo Sapien, I would bust a cap in your ..”

I don’t piss them off as I’ve only got a 150 lbs on them – and somewhere one of these finned missiles has ingested laboratory waste and is lying doggo – waiting for the out of shape angler and intent on mayhem.

I’ve been lucky the last couple of weeks exploiting a short lived weakness, managing to land a number of them measured in pounds rather than inches. They fight hard – jump often, and are alternately somber and brilliant in color.

The creek is still running at 50% of normal, last week I walked three miles of bank and spotted these fish in the reduced flow, normally the water would be too deep – it affords me an opportunity to see where Old Red Eye sleeps at night.

They’re still as skittish as trout and a bad approach will have them out of their haunts and gone. I slide in on the far side of the river and run a half dozen casts through – then move on. I get two tries at each lie – one on the way up, and again on the way back.

Yesterday I had a “tomato opportunity” at one of the more skittish fish, effluent from the field above was pumping muck into the creek and discolored his holding area, giving me a better approach.

A Brown Birdsnest was his undoing – slipped dead drift through tomato waste. This fish is only a hundred yards away from last week’s fish (photo) – yet this one is pale and matches the surrounding clay impeccably.

With all the dry fly activity I watched them feed aggressively on the small mayfly spinners, they’re opportunists and will eat whatever’s delivered close. All I had with me that I could see was a #16 Pale Olive parachute, I flung it and was ignored.  That big arsed Pikeminnow saw it as a candy bar however – and afforded me the first 20 inch fish I’ve caught on the Little Stinking. Pikeminnow are long and nearly cylindrical, and this fish was just shy of 24″ and nearly 4 lbs.

I tucked both safely back into the water for the next fellow. My kind of fish, they eat whatever’s served and I fish whatever’s close, a match made in Heaven.

Next time you lift that fork full of Ragu to your lips, you remember who trod on those tomatoes first – and where that boots’ been..

Technorati Tags: smallmouth bass, old red eye, cylon, pikeminnow

In traditional fashion I brought one dry fly and a half dozen spinners, those by accident, and was completely unprepared for the massive outpouring of insect life.

Another couple days of balmy weather and the upper elevations will be abuzz with critters, here on the valley floor I walked into a five hour long spinner fall with 3 hatches occurring in the midst of the rain of bugs.

Everything was eating everything, and I couldn’t tell whether that was a Trico I just ate or something new, each time I inserted the cigar in my gob it was flavored differently.

I did manage to get a nice picture of an emerging caddis, I grabbed it out of the surface film in time to hatch it in my hand. Caddis pop so quickly that the “emerger” is rarely seen, here’s one in his Birthday suit..

He quickly yanked the wings out of the remnants of the shuck, dried them, and took off like he had business. Mighty nice of him to pose for a bit.

I managed to take advantage, and nursed my single dry fly through plenty of eager fish. Bass and Pikeminnow were feeding methodically in the carpet of mayflies and caddis, add in the cottonseed dander on the water’s surface and it was difficult to pick out who was eating what.

Trout season is a scant 13 days away, another week of warm weather and it’s looking like a gutbuster.

Technorati Tags: tricorythodes, mayfly, insects, Ptuii, Little Stinking

I think the real beauty of fishing is in its perversity, you have little control over the outcome, no control over the environment, yet you drag yourself out of bed time and time again knowing somehow someone will deal you some Aces.

I’ve been at the mercy of water managers most of the last 40 days, with “too high” or “too low” interspersed with “off color” and wind. Just when I figure conditions are right some unfeeling SOB pulls a handle and the water department has another chuckle at my expense.

Friday I’d taken the gal out for a wade on the Little Stinking, outfitting her with a set of Hodgeman hip boots so she could finally see what lay beyond the roadway. New to wading and tentative, the creek offers a nice gravel bottom that’s easy and friendly.

While wandering up the StairMaster stretch I kept seeing wakes heading upstream on the shallow side and assumed they were beaver. It was spawning Carp, and assisted with my “spotter” I had some brief fun throwing flies at them with little effect.

Dammit, those were fish – more fish than I’d seen for months and I figured to come back and try it again this weekend.

The water managers had a better idea, and as I climbed out of the vehicle yesterday morning, the creek was smaller by half. As most of the outing was the exercise, I’m primed for another five mile hike with little to show for it, add in Saturday’s coffee flavored “Gunfire Lake” trip – and I’m feeling a bit put upon.

The Carp are gone and I take a seat at the top of the StairMaster run determined to enjoy everything else. Beautiful day, pleasant hike, and perverse fishing.

… then the Stonefly landed on my left shoulder. I’m assuming it to be some crop pest intent on gnawing my arm off – glance over, and am taken completely off guard. Stoneflies are sacred stuff, requiring heavily oxygenated water, riffles, and are used as a water quality barometer. Their presence means “good things” – and as I’d never seen one on the Little Stinking, it was welcome.

I’m reinvigorated as someone’s mistakenly dealt me an Ace..

As the creek is down by half, I march up to the Big Bass stretch knowing it’s the deepest water for miles, and the drop in flow may mean they’re  more accessible  – and a likely spookier.

Plenty of fish visible on the bottom, most are Pikeminnow intermixed with Bass – it’s nothing new, they sit tight and give you the “finger” while you rummage through the fly box hoping for a miracle.

I fiddled with flies, finally opting for one of the glass bead experimental leeches I’d made last year. I flipped it across the creek and in doing so, wrapped a couple turns of running line around my foot. While extricating myself I feel the tell tale tap of a fish, hit and gone…

Dead drift, on the bottom, no motion – let’s try this again…

Must’ve been a fluke, one large desperate bass with a taste for glass beads? All the finely crafted flies I skittered, bumped, and swam past their noses – and a little dead drifted glass is the bloody secret?

Apparently so, and I didn’t argue much as my hitless streak had grown to legendary proportion. Even the big Pikeminnow lying untouchable on the bottom ate the leech like it was candy.

But the shocker was better than anything I’d imagined, I’ve landed a couple bass and a pair of large Pikeminnow, and I hook what appears to be another smaller fish. Funny, it’s not fighting like the Pikeminnow does – it’s long and silvery, can’t be anything but …

… a trout.

Bright silver with no hint of the pinkish side coloration – it’s laying in my hand and I forgot camera and everything else. I’m guessing it’s actually a steelhead, about 13″ long and full of piss and vinegar.

Despite the Mercury, sinister water managers, and chiding of fellow anglers, and the long odds of that fish coming all the way up from the ocean, to meet briefly over a bit of brightly colored glass.

It’s a perverse and wonderful sport.

Technorati Tags: steelhead, smallmouth bass, stonefly, pikeminnow, fish porn

Got a chance to survey my new estates – and while the Singlebarbed Legal Office is researching maritime salvage laws, we’re planning our embassy and accompanying strip mall.

What happens when you boost the creek flow one hundred fold? Gravel beds and rock becomes grains of sand and move many miles – hopefully you’re not in the way..

I have a new island and a new primary channel compliments of shifting gravel and new deposits upstream of the bridge. The right angles in the flow of substrate downstream is apparent in the below right of the photo.

This is fine cobble akin to the aggregate in concrete, and water moves it around as easily as beach sand. The Mergansers made it fine, as did the large pod of Pikeminnow below the bridge, but we’ve got another heavy storm due in an hour, so this glimpse will have to suffice until the water clears again.

That last blast of water was nearly 14000 CFS, compared to the normal 140 CFS, and everything I trod upon last season is likely lining the bottom of the Lower Sacramento by now. The above shot was taken Saturday with the river at 260 CFS, now it’s 10 hours later and the river is 2600 CFS, nearly 10 times what’s depicted above.

If anyone south of me has an overturned Audi Quattro on their lawn, blame Nature – and check the trunk, there’s a really big Largemouth in the wheel well..

Technorati Tags: Little Stinking, flood zone, Mother Nature, Audi Quattro

I am the King of the “fishless” fishing trip, even as a raw youth I had the knack. It’s a title coveted, but not by many. While the bulk of the angling community has the good sense to go to work and be productive, I burn calories and daylight tromping through brush watching my breath precede me.

Ma’s Christmas fruitcake was burned off earlier this week, and that last indulgence of holiday See’s candy vanished today, but I have little else to show for my ardor other than muddy boot tracks and startled wildlife.

Vacation is drawing to a close and none too soon, as the number of experimental flies created and queued for testing is on the increase, with no fish to confirm whether merit is part of any design.

Today I fiddled with glass beads, attempting to determine whether they’d be too fragile for fly usage. These are the small “seed beads” – about $1.99 /thousand at the craft store.

I assembled a “leech-like substance” by stringing 4 of them on a hook and adding a tuft of marabou; without protective hackle I figured they would take the brunt of casting, the false cast  dropped too low, and any in-stream collisions, enough of a workout to determine if the glass would survive.

They did, and even unweighted the combination of slim profile and bead weight allowed them to sink about a foot per second.

The river has returned to it’s historic flows and the color has morphed from brown murk to cloudy green, with about 30″ of visibility. That’s enough to get my hopes up, but not enough to make the fish receptive.

I hiked upriver about 2.5 miles to see what changes had occurred and found plenty. Gravel isn’t a stable bottom and some areas had lost  multiple tons of it, other stretches gained those tons. Fresh deposits would allow your feet to sink 3-4 inches, so it was easy to feel where the missing river bottom had come to rest. It was fairly treacherous as all the river crossings of the past had to be discovered again.

I’ve got a new deep stretch created nearby, nearly 100 yards long and suddenly 3 feet deep – compared to the 6″ depth of two weeks ago. That’s an awful lot of shifting rock streambed, who would’ve thought it would behave like sediment?

I did chance on a fellow fly fisherman walking his dog, he didn’t run screaming at the sight of me, so the “brownliner” angle isn’t as off-putting as once thought. He confessed to fishing for smallmouth on occasion, so I may have found a kindred spirit.

I’ve been watching the gauge all week waiting for the worst of the water to pass, cabin fever got the better of common sense, so I hit the river armed with tackle, instead of a cup of coffee.

I had lots of experimental flies to test and was badly in need of exercise, a wintertime phenomenon that coincides with cold temperatures and driving rain.

Water visibility was 18″ – which is similar enough to normal to make me figure with some colorful flies and blind luck I may be able to set hook on something other than a chocolate Old Fashioned.

The Little Stinking was running at 254 CFS, which is about double it’s normal flow, enough water that I’d have to pick crossings carefully, yet not enough to wear something other than hip boots.

The Bridge Pool has new holding water, a pair of recliners that were heavy enough to find purchase in the gravel beneath, they replaced the sectional sofa that spawned the cursed “fly eating eddy” – so I was pleased at the prospect of new substrate. No fish were visible anywhere but the Merganser Squadron was on high alert, so something must’ve been available.

That was the high point of the adventure, birds, scads of them – and the fishing took it’s cue from the feathered menace, it was “for the birds” as well. I tested some of the new flies checking both visibility and sink rate, wandered upstream to Old Nondescript’s lair, noting the beaver dam had been blown out – but the beaver were intact. They eyeballed me warily while I flung assorted flies at stuff and disappeared quickly when I got too close.

Nondescript was nowhere to be seen and the watermark on the bank suggested he’d had an additional 3 foot of water through his favorite lie in the last week, likely he was nursing some resentment at his living room suddenly transforming itself into an aquatic interstate, so he left my offerings untouched.

I’ll try it again next week as the flow should have returned to normal. No evidence of any salmon – but with the water off color it’s not likely they’d be visible.